Geoff's Story

At some point this week, I'm going to hear from Geoff. It might be a text. It might be a Facebook post. I'm never sure, but I know I won't hear from him again until the next year when we do it all over again. It's our thing, and we've been doing it for years.

When I do hear from him, Geoff is going to tell me about Easter Sunday, 1990. He'll be excited, and so will I. I've heard this story 35 times since, but I look forward to its retelling every year. Partly because I love the story, partly because I was a tiny part of it, and partly, I think, because I might have been the hero.

Geoff called me early that morning and asked if I wanted to sneak in a round of golf before heading back to school. It was a perfect day, I remember that—a warm, early spring day in Kansas City. Geoff and I had golfed like that since we started caddying in 6th grade. Always spontaneous, I don't think we ever planned a round ahead of time. We might go months without playing, but when one of us called, it was presumed that we'd play.

On that day ... I said, "no."

A few minutes after I hung up, Geoff's neighbor—a boy we grew up with—knocked on his door and asked if he wanted to go to the Easter service with their family. More odd than the invitation itself was Geoff's compulsion to say "yes." He changed clothes, and within a few minutes, they were headed to church.

Along the way, he remembers thinking, "People don't do that... they don't just knock on your door and ask you to go to church."

I love the way he describes walking through the doors of the old church. They're vivid, warm, and lucid memories. I've never been there, but his description reminds me of the cowboy churches that decorate the Kansas countryside.

He learns that their destination is a non-denominational church meeting in a repurposed, whitewashed dairy barn, now carpeted with equally repurposed red carpet. The church, old and creaky-floored yet vibrant, was already packed with people.

Finding a spot in a row of dark-stained pews, his friend explained that the pews had made their way into the church after the Methodist church across the street became the new Baptist church. Before that, they had belonged to a Catholic church that no longer existed. For Geoff, these pews sparked an existential debate in his mind: How many people had shared this space over the decades? Why him? Why now?

When he tells me this story, I'm reminded of a man describing the vivid memories of childhood ... like he grew up in that church. He didn't, though, and that's the beauty of the story. For Geoff, this was his very first time in church.

He doesn't remember the message. He doesn't remember the hymns. He doesn't remember a plate passing hands. What he remembers, he says, was a moment like an explosive light ... like someone woke him up from a 21 year slumber.

At some point, the pastor -- a large, greying man dressed in jeans, boots, and flannel -- stepped off the platform and told a story about his childhood. It was a story decorated with brokenness, sorrow and, ironically, hope. He never heard of anything like that in church. The pastor was a childhood alcoholic. The pastor had demons. The pastor ran with kids he wasn't allowed to run with. The pastor was everything Geoff thought a pastor could never be ... yet was.

The pastor was just like him. Except this wasn't a story about his brokenness. This was a story about how a savior healed him, accepted him, and invited him into a better life. And that life, as the pastor pleaded, could be Geoff's, too.

My invitation to Christ came much later, so I hear that story much differently now.

I hear it differently because I see the importance of that one, single invitation. Where no invitation was expected. Where no plans were made. For no particular reason at all, Geoff heard and accepted an eternal invitation from God.

This year, extend an Easter invitation!

The great news is that you can be part of that story, too! This year, ask someone to join you. Ask someone you know really well. Ask someone you don't know very well at all. Ask someone you know who is hurting or fighting a spiritual battle or experiencing the least life has to offer. Ask them now or ask them an hour before services on Easter. The invitation is what God wants from us ...

What can you do?

As believers, we know that the invitation is the barrier for most of us. After all, we don't want to look weird or pushy. Here are a few ideas to help lead you past the invitation anxiety.

1. Pray. Always start with prayer, and you'll never go wrong. Pray for names or ideas, and ask the Holy Spirit to help illuminate who needs that invitation. As names come to mind, pray about waht that invitation looks like. How will you ask? How do they need to be asked? Jesus wants these encounters, so trust that the opportunities will become clearer as you pray.
2. Ask. Asking is always the easiest solution because its casual and personal. The next time you're with someone on that list, ask them if they have plans on Easter, March 31st. Better yet, invite someone to witness Journey to the Cross! It's an experience they will never forget. Then, make it a day. Invite them for lunch or dinner so you all have time to unpack what you've experienced.
3. Call. We're not always standing face-to-face. If you're not, pick up your phone and call! Remind them that you're thinking of them and you would love to invite them to Easter service or Journey to the Cross. For some, making a phone call is even easier because it puts a little distance between our anxiety and the person with whom we're connecting.
4. Text. Phone calls are quickly becoming a medium of the past. If you're call avoidant, send a quick text or DM on social media. Same goal: let them know they're on your mind and that you'd love to have them with you on Easter or at Journey to the Cross.

That's it! It's really that easy. Trust God with this and watch what happens. All he wants from you is your heartfelt effort. Seek prayer over the next two weeks and begin extending invitations. You never know when that single visit will be the first step toward an eternity for someone who needs it.

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