He Used a Bullhorn


Observing someone's actions doesn't mean I know his heart or motives; I acknowledge that. Yet I'm trying to sort out what it means when someone screams at people through a bullhorn and then won't engage someone who stops to respond to the message.

I fear that I do it sometimes, even if I don't own a bullhorn.

Ascending the escalator at the Farragut North subway stop in Washington, DC, I was early to meet a friend for happy hour. I was barely into daylight before I heard the rants of a middle-aged man, bullhorn in hand, worn Bible under his arm, urging repentance, telling everyone on the crowded sidewalks and, I imagine, those in offices nearby too, that they were going to hell and needed Jesus, that it was almost (but not quite) too late to turn back.

It was an assault. People weaved around him, creating a wide berth, and tried to ignore him. I know I was tempted to.

And then it hit me how sad I felt for the man, perhaps well-intentioned, thinking he was doing something helpful or important for people but nevertheless using methods that -- to my eyes at least -- seemed likely to have the opposite effect than what he intended. 

And I felt sad for those walking by... some of whom may genuinely wonder if God would take them back after what they've done and where they've been, prodigal sons and daughters like me who've thought life would work by figuring out our own pathways (when God invites us to depend on him, to rest in the fat cushion of his love for us, and to operate in this crazy world out of his strength, bearing his hope to a hurting world). Because all the bullhorn guy was telegraphing was anger, judgment, hatred. I doubted anyone would want to run to the God he described. Which is a shame. Because the God I know is kind, even as he cares how we live.

So I decided to talk to the bullhorn guy. I wanted to approach him with kindness and curiosity. To just ask what his own story is, what change or reaction he hoped to effect in those passing by, how his day was going out there alone with everyone walking way far around him.

I took up a position about 10 feet directly in front of him. And with my best benign, "I'm open to conversation" smile, I waited and stared, assuming he'd draw a breath soon and see that I wanted to talk. Maybe all day he'd waited for someone to stop and talk, to ask him to open that Bible and tell them a story of good news. And I'd be that person. That's what I thought.

But as four minutes stretched into five, the only reaction I got, the only acknowledgement that I was there, that I was a human person in front of him, the very man so eager to "talk" to people that he was using a bullhorn... well the only reaction I got was that he clenched his eyes tight and kept on yelling. And ignored me entirely.

Thinking better than to walk up and touch him, I eventually moved on. 

And I've wondered since about the role of bullhorns. If we have so much to say and insist that others hear it regardless of context, interest, invitation, curiosity or relationship, what are we yelling for? Who are we yelling for? And how can we expect someone to listen?

Is he still there? Will he keep going? Is anyone listening? 

And more important for me to consider: How often do I answer questions no one is asking? And how often do I forget that people don't care what we have to say until they know we care about them.

And that takes time.

And rarely happens with a bullhorn in hand.


The One Amidst the Thousands

"The cattle on a thousand hills...." That phrase pummeled my brain as I drove for a month alone, day after day all over the country, a couple of years ago.

"Every beast of the forest is Mine, the cattle on a thousand hills. I know every bird of the mountains, and everything that moves in the field is Mine," is the actual reference, Psalm 50:10, 11.

When my car was a speck on the GPS screen, when the next turn I'd need to take was 595 miles away, I felt small, almost lost in a big world. 

And then I'd remember anew that the cattle on a thousand hills (over there... look at them!) are His. As am I.

Today I was thinking about a number of friends and acquaintances who are struggling, depressed or anxious, discouraged, lacking hope, wondering if they've been forgotten, wondering if God or anybody knows that they are floundering, drowning, not doing well. And it hit me again: the sad ones on a thousand couches in front of a thousand televisions are His.

The lonely ones who will pretend tonight ("Thank God it's Friday!" not withstanding) that they're having fun at a thousand different bars... well, they are His.

And the thousand men and women in flat marriages or abusive ones... they are His too. 

And yesterday I brainstormed entry-level jobs for a friend who's been homeless, who needs a break, who needs someone to take a risk on him in spite of the gaps on his resumé. And it's hard to imagine that a great prospect will open up and his entire life will change. Maybe, but probably not. Yet the homeless in a thousand shelters are His. He's got it all.

Not that we can't and shouldn't join in and try to help. Not that our heart shouldn't ache in solidarity. But ultimately God's got it all -- cattle, birds, us.

We are His.