next-wave > church & culture: Mr. Freundlich: How an evangelical struggles with a Nicodemus-like encounter by Rogier Bos, founding editor, Next-Wave

[This article was first published in the Feb. 2000 issue of Next-Wave]

I sat across the table from an older gentleman who had invited me to lunch with him. He had called me earlier with some computer problems, and so I had gone to his house to help him. A German Jew, my friend had escaped from Germany just before the war started.

Mr. Freundlich [that’s not his real name] was the only person I had ever met who had seen Hitler in person. Now, in his eighties, he was a retired and wealthy industrialist. The business he had started with his own hands was now a multinational, and contributed high tech parts to such lofty machines as the space shuttle.

But Mr. Freundlich’s computer problems bedeviled him. I recommended upgrading, but he didn’t see the need, because, as he explained to me twice, he expected the computer to outlive him.

Over lunch I quizzed him about his life and his business. As he had so clearly announced his expectation to die in the next few years, or at least before his computer gave up the ghost, I also tried to approach that subject. To my surprise he spoke of his own death with candor. He had lived a good life, he was hoping for an after-life, but wasn’t sure about it, and he was hoping for a good and quick death.

I was born and raised an evangelical. I have always lived in the conviction that a decision to accept Jesus as Lord and Savior meant eternal life in heaven, whereas the absence of such a decision meant eternal suffering in hell. This conviction has led me to dedicate my life to the purpose of evangelism, or ‘reaching the lost’. I have often been motivated by Finney’s description of snatching people from the fires of hell.

It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that my friend had no clear sense of his destination after death. The logical conclusion was that I had to find a way to talk to him about his relationship with God. After all, I was responsible, wasn’t I? Here was an older man, a Jew no less, one of God’s people, speaking with such realism of his own death -what was I going to say?

But I sat there with a great sense of discomfort. Mr. Freundlich had invited me into his beautiful home to help him with his computer-problem; he was paying me handsomely and had very generously taken me out to lunch - and I was going to preach at him about sin and salvation?

It didn’t seem right. It seemed like a violation of the employer-employee relationship. It seemed dishonoring of his generosity toward me. It seemed offensive to his gentle hospitality. I could have done it, but it would have been inappropriate, humanly speaking. Some might argue that such arguments are motivated by the fear of man, but I wonder if there is not also an ethical dimension to us choosing the right moment to speak out.

And so I kept my mouth shut. I listened to him, asked some questions - and with everything inside of me quieted my feelings of guilt and responsibility. I prayed a silent prayer, that if God wanted me to speak to this man, he would create the opportunity.

Like I said, I have dedicated my life to evangelism. From my early teens I have participated in numerous outreaches, both near and far. I have deployed a number of evangelistic strategies, including print, music, preaching, dance and drama. I have devised a few of my own. I have handed out literature, made phone-calls, taken questionnaires, put together seeker-services, presentations, and sermons, even written papers and articles on apologetics in the postmodern era. I have a Masters degree in missiology. I like to think I am no novice when it comes to evangelism.

But I have also been listening to the people I have been trying to reach. I have heard their responses, and catalogued them, as it were. I think I have heard most, if not all, of the possible answers a Western man or women can give in response to the gospel. I even have them sub-divided by category.

There are the cynical responses, the mocking responses, the scornful responses or even hateful ones. There is a whole set of responses that go something like this: ‘that may be true for you, but it doesn’t have to be true for me.’ Then there are those who ask questions of a theological nature, about things such as suffering and pain. Next there are those who always want to talk to you about the hypocrisy of the church throughout history.

I have answers to each of these responses. I have elaborate arguments and witty statements, poignant questions and in-your-face affirmations. I realize of course that people often turn the conversation to the hypocrisy of the church, or the question of suffering only as their first line of defense. They speak of the hypocrisy of the church though it has never affected them personally. They speak of relative truth only because the media has spoon-fed the idea to them in a zillion different ways. They ask why God allows pain and suffering, while they themselves lead affluent and prosperous lives. Yes, that’s hypocrisy, and yes, it’s plain to see.

