I may have a very unpopular opinion.
A very strong, unpopular opinion.
I see the signs that say “Jesus Saves.” Recently I came across a flyer inviting people to a local tent revival. It read: Preaching. Singing. Jesus Saves.
And I need to tell you why that flyer broke something open in me.
Let me be clear about where I stand first. I love people. I love Jesus. I love God. I love what He did and who He is.
This isn’t coming from someone who has walked away. It’s coming from someone who can’t look away.
The people nobody asked about
When I meet people, I get to know them. My business partner is gifted at asking people about their story, and I get to sit and listen.
And here is what I’ve learned, over and over, almost without exception:
Nearly every person I meet who is in trouble was abandoned, or abused, or both, in childhood.
It is staggering how many people are walking around, functioning, carrying massive childhood trauma and neglect that no one ever stopped to see.
The man who crossed the border from Mexico alone at ten years old because his mother died, and went straight into a system that arrested him, bounced him through foster homes, and abused him along the way.
The kid living on the streets at eleven because his parents were strung out, until prison became the first stability he’d ever known.
The little girl whose brother began raping her when she was six years old. She couldn’t defend herself. So she grew up believing her only value was her body, and now she sells it to survive.
These are not statistics to me. These are people I have sat across from.
And every one of their stories has the same missing character: someone who stopped.
The man who walked past seven churches
This morning, this very Sunday morning, I was drinking my coffee at a local shop when a 45-year-old man stumbled in.
Battered. Bruised. Blood dripping from his face, down his neck, onto his hands.
He was 45 now, but he was once that ten-year-old who fled Mexico alone. Thirty-five years with no direction. No purpose. No mentor. No one who stopped.
He told me someone had beaten him and stolen his truck sometime between two and three in the morning. He’d been lying in a ditch until he woke up and started walking. It was 9:20 this morning.
I asked which direction he’d come from. I knew that street. I counted the blocks.
He walked sixteen blocks.
He passed seven churches.
Nobody stopped.
Every one of those churches was right around service time. Guaranteed, their parking lots were full.
Nobody stopped to see what was wrong. No one stopped to help a battered, bleeding man walking down the main street of our town.
Why? Because we have our church khakis on. Our braided hair. Our little girls in their dresses. He’s not our problem.
But we’ll invite him to church. We’ll preach at him. We’ll count his confession and his conversion.
How dare we.
Love is not preaching
How dare we preach at someone if we’re not willing to pull them out of the trenches?
If all we want to do is hand them a flyer, that is not the church Jesus created. It’s not the church He called into being.
He told us to love. It is His highest commandment, repeated over and over.
Love is not preaching. Very, very rarely is love preaching.
Remember His words: people will come to Him saying, “We did signs and wonders in your name” and He will answer, “I never knew you.” And to others: “I was hungry and you fed me. I was thirsty and you gave me a drink.”
He was in the man with the empty cup that we passed by.
I love humanity. But I carry a real hurt, a real pain, over those of us who now represent Jesus. I know there are people who do good and love sincerely. I see you, and I honor you.
But as a whole? Those of us who claim to love Jesus are failing. We are failing as representatives of who He is and why He came.
Here is the hard truth: I was just as clueless about what the love of God looks like as someone who never knew Him. And I believe most of the church still is.
If we actually understood what He did for us, we would serve people in a way that looks like love, not preaching at them.
And here is the part that will sting: if we don’t see ourselves as one of them, if we believe we’ve somehow arrived higher and have something to tell them that they don’t know, then we have no business talking to them at all.
Get on your hands and knees. Love and serve humanity as an equal. And from that position, share. Share what God has done for you. Share who He is.
But only if you love them first.
“All they need is Jesus”
We look at person after person in a miserable state and we say, “All they need is Jesus.”
That’s correct. But that Jesus lives in you. He lives in me.
And we’re not willing to sacrifice our comforts. Our Sunday mornings. Our Instagram pictures. Our coffees.
When I share this, I often hear: “That’s not my gift,” or “So am I supposed to feed every homeless person on earth?”
That is a straw man: taking an exaggerated version of what I’m saying and attacking that instead. Don’t do that this time.
I am not saying every person must help everybody. I am saying we are commanded, commanded, to love the least of these. To care for widows and orphans. To feed the hungry. To clothe the naked. To give a cup of cold water to the thirsty.
We are required by heaven to be uncomfortable and to sacrifice for each other. And it doesn’t matter what they do with it afterward. We’re commanded to do it and leave the rest to the Lord.
“But I have to serve my family first.” Do you? Serve them so they can have nicer clothes and a bigger house?
Serving your family is teaching them how to love humanity. Teaching them discipline, sacrifice, and how to lead. How else will they learn it?
I am embarrassed by some of what I’ve seen represent God. I’ve seen a pregnant homeless woman barred from entering a church on a Sunday morning. I’ve seen a single mom baptized by a church while she slept on a concrete floor, and that same church wasn’t willing to help her get so much as a mattress, or fix her car so she could get to a job.
That is not honoring God. Throwing ourselves on the altar on Sunday morning while refusing to love people is mockery. It is taking the Lord’s name in vain.
They don’t need another sermon. They don’t need another song.
They need love that looks like something real.
What if someone had stopped?
I’m not saying I’m perfect or that I’ve arrived. But I can’t stop asking: what if someone had loved that little boy crossing the border thirty-five years ago? Or the sixteen-year-old kicked out of his house? Or the strung-out mom and her abandoned kid?
We cannot assign all the pain in this world to the devil. Some of it is us.
We are responsible for our neighbors, our community, our kids, our cousins, our nieces and nephews, and the people we pass in the grocery store. They are our responsibility because God said they are.
He commanded us far more times to live love than to preach it.
So here’s my challenge
Sit with these questions before you answer them:
When was the last time you stopped?
Not donated. Not invited. Stopped for a person right in front of you.
Who is the bleeding man on your sixteen blocks?
There is one. There always is.
And this week, do one uncomfortable thing for one person who can do nothing for you in return. Don’t announce it. Don’t post it. Just stop.
Because Jesus saves. That’s true.
But the Jesus they need is the one who lives in you.