“Yes, you’re damned to hell," I said in exasperation. “Technically,�" I added as an afterthought, as if that would soften the sledge hammer I just tossed his way.
Silence screamed, clawing at my heart, as my friend sat there. I wanted to crawl into the nearest cave, but seeing as I was sitting in a computer lab on a university campus, the prospect of finding a cave didn’t seem likely.
Not one of my finer moments.
To be fair, that declaration had been spoken only after an hour of dialogue and being repeatedly pressured for my theological beliefs -- in particular about those regarding those who don’t confess Jesus as Lord and Savior. I think I had phrased the doctrinal belief in as many ways possible hoping to avoid putting the words “damned" and “hell" together in the same sentence (especially since my mother taught me to never say either word). The Democrats and Republicans would have been proud of my sidestepping. I was a pro. But he wore me down after an hour or two, and finally, in exasperation, I made my declaration.
He never spoke to me again.
Just kidding. But that could have easily been the ending to my story. But God is merciful to sinners like me, and in fact, that was the start of a very long friendship, proof that miracles do happen today. The discussion leading up to my loving statement all started with friendly bantering; I was “Christian" (but refused to be labeled as such, instead introducing myself as a “born-again, nondenominational follower of Jesus" hoping that providing that mouthful would allow me enough time to break down any preconceived stereotypes one might have; I was hopeful); he was Muslim. We’d go back and forth about our respective beliefs; he’d ask me question after question about Christianity; I’d reciprocate, asking about Islam. He was a senior; I was a freshman, and I had this odd feeling that he knew something I didn’t; later I learned it was years of experienced critical thinking/arguing learned in university classes; I had yet to embark upon my college adventure, so I wasn’t as fine-trained to dialogue or proffer arguments, and trying to unpack my beliefs was like trying to unpack my family’s van after a week’s long trip (there were nine of us) – it was a messy, chaotic activity and you just hoped everything was accounted for in the end.
But through many future dialogues (years’ worth, to be exact), I learned that sharing my love for Jesus, for the person of Jesus, with others wasn’t so much about what I said or didn’t say; it was more about how I lived; I made many blunders through conversation; said things I cringe to think about; said other things I have conveniently forgotten about, I continue to say things I’d rather erase and have decided it’s much better if I keep my mouth shut. However, he and I are still friends. And I realize time and again that by opening my mouth, I become the object lesson of why Jesus entered humanity to save us from ourselves. And I am humbled.
The lesson I walked away with after that night, well, after many countless such nights -- actually make that over the course of a few years (it takes me a while, sometimes) -- is that it’s much better to stick to the person of Jesus and what He offers us relationally than to argue theology; theology doesn’t heal a broken heart but Christ Jesus does. Theology doesn’t stop the pain we face in life but Jesus comforts; theology doesn’t love others, but Jesus does; theology doesn’t restore us back to a right relationship with our Creator God, but Jesus Christ does. It is said Christ-followers are known by their love; if we win a theology argument but fail to show and demonstrate love, we argue in vain.
Christen Patterson
November 2006
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