My one issue with all these Christian bestsellers is that they’re mostly written for mid-20s, early-30s, suburbanite Westernized middle-upper class well-to-do people with the same kinds of struggles like credit card debt, porn addiction, and “I have no purpose,” which are all indicative of entitled over-privileged attractive people who won’t buy generic soda like Dr. Thunder and own 500 thread count sheets.
There’s nothing particularly wrong about this group of people, and those problems are still very real, but I’m waiting for the book that speaks to a beat-up jobless homeless orphan who lives in a shopping cart and hasn’t showered in three weeks.
I want to write for the single mom who’s working four jobs to support her prodigal kids, for the suicidal child who’s moved from foster care to the sewer, for the girl in a rundown slum who’s about to hustle for the pimp down the corner.
I want to speak hope into hopeless situations.
I don’t want to keep speaking to the same million-or-so Christians in America who download the same podcasts and attend the same five megachurches and attack each other for wrong doctrine and the color of painting in the chapel. I want the people that no one else wants. Because I was the one that no one else wanted, either. I want the heroin addicts in the first row, the prostitutes and problem kids and lepers and the lawless. Give me that homeless guy and I’ll tell him there’s still a future, because Jesus is for him and the rich and the sick and the old and the dying and the hurting, and he’s for you, too.