Raymond

His name was Raymond.

He had on a faded red hoodie with the hood pulled up.

I had taken my dog, Buddy Boy, to the dog park. Shortly after we arrived, a couple of dogs got into a brief skirmish that was quickly broken up by their owners. As things settled down, I found myself standing closer to one of the dog owners involved. His name was Raymond.

I noticed he was wearing a cross around his neck. I also noticed something else—he didn’t really want to

talk.

Still, I said, “I noticed your cross. Are you a Christian?”

He nodded.

I asked where he was from, and he quietly said, “Egypt.” Then he added that he lived in Nashville now.

After that, he stepped a few feet away, almost like he hoped the conversation was over.

I said, “I’m a Christian too.”

That’s when he looked at me, for the first time.

And in that moment, I realized something important. It happens to me a lot. I think I’m about to encourage someone, and then God flips the whole thing around and uses them to expose something in me.

I asked Raymond if his family was here in the States or if they ever went back to Egypt.

He told me his father had moved the entire family to America because of religious persecution. I later

learned that Christians from Egypt are called Coptic Christians. They make up a small percentage of

Egypt’s population and are among the most persecuted Christian communities in the Middle East. They

believe in the Trinity and that Jesus is fully God.

Then Raymond told me something I’ll never forget.

Several years ago, his father took the family back to visit the town they had once lived in. A few hours

after arriving, some old friends of Raymond’s brother showed up at the house.

One of them asked his brother if he was still a Christian.

When his brother answered yes, they beat him to death in front of their old home.

Raymond said his father gathered the family immediately, took them back to the airport, and flew them home to the United States.

I didn’t know what to say.

Honestly, I wanted to walk away. I wanted to give him space and leave the conversation.

But I didn’t. I stayed still.

There was a long pause.

Then he looked at me, then down into his hoodie.

And then he said something that hit me like a freight train.

“You American Christians have no fear of persecution or death if you tell someone about Jesus… and yet you tell no one.”

That was the last of the conversation, but just the beginning of the encounter with Raymond.

After a few long minutes, I walked back to my car with tears streaming down my face.

Because he was right.

And I’ve been humbled by that moment ever since.

We say we believe this life is temporary.

We say Jesus changed everything.

We say eternity is real.

We say the Gospel is the hope of the world.

But if we truly believe that we were created to glorify God, and that our time here is only a vapor, then

why are we so silent?

What are we protecting?

Our reputation?

Our comfort?

A little awkwardness?

Someone not liking us?

Meanwhile, around the world, brothers and sisters in Christ are risking everything just to say His name.

Some are losing jobs.

Some are losing families.

Some are losing freedom.

Some are losing their lives.

And still they speak.

I’m not writing this from a place of condemnation. I’m writing it from conviction.

Raymond didn’t yell at me.

He didn’t shame me.

He simply told me the truth.

And sometimes the truth is so clear, so honest, and so heavy that it leaves you standing in a parking lot

with tears in your eyes, realizing you’ve been far more afraid of man than you ever admitted.

Jesus said:

“Whoever acknowledges me before others, I will also acknowledge before my Father in heaven.” —

Matthew 10:32

Somewhere along the way, American Christianity became more about safety than surrender. More about comfort than obedience. More about fitting in than carrying a cross.

You just gotta start the conversation.

Tell someone what Jesus has done for you.

Ask someone what they believe.

Pray for somebody in public.

Speak His name without apologizing for it.

You don’t need a stage.

You don’t need a theology degree.

You don’t need all the answers.

You just need enough courage to stop hiding.

Because one day, when we stand before the Lord, I don’t believe we’ll regret the conversations we had about Jesus.

But we may deeply regret the ones we were too afraid to start.