Ok… That’s the story of how I decided to preach on the bus yesterday morning on my way to work. Last time I did it… I can’t recall, but it feels like a decade ago.
So, imagine me, decked up in a fine tie and armed with ‘pho-ne’ English, sharing the Word of God with some passive listeners who often looked backwards, perhaps to confirm if the voice they were hearing weas really of a human being. My sermon lasted perhaps 6 minutes or less, but believe me, it didn’t feel like only 6 minutes at all.
For a long time – maybe years, I had felt the burden to make the most of every chance I get to meet people and share the life of Christ with them. The Great Commission is clear:
Go… and train everyone you meet… in this way of life (Matthew 28:19).
The commercial bus, to me, is the place anyone most frequently meets new people. No other place provides that frequent opportunity. I see it as an assignment to teach, at least in bite-sized pieces, about the remarkable love that Jesus offers mankind, especially to people who may never get a chance to hear it anywhere else.
In fact, I had a few times, considered it a benefit that I didn’t have a car, because I could as a result access more people with the Gospel. But don’t ask me how many times I had taken advantage of that opportunity. Like most people who may have had this same idea before, I was nervous; tongue-tied; uncertain about what to say; and simply gave excuses.
A few times, I rationalised my hesitance to speak up on the bus, but resorted to speaking with the person seated next to me. But I soon found out that talking with one person on the bus was harder and sets one up for a worse embarrassing experience than having to address the whole ‘congregation of passengers’. Not all the passengers would listen, that’s expected, so the preacher doesn’t have to be offended. But trying to strike a conversation with someone beside you demands a lot more tact and sensitiveness. I think, I would eventually figure out how to do both effortlessly, but I still prefer speaking to the entire bus. However, before yesterday, I was neither speaking up nor ‘speaking aside’. I kept mute many times until I got off a bus and felt I had wasted an opportunity. Certainly, I would grow someday into the life that required I regularly drive my own car, and would see commercial buses zoom by in traffic. When I reminisce on the times I spent on them, I would not want to wish I had half that time back to seize the opportunities lost.
So I mustered courage and came up with a short script of what to share on the bus. I kept thinking… most people in this part of the country already know about Jesus, so what’s there to share? I searched the Bible for answers and realised that Jesus had predicted this would happen – that many people would claim to know him but not realise that they were simply fickle-hearted fellas (Luke 13:23-30). Simply put, not everyone who fills Christianity on a form knows Christ. Belief has a spectrum – and many aren’t even on the radar. That became the premise for my short sermon.
After sharing this message with a disciple-friend and rehearsing it a few times in my mind, I decided I was going to preach the next time I got on a bus. Weeks passed and I still didn’t preach.
Then I got on a bus yesterday, chose my preferred window-side seat and the thought came – this bus is perfect for a sermon: the engine wasn’t too noisy, the bus was not full, mostly strangers who didn’t know me, and the driver wasn’t playing any music at all. I wrestled with this thought for a while. I knew I had prepared. In fact, I had typed my short script on my phone and had it open in case I forgot the next thought. I knew I had no excuse and that made it worse for me. But I was still not willing to speak.
Then the Holy Spirit asked me if I really loved the people. I raised my head and took a good look at everyone seated on the bus, from the driver to the last person seated close to me, and pondered if I really loved them. Many of those passengers were obviously going to work and well-dressed, but I wondered if they were happy going where they were going, doing what they were doing. I stretched my thought to hundreds or more years from now, when we would all see in eternity and look back at those 15 or so minutes we spent on a bus together, and wonder if those 15 minutes were of any relevance to our current status in eternity. I sighed and knew I had to say something.
I opened my lips and mouthed my greeting line… “Good morning dear…” I paused. Gratefully, nobody heard me. But then I thought. How should I address them? Should I call them brothers and sisters? Hian! That line is too common and overused, and can easily turn off even a fellow Christian in split seconds. How about ladies and gentlemen? Not bad, but I’m not giving an inaugural speech here. So what do I call them? This contemplation was taking too long… time was running and my confidence with it. If I didn’t speak, I may never get myself to speak again. So I blurted out and heard myself say.
“Okay…” (heads turned and my heart jumped, but too late everyone could hear me, so I had better continue speaking, otherwise I would look like a fool) “… good morning…” (I don’t even recall what I eventually called them) “… allow me about 5 minutes of your time, this will perhaps be the shortest sermon you’ve ever heard on a bus…” and I continued.
I said no prayer, made no altar call, but simply spoke. When I was done, I hoped to get to my bus stop quickly. The silence was almost depressing. I wished I had talked until it was time to get off the bus and run away. I didn’t know what else to do or how else to behave. It seemed the people on the bus expected something more from me that I didn’t know of. When I eventually got down, I felt their eyes all over me, watching every step I took and considering my worth by my gait. Could they start a subject on me? Is it possible that anyone of them had even caught me in a sinful act before and be disdained by my guts to speak to them on a bus? A million thoughts ran through my mind and it was hard to pick any particular. Thus, it was easy to dismiss them all. But one thought stuck and still gnaws at me even as I type these words: I have got to do this again and again; my next time mustn’t feel a decade away.
That’s the end of the beginning of my story!
