TL;DR:
What if evangelism is not about pressure, persuasion, or fixing people—but helping them behold God’s presence? Reflecting on Matthew’s Great Commission, Andrew Root’s theology of consolation, and stories from hospital chaplaincy and everyday life, this sermon argues that true evangelism is accompanying people in sorrow and suffering as a visible reminder that they are not alone. God is already at work. Our task is not to force outcomes or manufacture faith, but to enter the pain of another with trust, compassion, and courage, helping them see: God is with you—even to the very end.
Author’s note:
What follows is the manuscript of a sermon preached Sunday, May 31, with the text formatted for substack readability. I’ll link the audio version at the bottom.
As a chaplain, I am an evangelist: Matthew 28:16–20
What if I told you that when I work as a hospital chaplain,
I see my role not primarily as an supportive presence
or crisis responder
but rather as an evangelist?
For those of you in this room who have experience in chaplaincy or hospice settings
—or even my now-colleague and former CPE supervisor, Janet Barriger—
perhaps some alarm bells are already going off in your head.
Stay with me for a moment.
It’s not that I misunderstand the role and function of a chaplain.
Rather, it may be that we don’t fully understand what it really means to be an evangelist…
The E-word Problem
The E-word, evangelism, is a problematic word in many mainline church contexts.
After all…
--Evangelism has become intertwined with abuse, oppression, and injustice
--Faith has been weaponized rather than shared,
--Christianity entangled with coercion and fear.
Likewise, many of us have encountered forms of evangelism that felt harsh, pushy, or judgmental
—more concerned with winning arguments or securing decisions than embodying the love and grace of Christ.
And yet, in other contexts, evangelism has been reduced to branding and marketing—
graphics, giveaways, & curated social media presence.
I’m sure we’ve all seen that sort of thing.
If this is what it means to practice evangelism
—or to be an evangelist
—no wonder we’re so averse to the word and the practice.
But what if much of what passes for evangelism is anything but?
In rejecting harmful evangelism, we may have forgotten how to offer good news.
So let us hear again the Gospel reading for today…
16Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. 17When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. 18And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. 19Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, 20and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”
The Great Commission and God With Us
In the reading for this Sunday, we encounter what is often called
“The Great Commission,”
where Jesus sends out the remaining disciples to “make disciples” and “baptize… in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”
As commentator Meda Stamper writes,
“Matthew ends with the words of Jesus… his voice, his commission, and his promise of presence move the narrative into a future shaped by the good news of the kingdom—a future not only for the disciples in the text, but for all disciples always.”
There’s a LOT happening in this story,
as Matthew is tying together several loose ends from the broader narrative.
--The naming of the eleven disciples reminds of Judas’ painful betrayal and despair.
--The mountaintop setting recalls both Jesus’ temptation and the teachings of the Sermon on the Mount.
--The worship and the doubting point back to the magi in the birth narrative and to the women who have already worshipped.
Among those many callbacks—or perhaps “Easter eggs,” as we might call them today—is this:
Jesus says,
“Remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”
Even here, in those few words, is another callback
—a reminder of the birth narrative,
in which Joseph is told by the angel
that the child shall be called Emmanuel,
meaning “God with us.”
Quite literally, at the beginning & the end of the story,
the message is the same:
You are not alone—I am with you.
Of course, between those two pronouncements lies the rest of the story.
A story filled with terror and heartbreak, challenge and temptation, wisdom and teaching, betrayal and great suffering.
The in-between, we might say.
Or the now and the not yet, as we say during Advent.
And much of what Jesus encountered, we still face today.
--Terror and heartbreak?
Herod’s violence and the holy family’s flight into Egypt sound less like ancient history and more like recent headlines.
--Temptation?
We see the temptation toward outrage, tribalism, and aligning Christianity too closely with political parties, as though the gospel belongs to one side.
--Betrayal and suffering?
We know these too through war, displacement, and communities living beneath the shadow of violence.
But amidst challenge and suffering,
God was with Jesus—because God was and is Jesus.
And even as Jesus prepared to leave our physical realm, he promised his disciples
—and us still today—
that in the midst of pain and sorrow we would not be abandoned.
The Spirit would come so we would never forget:
We are not alone.
Listen again to Jesus’ words:
“And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”
Consolation and Evangelism
This promise of divine presence—God with us, even still—reminds me of theologian Andrew Root’s understanding of consolation.
He writes:
“This God … arrives with the consolation of God’s name and the promise of God’s presence” (147).
Yet God does not enter our pain and struggles merely to sit with us in misery.
As Root also shares,
“God enters all sorrows for the sake of redemption” (25).
And this, I believe, is part of the task Jesus calls us to in evangelism.
As Root writes:
“To accompany another in their… sorrowful goodbye is to evangelize, because in walking with the sorrowful we’re directed [to God] in and through the goodbye.
The church is called not to fix the sorrow but to journey with the one who bears it” because “our goodbyes are the place where God chooses to work” (233, 268).
And lest one wonder what this has to do with Jesus’ call to make disciples, Root adds:
“Evangelism and discipleship are fused.
Evangelism is the invitation to receive consolation, to receive ministry. [It] is the reception of care that places a person on the path of encounter with the divine…
We are Jesus’ disciples when, having received consolation, we go into the world to give consolation to others” (Root, 2).
Behold
We might wonder then, what does this actually look like?
I noticed, while preparing this sermon, that the word translated as “remember” in Matthew 28:20 is the Greek word idou,
which means “to see, to perceive, to realize.”
In some Bible translations, the English word behold is used.
Behold means to perceive, to realize, to truly see.
