I had a conversation recently that’s been sitting with me.
It started the way these conversations often do – grief. Someone talking about losing a person they loved. Then the familiar sentence: “At least they’re in a better place now.”
I didn’t pounce or preach. I just listened. But I did notice the door cracked open a bit, so I gently pushed.
“Oh, so you believe there’s a heaven?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I believe there’s a heaven. I believe God exists. No question.”
Okay. That surprised me – in a good way. So I waited. Sometimes silence is the most respectful thing you can offer. I figured if God wanted this conversation to go somewhere, He’d nudge it along.
And then it happened.
“When I come back,” he said, “I want to be a doctor so I can help people who are sick like my friend was.”
“Come back?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“You know,” he said. “In the next life. Reincarnated.”
I asked, “Do you believe Jesus existed?”
“Sure do,” he replied. “I also believe He died on the cross and rose the third day. I celebrate Christmas and Easter every year – huge dinner with my family.”
And there it was. Heaven. God. Jesus. And… reincarnation. No hell. Everyone ends up in the same place, all mixed together. He wasn’t hostile. Nor arrogant. Just… sincere and confused.
He believed Jesus existed.
Believed He died.
Believed He rose again.
Celebrates Christmas and Easter.
But belief, the kind that saves, was still missing.
He was entitled to his opinion. I didn’t argue or raise my voice. I just asked a question that stopped both of us for a moment:
“If everyone goes to heaven no matter what, why did God send His Son to die on the cross?”
That wasn’t a clever line. It was just an honest question.
Why the cross?
Why the suffering?
Why the blood?
If salvation were automatic, Calvary wouldn’t have been necessary.
He didn’t have an answer. Neither of us spoke for a bit. And that’s okay. Seeds don’t make much noise when they’re planted.
Before we parted, I gave him a Bible. He took it. No debate, no pressure. Just an open door and a quiet prayer afterward that God would do what only God can do.
Not to win arguments.
Not to feel right.
Not to “set people straight.”
But because love speaks when it has the chance.
God didn’t ask us to save anyone. He already handled that. He asked us to be faithful – hands, feet, and yes – sometimes a mouth.
Who knows what will come from that conversation? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
But I’m reminded of this: our job isn’t to force belief – it’s to point to truth and trust God with the outcome.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
Former Blackout Artist 