All around the world, there are tens of thousands of Passion-themed blog posts have been published this week, some showing more profound insight than others, but nearly all of them written from hearts and minds wanting to honor Jesus’ unthinkable suffering for our sins. I wish I could write one too, but…

It’s not that I have nothing to say. After 48 years in ministry, I doubtless do have insights worth sharing. Yet, right now, for some reason, they seem worth less—worthless—rather than worth more. I suppose the easiest way to explain is to quote the late Corrie ten Boom:

“The more I get to know God, the less I understand Him, but the more I trust Him.”

I was privileged to meet and host Corrie ten Boom a couple of years before she passed away at age 91. It didn’t take long to see that there was no pretense about her. When this stoop-shouldered, tiny giant of the faith said something that wowed us all, she wasn’t attempting to be profound; she was just being honest. Likewise, I just want to write something honest here.

I saw Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of the Christ” on its opening day, 1994, at an IMAX theater in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and my most vivid memory of the experience is what happened after the movie had finished. The credits started to roll, but no one rose to leave. Nobody talked or even made a sound, save for some stifled sniffles of emotion. It was only as the screen finally went blank and the lights came up that we started to file out and head to the parking lot. Even outside, as people headed in all directions towards their cars and SUVs, there was silence.

What could we say? Like Ms. ten Boom, now we knew more, so we understood less. And really, the only people with a lot to say seemed to be those who knew nothing but thought they understood. Hence, effete movie critics, Hollywood’s self-appointed moralists and the Professionally Offended class all pronounced the film anti-semitic, which is like accusing the reporter who covered the Hindenburg airship explosion of being an arsonist.

I bought the movie as soon as it was released on DVD, primarily because I wanted to show it someday to my daughter, who was only two when it debuted. And so the disc sat shrink-wrapped on a shelf for a dozen or so years, until this week when our family sat down and watched it together.

The main reason we waited until now is that she is what most folks would call a “young” fifteen. Naïve. Innocent. Sheltered. Sheltered is an interesting word to me, because it should be a compliment, but most people employ it as a slight insult. The truth is, she’s a young fifteen by today’s standards only because her generation has been largely left unsheltered, from chatroom to schoolroom, and exposed to tons of junk that render them an old fifteen by traditional standards.

Yep, she’s sheltered, and with the exception of a radio station we recently banished from her clock radio, as well as the occasional damn or hell she might hear from the likes of Basil Fawlty or George C. Scott’s Patton, her mind has remained relatively unsoiled. (Losing screen privileges for a week has also worked great on occasion as a spot remover.)

We finally watched The Passion together because we want to make sure our daughter truly owns her faith in Jesus, so that it’s based on more than a prayer she repeated as a child, or because she wants to please her parents or fit in at church. We wanted to get a glimpse of what goes on in the deeper recesses of the mind and heart of a girl whose perpetually sunny disposition threatens to keep her in the shallow end of life.

It’s not an easy movie to watch, especially when the scourging of Jesus goes on and on…and on. She looked away more than once, but I reminded her that it’s time now to watch and see, and that Jesus didn’t turn away so neither can we. And so she watched.

Was there a payoff? Did she shed tears or ask us to pray? I would have been happy with either, of course, but she did neither. (Besides, I’d have had a hard time praying anything appropriate.) Instead, she was silent. Just like I was —like we all were—at the theater in 2004. She was silent because now she knew more, but understood less.

I’m fine with that.

Guilt for not praying and studying the Bible is only one of the spooks haunting the hallways of Christians’ minds. This unfriendly ghost has cousins–co-conspirators that work to keep you quiet and defeated. Every time the prospect of giving voice to your faith in Christ presents itself, the ghosts of Failure, Inadequacy, and Hypocrisy flit past your ear, whispering the lines that have worked so well ever since Saint Peter chickened out by a campfire near Calvary.

The ghost of Failure leads off with a whisper, dredging up memories of the few attempts you made right after you became a Christian:

• You got completely tongued-tied.
• He brought up questions you couldn’t answer.
• She got mad and has avoided you ever since.
• You hate knocking on doors.

The sound of forty pounds of wood slamming in your face is still fresh in your mind, when Inadequacy steps up to tell you you’re just not cut out for this, pointing out very good reasons for you to keep quiet:

• You’re not a good speaker.
• You don’t even understand the Bible yourself.
• You’re the last person your dad (cousin, brother) would listen to.
• You can’t take confrontation.

Finally, Hypocrisy chimes in, irritated with you for even bringing up such a ridiculous idea, in light of your obvious lack of ability and clear record of failure. Its tone is outright accusatory. Why pretend?

• You still wrestle with your own doubts.
• You have enough trouble with your own dirty mind.
• Your brothers have seen you at your worst; they know all your faults.
• You’ve lived next door for twelve years and never once mentioned God. What gives you the right to start now?

As quickly as it came to you, the idea of sharing your Christian faith makes tracks for the pit of your stomach, where it will remain suppressed until you meet someone else who needs the God you know. Then you’ll rehearse the same little episode again, feeling ever more the failure, as Guilt pedals through the cycle faster each time.