When we behold God’s grace in the abiding presence of the Holy Spirit we find ourselves saying yes again and again.
As Meda Stamper writes:
“Jesus tells his followers to reenact his story in the baptism of new believers, enfolding them in the life of the Trinitarian God, with the Son as their Immanuel, the Father loving them as their own, and the Spirit descending like a dove to lead them out.”
Evangelism, then, is following Jesus into sorrow
—not trying to fix or solve anything—
but helping others to see.
Behold.
God is with you.
You are not alone.
And God can redeem even this.
My task as a chaplain is not to fix or solve anything,
but to be a physical reminder, a vessel, of God’s loving presence.
See—God is here. God is with you, even to the very end.
A Different Kind of Evangelism
As Episcopal priest Natalie Hall puts it:
“Proselytizing is leveling a threat; evangelism is offering truth.
Proselytizing is making a demand; evangelism is presenting a gift.”
Proselytizing is often driven by anxiety—as though the Holy Spirit is absent or ineffective.
But evangelism trusts that God is already at work.
The gospel, Hall reminds us, is
“constantly coming after us, being offered and given to us.”
And when people ask,
“For me?”
The gospel says:
Yes. Again and again.
This past weekend, my wife and I took a trip to the eastern plains,
staying at a small bed & breakfast.
While there, we enjoyed dinner with another couple staying at the inn.
As these things often do, conversation eventually turned toward work.
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“I’m a chaplain, I work with a Christian nonprofit, I write, I podcast—I do several things.”
Wine was flowing, and the woman leaned in.
“Wait,” she said, “I thought I heard you were a pastor. Is that true or not?”
“Well,” I said, “I’m not currently employed by a church.”
She then told us about her brother-in-law,
who was also a pastor—and, in her opinion, a bit of a Bible thumper.
“He always has a Bible within five feet of him,” she said sarcastically.
I quickly replied that I did too—which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely untrue,
as I had brought one along for the trip and it was back in our room.
We laughed together.
She then shared how, on a previous visit to this same place,
they had walked to the nearby Catholic prayer garden featuring the luminous mysteries.
Her brother-in-law had insisted on running back to retrieve his Bible so he could read the corresponding scriptures at each station.
He was, she thought, a little overzealous.
And honestly, I agreed.
“I’m more ecumenical,” I said.
“I’ve heard that word before,” she replied.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” I said, “I try to get along well with all Christians.”
And so we kept talking.
Eating. Drinking. Laughing. Sharing stories.
Thankfully, Corinna, not me, is quite engaging!
Eventually, the conversation turned toward something more tender
—their concern for a young grandson whom they sensed might be gay or trans,
and their hope that he might find a school where he would be welcomed & accepted.
Through it all, I did not say very much.
I nodded.
I affirmed their fears and concerns.
I empathized.
But more than that—I believe—
I evangelized.
Not in the command-and-control kind of way.
Not in the trying-to-force-an-outcome kind of way.
But in trusting that, by simply being present,
God was already there—in the midst of them—
working, redeeming, bringing new life.
And trust me, I felt the temptation to do more,
say more, be more—evangelistic.
Later that night, back in our room,
I told my wife that I had briefly considered
praying before dinner.
I’m not sure how that would have landed.
But what I hope I was able to do was something else.
To help this woman behold.
To help her see.
God is with you.
God is with your grandson.
Even to the very end.
And that trusting that God is already at work
—and doesn’t need me to make something happen—
gives me courage to enter some of the hardest rooms.
The Sidewalk
A few months back,
I was called into the hospital for a challenging situation.
Self-harm, I was told, and I’ll leave the details imprecise.
The staff asked me to come in.
The family was acting hysterical, I was told.
I immediately got in the car and started praying.
“God, this is a lot.
But I believe that you’re out in front of me,
already in that room with that woman.
Help me remember that.
Help me be a vessel of your love and peace.”
About five minutes from the hospital,
I saw a police cruiser pull a U-turn
and begin following me.
I bet we’re headed to the same place, I thought.
Walking into the hospital,
the social worker met me at the door
and started explaining the situation.
I’d never had that happen before.
Then security came over.
We walked to the window and saw a woman
sitting on the sidewalk, officers hovering over her.
She had apparently made some veiled threat, prompting alarm.
“Let me go see her,” I said.
I walked outside and did the only thing I could think to do.
I sat down with her on the sidewalk.
I had been praying for more opportunities to share the gospel.
I hadn’t specified how.
And upon reflection, it struck me:
In that moment, I was an evangelist.
Eventually, the nursing staff invited us into the room.
It was uncomfortable, tragic, painful.
But as I stood there beside that woman,
I stood there not with the burden
that I needed to fix something
or make everything better,
but with the assurance
that I was simply trying to be a visible reminder
of God and a vessel of God’s love.
Behold.
God is with you.
You are not alone.
God is with you to the very end.
And God can redeem even this.
The Final Commission
When I enter a room filled with pain and suffering
—or come alongside a loved one in crisis—
I am not trying to fix things,
redeem the situation,
or even bring immediate relief to pain.
Rather, I am simply trying to be a visible reminder
of God and a vessel of God’s love.
I trust that when I enter the pain of another,
God is already at work.
All I need to do is show up.
In that way,
I am an evangelist.
Evangelism is entering the sorrow of another to help them behold:
God is with you.
You are not alone.
And God can redeem even this.
“Behold,” Jesus says,
“I am with you—even to the end.”
this is so beautiful.
and yes - we are sharing the Gospel when we ourselves believe and live into that belief. and it shows through us.
Gotta read more Andrew Root. I do like his wife just a titch more…I have read both of her books but not the one she wrote with Andy… yet.