Everybody, Always

you have too. But for many, when they think of missionaries, they think
of Spaniards with chest armor, a galleon, and the flu—and then all the
indigenous people die. Instead of saying you’re a missionary, why not
just go somewhere to learn about your faith from the people you find
there and be as helpful as you can be? The neat part is most of the people
I know who go on “mission trips” are already doing exactly that. We
don’t need to call everything we do “ministry” anymore either. Just call it
Tuesday. That’s what people who are becoming love do.
Saving a whole generation? The poorest of the poor? Serving?
Missionaries? Ministry? Before I started getting pickier about what I was
saying, I made everything all about me. Yet Jesus’ message to the world
is as simple as it is challenging: It’s not about us anymore; it’s about
Him. There’s nothing wrong with matching shirts and wristbands. We
just don’t need them anymore. People who are turning into love don’t
need all the spin, because they aren’t looking for applause or validation
from others any longer. They’ve experienced giving away God’s love as
its own reward. They also don’t need to write “Jesus” as the return
address of every loving thing they’ve done. People who are turning into
love give their love away freely without any thought about who gets
credit for it. Jesus doesn’t need credit, and we shouldn’t either. When the
heavens themselves declare His glory, He doesn’t need our endorsement.
Some people will tell you how many times they’ve talked about Jesus
to someone else during the day as if they’re keeping count. I’m not really
sure why. If I kept track of the times I mentioned Sweet Maria the way
some people do about Jesus, she would think I was nuts. I can’t imagine
coming home and saying, “Honey, I mentioned your name five times
today. Once by the water cooler and another time to someone who was
going through a really hard time, and three other times on a corner to
people I didn’t know.” She’d probably pause graciously for a minute,
check my pupils to see if I was on drugs, and then sadly ask me, “You’re
counting?” Keeping track of how many times I’d mentioned Sweet Maria
wouldn’t be evidence of a terrific marriage. It would be evidence of a