YOU DON’T HAVE TO BUY IT IF YOU DON’T WANT TO

It just so happens that back when Reagan was putting Carter out of work, I had a paper route. It wasn’t that great of a job, really, because the pay was terrible and I was out the door before the rest of mankind was even awake, not to mention the fact that if I wasn’t being chased by one of several deranged dogs in the neighborhood, I was negotiating my Puch moped and my basket full of papers through some pretty nasty weather.

On the bright side, it taught me at an early age something of a gritty, stick-with-it job ethic, because, you see, I actually did stick with it for a full three years, during which time the paper had to be delivered with amazing regularity, including weekends and all major holidays.

All of that to say, I really did take pride in my work – and truth be told, I remember being a pretty good paper boy. Not because I took paper boy lessons or anything like that.

I think it was just because I didn't know any better.

The paper itself was always dumped in big bundles at the end of my driveway by 4:30 am, and I had to trudge down and bring them up to the garage, where I separated them and rolled them nicely into rubber bands and then bagged them individually or double bagged them on rainy days. I would then head out and make sure each paper was delivered by 5:30 in the morning, and by “delivered” I mean that I carried the paper right up to my customer’s welcome mat. I just didn’t think it was right to make them walk to the end of the driveway in their skivvies.

Anyhow, at the time, I honestly believed that these people loved their paper, and I was delivering something special to them, or why else would they be getting it? I was a proud Trentonian representative, so the last thing I wanted was for them to start taking the competing Trenton Times because their paper boy failed them.

By far, though, the worst part of the job was when I had to go around and collect my weekly dues. I always felt like I was interrupting some domestic dispute or intruding into lives and that I was the last person they wanted to see as they scrounged around for some loose change. A lot of times, people simply didn't have the money, so if they were short on that particular day, I would just tell them to catch up the following week. I guess my dad must have fronted what they owed to the paper. It wasn’t coming out of my pocket, and maybe that’s why I was so forgiving, come to think of it.

As much as I believed in good customer service, though, it was clear that I was no salesman. That became painfully obvious when a nice lady from the Trentonian was assigned to take me out on a sales drive to add some new homes to my route.

She prepped me for a few minutes, you know, on what to say, as sort of crash course in door-to-door sales, and then she drove me around while I pointed out the window and identified the houses that weren’t getting our paper. She would park the car and leave it running while I’d walk up the driveway, and she’d wait for me a few steps back, a little like a mom who was out with her toddler on Halloween.

And so, I would give my speech, which usually went pretty well, but I couldn’t help myself at the end. If I sensed any hesitation, which I actually sensed with everyone, I would close with:

“But you don’t have to buy it if you don’t want to.”

So, they wouldn’t.

After a few disastrous attempts like this, the now not-so-nice Trentonian lady pulled me aside and said that I needed to quit that, or she’d be leaving. I’d never sell anything if I ended with such a ridiculous closer line, as if every thirteen-year-old should already know that.

I gathered up my courage and went to the next house. I remember it like it was yesterday. I went to the door and I proceeded through my spiel and the compassionate woman inside called her husband over and it looked like they were on the fence about the whole thing. This was my chance to really drive it home and close the deal.

But I couldn’t help it.

“You don’t have to buy it if you don’t want to.”

I heard the paper lady audibly sigh behind me and I was afraid to turn around and see her disappointment. It seemed like an eternity, but ultimately, the friendly but hesitant people inside, like everyone else before them, decided that they didn’t have to buy it if they didn’t want to. So they didn’t.

By the time I turned around, the frustrated Trentonian lady was in her car, and she drove off, leaving me to walk home in shame with the same exact paper route I had before she came. She didn’t even say goodbye.

Not too long afterward, despite my various sales deficiencies, I was actually awarded the coveted and distinguished title of Trentonian Paper Boy of the Week. Now, you should know that the only way I could receive this honor was if someone on my route recommended me. My ability to deliver the paper on time through thick and thin, the little extra niceties and my lax collection practices had apparently paid off. This was a pretty big deal, of course, with my name and picture in the paper and little tidbits about me like my favorite foods and such. I’m not sure if I ever got any new customers from the article, but I bet word got around.

I tell you all of this not necessarily to give you a window into my childhood (though I hope you enjoyed it), but to draw a particular word picture about evangelism and maybe some sacred cows we associate with it. I know I’m probably preaching to the choir on this, and you really don’t have to buy it if you don’t want to, but we’ve got to stop pitching this salvation thing like we’re a bunch of ineffective sales people.

Let’s take some pressure off ourselves and realize that our job is to get up and get out and regularly deliver something special, with fewer words, to the best of our ability. We always try to slice and dice this faith of ours, to communicate it this way and that, but I’m learning that the best way to go about it is almost as if we don’t know any better; to serve up some consideration and some kindness as we take pride in who we are and Who it is we represent, and to do it in such a fashion that they don’t look elsewhere. Yes, we’ve got an amazing product to offer, don’t get me wrong, but maybe, just maybe, we could go about selling it relationally, so that collective others in our lives take notice of the regularity of our presence and of our commitment to stick with them.

And then maybe we’ll find them seeking us out, despite our inability to render a sales pitch at their door.

I don’t mean to stretch this metaphor until it’s limp and lifeless, but there will always be portions of this job that we like the least. It’s not easy out there. It doesn’t matter where we live, whether we’re rich or poor, old or young, because the truth is that we’ll never be far from neighborhoods and communities with situations that are messy, with nasty conditions to negotiate and domestic disputes to witness, where we qualify as the last people they’d want to see.

But that shouldn’t change who we are.

We represent a Father who allows us to be merciful and compassionate while we’re out there because He’s backing us up, so we can front a little something on His behalf called grace – free of charge – to people who are a little down on their luck.

And then, I bet some word will get around.

Jeff Jacobson

Jeff Jacobson is the founder and president of The Reclamation Project (thereclamationproject.org), a non-profit organization which serves the international refugee population of Fort Wayne, Ind. He is married to his best friend of 20 years, Kristie, and together they manage four energetic children - all of whom provide a steady source of inspiration. Jeff is the author of So I Go Now: Following After the Jesus of our Day

You can also read more of his musings over at soigonow3.blogspot.com