I know all this. And yet, I feel like my answers are coming up short. In fact, I feel like I have no answers anymore. Certainly my audience is less open to my pet answers now than they ever were, well rehearsed and eloquent though they may be.

As I have listened to the people I have sought to reach, I have also realized that there is actually a deep heart-felt reality to the responses people give. For me to accuse them of hypocrisy is a cheap way out; it allows me not to have to deal with the actual realities that lie behind these defenses. Sure, many of them lead nice lives, but more than a few carry deep personal pain. It causes them to wonder how there can be an all-powerful God who also loves. And while not everyone has been personally affected by the perceived hypocrisy of the church (whether Protestant or catholic), it presents an insurmountable intellectual obstacle to many. How can people who say they follow such a moral God at times behave so sickeningly immoral? My cute or clever answers never demonstrated that I actually understood and could empathize with the realities that lie behind those sentiments. If I can’t agree and identify with them before I speak, I haven’t really listened at all.

I realize I have been seeing my evangelistic efforts as through the glasses of conquest. They, the unbelieving ones, are the enemy, and they need to be conquered. We pursue them, until they lift their hands in the air and cry ‘mercy’! This is a war, and our Lord has won the victory, and we must appropriate it! We cannot rest until the last sheep has been found, the last soul has been won, the last prodigal has come home. No peace until they attend church faithfully.

But that motivation is waning fast. I no longer subscribe to a worldview that divides the world-population into the “have’s” and the “have-not’s”. To me, life is a journey, and we are all in different places. I do not conquer you. You are not my project, and I do not mark you up as my success.

It’s all about Jesus. I follow him, and I see he is different than I thought. It is not that he changes, but it is I who change as I am on this journey, and I start seeing him clearer. I see him choosing the company of the sinner over the saint every time. He prefers the stupid questions of the disciples to the smart answers of the Pharisees any day. I see him joining the sick, not the strong; the meek, not the mighty. For Jesus, the sheep were people, whereas for me the sheep were projects.

Mr. Freundlich is a friend. Our difference in age notwithstanding, and even though I do not know him well, I feel a sense of friendship towards him. He is a kind and gentle man. He loves his wife and his children, and I have no trouble believing he has lived a good life. I know that, theologically speaking, such goodness isn’t sufficient to gain access to heaven, but I am less apt to call anyone ‘bad’ when they have sought to live a good life than I used to be.

The opportunity came. As were talking Mr. Freundlich suddenly asked what I thought about death and dying. It came so sudden that it took me by surprise. Here was the answer to my prayer!

Fumble…

I wish I could say I had a good answer. I wish I could say it just flowed out, stumped him, brought tears to his eyes, and caused him to want to pray with me right then and there. Instead, however, I stumbled in my answer. I tried to speak of the friendship of Jesus, who is God, who loves us and would want us to…
I wish I could say that my answer was eloquent and convincing. But he cut me off in my third sentence with a simple gesture and the statement ‘oh, well, it’s such a difficult subject’. He clearly didn’t want to be preached at, and he honestly thought the discussion was too big for us to settle over lunch.

But I think I learned something that day. I learned it is more important to be a friend than to win a convert. It is more important to walk the journey than it is to reach the conclusion. No, I don’t have all the answers. I think that God brought the opportunity I prayed for, and I think I tried as best I could to formulate an answer. But I probably failed miserably to speak into Mr. Freundlich’s life in a way that was meaningful and effective. I also think God allowed me to speak some truth and Mr. Freundlich wasn’t interested.

So what shall I say to reduce the tension in my thinking on evangelism? On the one side I feel I need to speak out clearly, trying to draw as many people to Christ as I possibly can. On the other side I feel I can rely on clever answers and amazing strategies less than ever before. Instead, I am motivated by Peter, who writes: “Always be ready to give an account of the hope that is within you, in season and out of season, but do so with gentleness and respect.” I tried that with Mr. Freundlich. It wasn’t the type of evangelism I grew up with, and it still wasn’t comfortable. But I sought to be faithful to my Lord, and I sought to be faithful to my friend Mr. Freundlich.

I would have loved to introduce them to each other.

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