A number of years ago, I felt a strong desire to learn how to share my faith more effectively. I wanted to be able to communicate the gospel clearly and compellingly. At the time, the best way I knew to practice was through street evangelism.

A friend and I would regularly go to different public places and strike up conversations with people about spiritual things. One day, a nearby university was hosting an open house, and we thought it would be the perfect opportunity.

While we were there, we met a young man named Paul. We started talking with him about faith and some of the bigger questions of life. It didn't take him long to realize what we were doing. After a few minutes, he suggested that we go speak with one of the university's philosophy professors because, in his words, the professor might have better answers for us than he did.

So we did.

But afterward, I felt compelled to go back and find Paul. I had a small pamphlet in my pocket, something with a series of spiritual questions meant to get people thinking. I found him, handed it to him, and said, "Hey Paul, I wanted to give this to you."

He looked at the pamphlet, then looked at me and said something I have never forgotten:

"You don't really care about me. You just want to convert me."

Then he turned and walked away.

His words hit me harder than I expected. At first, I wanted to dismiss them. But the more I reflected on what he had said, the more I realized he was right.

I didn't really care about him.

At least, not in the way I should have.

I cared about sharing the gospel. I cared about having spiritual conversations. I cared about doing what I thought Christians were supposed to do. But if I was honest, people like Paul had become more of a project than a person. Unbelievers were people I wanted to convince rather than people I genuinely loved.

That realization exposed something in me.

I had assumed that speaking truth was the same thing as loving people. But they're not the same thing. Truth matters deeply, but truth without love can still leave people feeling unseen, unheard, and uncared for.

Looking back, I can see that much of my motivation was driven by a sense that I should be sharing my faith. There was a duty behind it, but not always genuine love. 

I saw opportunities to share the gospel, but I wasn't always seeing the person standing in front of me.

Over the years since then, I've found myself returning to that conversation with Paul again and again.

His words became an unexpected gift.

They forced me to ask a deeper question: What does it actually mean to love someone?

Not love them as a potential convert. Not love them as a ministry opportunity. Not love them because they might agree with me one day.

Just love them.

I've come to believe that people can tell the difference. They may not agree with what we believe, but they can usually sense whether they are being treated as a person or as a project.

One of the things I've been learning, especially through our guide development work and the practice of accompaniment, is that love begins with genuine curiosity, listening, and care. It means slowing down enough to understand someone's story. It means being willing to walk with people, not just talk at them.

Ironically, I still care deeply about sharing the gospel. In fact, I probably care about it more now than I did back then. But I've become increasingly convinced that the message of Jesus is most faithfully communicated when it flows from genuine love for the person in front of me.

Paul probably has no idea how much his words affected me.

But years later, I still think about that moment.

And in a strange way, one of the most important lessons I've learned about evangelism came not from a pastor, a book, or a conference, but from a university student who helped me realize that a message about God's love loses credibility when it is not accompanied by genuine love.

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