Many Christians believe that witnessing is something to be done by evangelists and preachers who are “called to that sort of thing.” Either that, or witnessing means laying out the plan of salvation and pointing out with great drama and flair that there are only two directions in this life: toward heaven or hell. Now, if you aren't called to that sort of thing, this can be as terrifying for the evangelist as for the recipient.

But witnessing can take many forms. It can be as forceful as laying out the plan of salvation to as subtle as simply acknowledging our faith in Jesus. And rather than the greatest witnessing coming from behind pulpits or TV cameras, I believe that the most powerful evangelistic efforts come from ordinary people in ordinary circumstances. But rarely, if ever, do people walk up to us and say, “So who's this Jesus? Do you know Him?” More often, we must use the leading of the Holy Spirit to know when the Lord has prepared someone's heart, and then turn the conversation in a way that creates an opening. And if we don't create openings, they don't often happen.

At first, I was hesitant about witnessing to people out of the blue. But consistent obedience to the promptings of the Holy Spirit have helped me to (largely) conquer that fear. Once I learned to know what the Holy Spirit's leading feels like, I learned obey it. And I've found, consistently, that the Lord doesn't ask you to witness to people unless He has prepared their hearts first. Not all evangelism must come this way, of course. Sometimes, I just scatter seeds and see where they land. But whether I'm responding to the prompting of the Spirit or whether I'm scattering seeds, as long as my efforts are in faith and love, I'm being obedient to commandment of the Lord.

Following His Leading

The first time I witnessed to a stranger was at the local mission, where a group from church went monthly to serve food. I was standing in line, wearing my apron and hair net, and as the people filtered in, I made a point of looking each one in the eye and saying, “Good-morning,” with a smile. Some met my overtures with joy. Others met them with indifference. One man with dreary eyes just shook his head, turned to the guy next to him and said, “Yeah, maybe some day.” As I watched this man walk away, out of all of the men and women in this line, I felt an ache in my spirit just for him. Then came the nudge I later came to know so well. “Go talk to him,” it said.

Go talk to him? Here was this hardened man, probably a drug or alcohol addict, in his late 50s. What could I, a woman in her 30s, from a college-educated, middle-class background, have to say that he would take seriously?

But I began to think. I thought about college, when I was cleaning gum off the bottoms of tables and cleaning out pig cages in research labs to pay for my tuition. I thought about when my lifestyle drug me down so low that I dropped out of school and of life. I thought about the long series of emotionally abusive relationships that would follow, relationships that would be as addictive — and destructive — to me as alcohol or drugs. Then I thought about how, 10 years later, I rededicated my life to the Lord and left everything — my friends, my job, my home, the state, and the man I thought I would marry — to follow the Lord out of a life that held me captive in sin. And I thought about how, within one year, He had restored it all.

No, this man and I weren't so different after all, I thought. Whether he would give me a chance to show it, I wasn't sure. I had to rely on the Lord for that. I asked people to cover me in the food line and went into the cafeteria to find him.

What Can I Offer?

He was sitting alone, with his shoulders hunched as he wolfed down his dinner. I introduced myself and asked him if I could sit down. He shrugged, probably thinking what I was earlier, “What could she have to say to me?” I explained to him what I had felt when he walked by and told him that Jesus loved him. When I asked if he knew Jesus, he said yes, he did, but he didn't think Jesus loved him, not personally anyway. He told me about his eight-year battle with heroin, loss of jobs, and family.

After he had finished, I told him about my restoration and my own security that God loved me in a personal, intimate way. I also told him about, through our obedience, God's faithfulness to fulfill His promises. I told him about characters from the Bible, like Abraham and Moses, who went through long, dry periods in order to test and prepare them for their service to Him. I talked to him about faith, which Hal Lindsey has described as being like a muscle (“it needs to be stretched in order to grow”) and told him that God had a plan for his life and that He would use these experiences for His glory.

“You don't know what God has in store for you,” I said. “He could restore you tomorrow, and one year from now, you could come across a heroin addict who has been addicted for seven years. When he cries that the Lord has abandoned him, that the Lord doesn't love him, you can tell him with assurance that, yes, He does. You know, because you were a heroin addict for eight.”

When I had finished, he had tears in his eyes. In the middle of the cafeteria, I leaned over and hugged him. He held me tightly and said, “Thank you. I haven't had hope for a long time. Thank you for giving me hope.” That was four years ago, and I still remember his name. It was John. He thought I gave him something, but he gave me something, too.

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