Jesus doesn't sell makeup

Her name was Sheila. I know this because she introduced herself almost as soon as I’d sat down. She was a mom, I was a babysitter, and we were both at the park. I watched her meander over to my park bench, carrying an oversized blue bag. We smiled and exchanged names; suddenly I had a new friend.

“You know,” she began, plopping down beside me “park benches can make or break a park. There aren’t very many parks around here that have good benches for the parents...or babysitters.” I laughed politely, surprised at this forthcoming yet sincere woman. The conversation had barely reached a pause, when Sheila pulled out a thin, glossy magazine with bright and vivid lettering across the front. Hesitating only for a quick breath, she launched into the real motive of our one-on-one.

“Well, I sell Avon and you just seem like the kind of woman who would like something like this. Have you heard of us before?” I nodded, speechless at the sudden turn in conversation. “Great! Here’s our latest magazine and you just take this and look it over. Would you be interested in purchasing any of our great products today? We have some terrific sales going on!” My negative response wasn’t enough of a deterrent. “That’s ok, maybe some other time. You just take this and show some of your friends and you know, if you’d ever like to host a party you just give me a call.” Her name and number had been conveniently labeled on the back. She hooked her bag onto her shoulder, beckoned to her daughter and gave my knee a little pat before disappearing into a sea of mothers. “You have a good day now!”

It shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did. It shouldn’t have bothered me that I’d been another victim of cosmopolitan manipulation. It shouldn’t have bothered me; she was doing her job. But it did, because it reminded me of an earlier encounter. Only the product wasn’t makeup and the person with the sales pitch was my grandmother.

She was driving, and I was nine, sitting in the passenger seat of my grandparent’s station wagon. With brown side paneling, plush royal blue interior, and a 10 seat capacity, it could have passed as something out of The Brady Bunch. We pulled up to the window outside Roy Rogers and she handed the 20-something-year old cashier ten dollars and a tract. “Now dear, have you ever heard about our Lord?” The girl’s nod was nearly imperceptible and I quickly found something to look at outside, praying Grandma would keep it short and sweet. She did, but not before making her futile delivery.

Being a Christian had become humiliating. I wanted to apologize for the gospel.

When did the Bible become not good enough for telling people about God’s love? When did we turn God’s love into a paper-producing industry? When did we become the money-makers in the temple and how long until the very thing we’re trying to sell turns over our tables? We’ve turned Romans into an 8 point play-by-play and conveniently demoted the good news into something that fits our fast paced lifestyles.

If love is the movement, why are we sitting still?