Death of a Salesman

I hate commissioned sales environments.
I thought I had escaped that, writing my latest driving essay/blog in my Panera booth—hidden in the din of clanging pans and homogeneous voices.
“I’ve seen you before. Where do I know you from?” came from the mouth of an attractive young woman. You know what comes next. I fell for the first minute or two of local venues we might have met, then made her suffer through red herrings as she tried to sell me on an internet sales pyramid scheme. Thankfully, now that I’m married, I can shield an abrupt rejection with spousal good cop/bad cop when gentle voices try to influence my career, my wallet, my free time. But I hate the exchange.
You do, too.
Then why does the evangelical church keep trying to sell the Gospel this way? Why do Ruckmanite students prepare for rejection by hurling hateful ultimatums at red lighted cars? Why do evening suits knock on nameless homes, selling a vacuum of hell, a brush with Truth, an encyclopedia of mysteries?
People have come to God that way, just as grandmas have invested through neighborhoods’ worth of screen doors. I’ve even done it, back when I was in the fundamentalist system. I’m still not convinced that the “conversion” I led was to get herself into heaven or us out of her house.
I buy between $50,000 and $100,000 in printing each year from a pressman-turned-salesman, but he doesn’t have to sell me on anything. He is my friend, when I’m giving him work—when I’m not. I trust him, because he’s proven time and again faithful in his advice and help and fairness. My company could not be where it is today without his investment in something in which he gets only fractional return—other than the satisfaction of helping his younger pal.
I’ve met a lot of people who take that approach to evangelism—a holistic, organic lifestyle. They don’t shy away from verbally selling their savior, but they build into others’ lives in personal ways.
I’ve also seen heralded “soul winners” and heard slick tactics discussed like fishing lures. They’ve got marketing materials or “proven” methods they’ll share or sell. They mean good. Their goals seem eternal. But I don’t remember Jesus persuading anyone, selling anyone. People were drawn to him.
Jesus had miracles. We don’t. But we have the same good product. Love and healing, integrity and sacrifice, kindness and acceptance. It should be contagious, obvious, desirable—something people can’t buy anywhere else, something that creates segways for biblical truth.
I buy products that sell themselves: Steve’s printing, iTunes’ music, Wal-Mart’s generic pot pies. The Bible is the same way. It doesn’t need us to prove it’s right. It doesn’t need us to push it. We just need to live it—to be walking spokes models, plugging it where applicable and letting God reward the seekers.
It’s often easier to knock on anonymous storm doors than on a neighbor’s kitchen door. There’s less risk passing out tracts at a festival than writing a heartfelt card to a coworker. The steps pacing with a sandwich board of verses can seem lighter than the walk across the room to someone standing alone. You can’t wash the entire globe’s blood from your hands; so, it’s not about quantity with God. But you can be an undeniable disciple in front of the people you do know.
Stephen Covey talks about spheres of influence trumping the larger spheres of worry. If we spent our evangelism capital more generously on the lives we touch often rather than sparsely on the faceless crowds, we could multiply our return on investment far greater—far deeper—than throwing pennies from the parade float.
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