From relevantmagazine.com

I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but I like attending ladies salad luncheons. Maybe it’s just a Midwestern craving of mine that brings back memories of when Mom would dress us girls up and take us to the ladies-only, mother-daughter salad supper at church. Maybe it’s the hope for as much three bean salad that I can handle. Regardless, salad suppers draw me in, call my name and then strap me to a fellowship hall chair for a solid two hours.

This particular evening started off innocently enough, with a buffet of salads in porcelain bowls, a room full of women’s voices and a promise of a speaker with an intriguing international experience.

By the evening’s end, though, I just wanted to leave the religiosity-laden experienced behind me. The final skit put one more check beside my “why the Church frustrates me” list and left me with a pain in my gut superceding the indigestion caused by my beloved three-bean salad.

The skit’s premise lay on evangelism, something I wholly agree with. Sure, we should share our faith with other people. How else will they know about Jesus except by seeing Him in us and hearing about Him from us. But the skit had a major flaw that still eats at my gut.

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