The Test

I usually pass by these street evangelists and reject their religious hand-outs. Not this time.

I see him from a distance. Young guy handing something out. Religious literature, surely. Patches all over his jacket and pants with different admonitions. “Fear God.” “Porn” with a red cross-out stripe over it.

He’s young for this. I’d normally expect older folks. Jehovah’s Witnesses standing guard at airports and city areas with heavy foot traffic.

I have time to avoid him. Time to clock him before he sees me. Time to prepare my brisk “no thank you” and keep walking.

He finishes receiving the cold “no” from the folks ahead of me, then turns my way.

Damn.

I have a split second to decide which version of me I want to be in this moment. The busy me? The polite guy? Before I decide, he blurts out: “Are you going to Heaven?”

Damn, again.

It’s a cold call from God.

In truth, I don’t know if I’m going to Heaven, but I want to. This isn’t the kind of question I can walk away from. My feet stop moving. My heart opens. We begin a conversation.

His name is Christian. After a childhood that led him into various forms of trouble, he had a spiritual awakening at age 21. His family and friends were not religious, but they were supportive when he became an adherent. They have warmed to the teachings by watching the impact on him.

I ask where he got the patches on his jacket. I like them. I think about where in life I could wear that kind of punk rock for God flair. Sadly, nowhere. He tells me there’s an online retailer that offers attire specifically for street ministries. Of course there is.

He hands me a small folded card with the silhouette of a lone figure on the cover and the question “Am I Going To Heaven?” Then it promises “find out inside.”

I open it and find a test.

There are nine requirements for going to Heaven with a checkbox next to each one. Only one is correct: trusting in Jesus Christ alone. All the others—obeying laws, repenting, good deeds, giving money to the church—won’t get you the golden ticket.

This answers none of my questions about what happens when I close my eyes for the last time. Does my mind keep thinking even though I’m immobile? Is there a purgatory? Do I get to meet the people who left holes in my soul when they died? The ones I’d give anything to see again?

My questions don’t matter in this moment. My test here is patience. Connecting. Listening as if I’m waiting for a stranger to give me a passcode they don’t know they have.

I’ve been developing a thought that God has hidden an essential piece of understanding in each person and we are on a spiritual version of an egg hunt, looking to assemble the individual fragments into a coherent picture. The little answers leading to the big understanding are hidden behind the hurt of each individual. It can only be freed in moments that heal them.

Talking to strangers, having time to talk, listening—these aren’t gifts to them. They are God’s gift to me, however annoying, uncomfortable, and discordant.

Christian isn’t a nuisance. He’s not an obstacle to a destination. A non-player character.

The part of me that doesn’t have time has to give way to the part of me that’s curious about things bigger and more interesting than me. I need Christian’s puzzle piece like Thanos needs the stones.

The world wants to divide us into camps. Believers and skeptics. Evangelists and eye-rollers. People who stop and people who walk away. But every time I choose the split second that slows down, I’m refusing that division. I’m collecting puzzle pieces instead of enemies.

Now, don’t let me fool you. All of this is a nice story that I tell myself. It all sounds easy to slow down and talk to people I’d normally ignore. But while I might have an extroverted and social part of me, I also have an easily annoyed, hurried, deep in my own head so please don’t interrupt me side too.

In fact, that side might be larger than my graceful one.

Stating that honestly is my attempt to do better. To let go and let God.

Christian’s puzzle piece is his certainty in an uncertain world. He knows. I question. He’s all-in. I calculate.

He operates at a level of courage I admire but haven’t reached. The kind that gets you fired. Marginalized. Thought of as kooky. Discounted. A social status that doesn’t offer much in benefits.

He doesn’t care what people think. And I can’t stop caring.

There is only one answer to his question. I know what it is.

But knowing isn’t enough. Christian’s out here doing something about it while I’m still deciding whether strangers are worth my time.

What would my life look like if I stopped calculating the cost? If I went all-in on what I say I believe?

Maybe that’s the real test.

[Sony A7R V / St. Cloud]