It would be nice to say these lines are all just devilish lies. But most of them are probably true, which is why they’re so effective. The Enemy of our souls is not opposed to the truth if he can make it do the work of a lie. But the truth about us is not the ultimate problem. The problem is the lie that Satan sneaks in with those ugly but accurate observations about you. Like the prize in a box of caramel corn, it’s hidden in every one. Here it i:

            You’ll never change. God wants you to, but you can’t.

Most of us swallow this one whole, accepting it as an immutable fact on the grounds that we know ourselves better than anyone else. But we’re wrong. God knows you and me better than we know ourselves. And He will change us as we spend time enjoying the pleasure of His company, and going about our daily lives just plain liking and caring for people.

           Even if all these obstacles are overcome, we’re still left facing one big hurdle: the hello-do-you-know-Jesus kind of witnessing feels like an unnatural act for most men. We instinctively see it as an act of aggression, and therefore something to avoid. Television’s Jay Leno once described a group of Christians who knocked on his door to ask him if he knew Jesus. “For a minute,” he mugged, “I was afraid they were going to try and gang-save me!” It’s a crude joke, but it sheds light on the way well-meaning Christians often are perceived. If a Catholic sister held a gun on you, your feelings would be mainly in reaction to the gun, not the nun.

As for me, I’d rather go golfing. Tee-to-green is better than door-to-door on any day of my year. Besides, the golf course is probably a better place to share your faith than ten inches away from someone’s screen door, which is an owner-installed device to keep pests out. Out on the fairway the scenery is gorgeous, and the footing is equal.

Okay, the middle of a golf game may or may not be ideal. (You don’t want to ruin your partner’s putting while saving his soul.) But the point remains: it is a great first step if you’re not comfortable going up on a stranger’s porch. And more natural, which means you’re more likely to say what you really want to say in the way you want to say it. Indeed, God has given us a brilliant “pre-qualifying” device, especially for winning people to Christ.

It’s called friendship. Now, find a friend and go get a burger.

Names changed for safety’s sake..

In 2006, the year after Iraq had adopted a new Constitution guaranteeing greater freedoms, an Arabic friend of mine, “Ali,” traveled to Baghdad, taking with him several Children’s Bibles that present the story of creation, the Old Testament fathers, and the Gospel in Arabic. Commissioned by my writing colleague, Dr. Terry Law, thousands of them had been distributed throughout Baghdad with the permission of—no kidding—The Ayatollah of Baghdad.

When Ali entered the Customs department at the Baghdad airport, the agent inspecting his bags held up one of the Bibles and asked what it was. “A children’s Bible in Arabic,” Ali replied forthrightly.

“Come with me,” said the agent, leading him down a hallway to a nearby room.

After checking the hallway for other personnel, the agent closed the door and spoke freely. He said he had lost his previous job, and had taken the very dangerous position of working at the airport—considered collusion by Al Qaeda because it involved working with Americans—in order to support his family.

“We live in a poor neighborhood,” the man told Ali. One day my son came home with some food, and when I asked him where he got it, he told me the Catholic church down the street.” Ali remembered the church because he and Dr. Law had left a supply of Bibles there.

“I thought I should go and thank them for giving us food, and when I got there they gave me one of these children’s Bibles,” the agent explained. “As a result I gave my life to Jesus, as did my wife and son. He has changed everything! My name is Ahmed, and you must remember from now on that you have a brother working at the airport.”

Before Ali left, Ahmed asked him for a complete Bible, which Ali quickly agreed to supply. “I want to share Jesus with my family,” Ahmed told him a little later by phone.

Ali warned Ahmed to be careful, because conversion to Christianity can be very dangerous. Sharia law requires a convert’s family to execute him if he doesn’t recant right away.

“I can’t be silent,” Ahmed replied. “I have to share Jesus. Jesus changed my life. Jesus changed my wife’s life. I send my son to Sunday school. I’m a Christian. I want to share Jesus with people.”

In the weeks that followed, Ahmed and Ali began exchanging frequent emails, and Ali was enjoying the prospect of seeing his new brother in Christ as often as possible. But in December, when he went for a period of more than a week without replies from Ahmed, Ali began to worry.

“After a couple of weeks, my telephone rang in the middle of the night. On the other end I heard a woman sobbing.”

“Ahmed is dead,” she cried. It was Ahmed’s wife, Sana. “His family killed him because He lived for Jesus.”

Some months later, Ali received a letter from Sana. Here’s is his translation, word for word:

Hi Ali. Good morning. It is me, Sana, Ahmed’s wife. Thank you very much for taking care of us.

I don’t know what to say, for only God Himself knows about us since Ahmed left. I miss him a lot, and believe me, my eyes are not drying of tears. I have no one left but you. Ahmed left me the two most important things for him: Our son and his Bible.

I miss him a lot, as we used to read that Bible together and pray in secret. I need your prayers, and I am sure that Jesus will not let us down.

Your sister,

Sana

Ahmed will receive a martyr’s crown when he stands before Christ in the resurrection. But he did not have to strap bombs to himself and blow up innocent women and children in order to earn his reward. Instead, he gave life to one woman and one child. For that he died. And for that he lives.