I9 60
We have done some weird things in the name of evangelism.
{127}
In the 1960s we evangelicals were caught between our two natures. First, we were fundamentalists, holding to the basics of our Christian faith but also separating ourselves from the world. Since Billy Sunday's fiery rants, we had been warned against fraternizing with the enemy. "Mustn't drink, or smoke, or chew, or go around with those who do." So went our separatist nursery rhyme.
But in the 1940s and early 50׳s, our faith had been infused with a new energy. Evangelicals were fundamentalists with a new focus on the good news. We wanted to share it with as many people as possible. Youth organizations and mission agencies were spawned for that purpose. Church members were urged to evangelize their communities.
But we had a problem. How do you share your faith with peo-pie you're not supposed to "go around with"? We had been separated for so long, we had no clue who our neighbors were. How could we get the gospel across to them?
The tract.
It was just a slip of paper, folded over, with some gripping headline that would entice the recipient to open it up. "Don't go to Hell, for Heaven's sake!" or something like that. The inner pages would carry a message of salvation. The beauty of the tract was that you didn't actually have to talk with the object of your evangelism at all. You could avoid being tainted by their liquor breath or chewing tobacco, and still get the message across. Christian vacationers were advised to wrap tracts in cellophane and drop them among sunbathers at the beach. ("You Think It's Hot Here?")
Leave it to Joe Bayly to expose the silliness. Already a well-respected journalist and editor of In ter Varsity's magazine, Bayly
had a sharp wit and a keen eye for the foibles of the faithful. He wrote a regular column for Eternity magazine based on his random musings. It was called, "Out of My Mind.
In The Gospel Blimp, he applied his satire to our methods of evangelism. It was a fable, really, the simple story of a church that wanted to reach its community for Christ. The board considered its options and eventually came up with the perfect plan: Buy a blimp and drop tracts on the neighborhood. Never mind that they might actually be alienating those who had to rake the tracts from their back yards. Never mind that it might be far easier —■and cheaper—simply to talk to their neighbors. No, the blimp plan was big and bold and—hey, what a witness! The delightful tale skewered our taste for spectacle, separation, committee meetings . . . and tracts.
With this and other writings, Bayly challenged Christians to be better, smarter, more biblical. He butchered a few sacred cows along the way. In one column, he talked about growing a beard and being criticized by one church woman. What about the weaker brother?״ she asked, brandishing a trump card that has long stifled Christian expression. "Weaker brother?״ Bayly responded. "She seemed like a ׳stronger sister׳ to me!״
Yet Bayly balanced his scathing wit with a sweet spirit. Readers knew they could count on him to make them laugh and to make them think. In a time when we evangelicals took ourselves very seriously, Bayly let some air out of our tires. With humor, he taught us humility.