Pulling Weeds

“Why on earth did you come to this country to pull weeds?” I get that question a lot. I am excited when I get it. It always leads to something more.

Yesterday, an atheist asked it. In the conversation that followed, I gave my answer. I did not say it with words. It remained unspoken. Nevertheless, I could not have communicated my answer more clearly or strongly.

We talked for an hour about God the Father, the Old Testament, Adam and Eve, the Fall, Jesus, faith like a child, Greek and Hebrew names, religions, politics, immigration, cultural differences, family, friends, work, atheism, the Big Bang, on and on it went. The flickers of fascination across his face as he was presented with thoughts and ideas that never crossed the horizon of his mind; those made up the silent answer I gave to his question:

Those thoughts spurred on by this weird foreigner who spoke more highly of his country than he thought to do. This weird foreigner pulling weeds in a place where no one asked me to, and no one expected me to. This odd, young, puzzling American talking about God in a way that was more puzzling than my very presence in his native land. That is my answer.

It is the best answer that I have.