“Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.” (Peter 3:15 NLT).
“Witness” is a word that has been part of my life since way before I knew anything about its meaning.
My dad was an old-fashioned preacher, and thus, I grew up hearing that a proper Christian should read his Bible, pray, go to church multiple times a week, and then, if you were really serious, be prepared to “witness”. That part scared me to death.
I was told to “just tell your story”. But what if you don’t have a story to tell? That makes the thought even scarier. Imagine being called into court as a ‘witness’ to something you know nothing about.
This ‘just tell your story’ advice can be very confusing. First, as Peter says, you need to ‘be prepared’, and I honestly knew almost nothing beyond what I heard in Sunday School or sermons. I did not read the Bible. I only prayed while playing golf (“Oh God, please help me make this putt”). And even though I went to church a lot, I paid little attention. I had no story to tell.
My dad’s story of conversion at age thirty after many years of alcoholism and the Marines was compelling. My story was boring at best and in hindsight, I would say no story at all. Indeed, I may have even been thinking in my sub-conscience that my ‘witness’ would be better if I too became an alcoholic and a miserable failure so I could have a great story to tell. Crazy but the teenage mind is not fully formed.
But then, as a freshman in college, I had a rather dramatic conversion of my own. I nearly died in a car wreck. I woke up and the sinner came home. I finally had a story to tell. I was a little more prepared.
But………… even if you are “prepared to give an answer”, and even if you do have a “reason for the hope that you have”, it still can be awkward to ‘tell your story’.
It took me many years to figure out one of the tricks of the ‘witnessing’ business.
Even better than your own story, one of the best ways to ‘witness’ is to tell somebody else’s story.
It takes the emphasis off of ‘me’ and often leads into your own story in a way that seems more comfortable and less egocentric.
This happened for me last summer at Brora Golf Club in Scotland. I signed up for a local tournament and played that day with two strangers. We quickly bonded over our mutual nervousness playing ‘tournament golf’. These were two super nice gents- a young man from California and a middle-aged gentleman from England.
We survived the first twelve holes, barely, and had a logjam on the 13th hole, a short par three overlooking the North Sea in the background.
We were already sympathetic with each other thanks to our mutual disasters on the scorecard. I was keeping the card for the Englishman when he couldn’t keep the ball on a slippery 6th green, one of the hardest par threes in the world. I had to ask him for a score as we left the green. His answer was “ten”.
I think he knew I was serious in my sympathies for my fellow sojourner into tournament golf. I simply said, “Sorry man.” He smiled and took it like a man, more than I could have done. It didn’t help that I had hit a miracle three-wood into the wind that took a crazy bounce to the right and ended up a foot from the hole for a ‘2’. I later had some triple bogey disasters of my own, but that story will have to wait for another day.
As we waited ten minutes on the 13th tee, my mind raced back to 2019, when our friend Jeff Hopper and his wife Laura visited us at Brora. It was on this same 13th hole, in his final round of a glorious trip, that Jeff made the first and only hole-in-one of his life. As you may have heard from me before, it was quite a celebration, since we were fully aware that Jeff’s cancer might cut short his life. It felt like a gift from Heaven. Indeed, he died two years later.
Staring at this 13th hole, I was compelled to tell Jeff’s story. Both of my new friends were all ears as I told them the story. I had made a hole-in-one on the 9th hole, playing with Jeff, just three days earlier. And then, knowing this was probably his last trip to Scotland, Jeff’s nine iron found the bottom of the cup.
We finished the round and took the picture you see with the rainbow. I explained it all, and turned around, with my arms open wide to declare, “This is my sanctuary. No cathedral has ever been built that can match the hand of the Creator. Look at this. The sea, the colors, the wind, the mountains, the lighthouse across the way. I am not sure who decided to build Cathedrals. God’s cathedral is greater than any building.” I went on to tell them that Jeff was in heaven thanks to the mercy of this great Creator God. I could tell these two nice men from heathen lands (California and England) had never even thought about the ideas which I presented in my two minute diatribe against Cathedrals.
The mention of the word “Cathedral” apparently grabbed the attention of my new English friend.
His next statement grabbed my attention. He said, “Well, I must say that I am not religious at all. But I should also say that I am jealous for those who are.”
Jealous. That was his word. Interesting. He could sense that perhaps I had something worth exploring.
He dove into a story of his own to explain what had turned him off long ago. He lives next door to a Catholic Cathedral. He became quite passionate in explaining his offense when the neighboring church asked him for money once upon a time long ago. He had investigated how much money the Catholic church had in its British coffers. It was some huge ridiculous number — enough to convince him that he would never enter that place or give them his pounds.
There was no time for ‘my story’ on the 13th tee. But later, over drinks in the bar, the door was open for conversation that seemed casual but actually was quite holy. I slipped my Mother Teresa story into the conversation- “I’m not good…. Jesus.” She made no mention of the church or any cathedral- only Jesus. All agreed. There seems to be no fault in Jesus.
So this is just one little trick to be a “witness”. Find a good story and slip it into the conversation at the right time and place.
PS. And as a bonus, here is a small part of my dad’s story. Feel free to share it.