If not the very worst, at least really bad


I know the title of very worst missionary is already taken (though widely disputed). So if I cannot hold that title I would at least like to publicly recognize I really suck as a missionary. Which is why I do not like that title. I prefer to just be some random white person who lives overseas and happens to know Christ. That seems a more accurate reflection of my life and a lot less pressure. Because although I would love to be able to say Christ is at the center of all I do, if I made that bold proclamation I would be making Jezi look pretty bad.

Because I do dumb shit.

The first time I talked about Jesus with someone down here was when they were trying to evangelize me. The Haitian preacher man came back every day for a week trying to find someone’s soul he could save. vv Unfortunately for him mine has already been claimed, but don’t think he didn’t try to resave me anyways.


I did not learn the Creole word for Jesus for like a month; it wasn’t until I heard a mother screaming out for Jesus in front of her house after her baby had died. I still do not know the Creole words for God, holy spirit, personal relationship, salvation or any of the familiar lingo words we Christians use when talking about our get out of hell free card. Which is often how I treat my friend, like he is some simple card I can wave at the gate of heaven to show everyone, especially St. Peter, that I am in the club.

So when someone comes to me in the middle of the evening when I am finally able to relax after a long day at school, I often give an exasperated sigh and wonder (inside my head thankfully) how I can get rid of so-and-so as quickly as possible. I cringe at the thought of “wasting” my precious time talking with someone when I could be [fill in the blank with some mindless, practically meaningless activity].

You see, overseas I fall into the same traps that caught me up in America. Just because I moved across an ocean doesn’t mean I’m holy, even if I claim I did it for God. I still struggle to not think of me first. I, surprise, don’t read my Bible everyday. In all honesty me and Big Guns don’t talk everyday either. I attempt, and often fail, at implementing the life giving truths he has shown me. I cuss. My parents aren’t proud of that fact but I do. I am selfish and greedy and short with those I love. I think of how things will affect me before anything else. I wake up with bed-head and bad breath like anyone else.

I am trying; screwing it up along the way, but my feet are moving.

And Papa love me anyways. When I am dumb and selfish and greedy and even when I make him look bad he still loves me. Because he promised his love wasn’t conditional on what I do (or better yet on what I do or don’t screw up). My Daddy loves me regardless of my shortcomings. Regardless of my bed-head and bad breath. Regardless of my humanity.

So, dear preacher man, you can save your spiel. I already love the Jesus your peddling. I just hope that someone can see through me and see the Jesus in my heart. And that he shines brightly enough, through all my crap, that I do not need to know the Creole lingo to peddle Jesus.

Because he means more to me than a card to get out of hell free.


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