It’s that time of year again! Pack your bags, round up your dusty ole passport, dig up that Hawaiian shirt you love so much (you know, the one that makes you look like Rick Warren), and get your flippy-floppies out—it’s mission trip time again! Time to go tell some third-world peasants about Jesus, hammer a few nails in a decrepit schoolhouse, and catch some rays!
Good times. I often reminisce about the days when I would travel to some god-forsaken place and tell uneducated, illiterate dark-skinned people about the zombie magic man. They latched on to the story immediately. Is there any wonder 500 people “come to know Christ” during these trips? A tall, well-dressed white man has come to their village to tell them of an invisible man in the sky who can give them anything they want if they just ask. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, as long as it makes you feel good. You're a god.
After being in that dusty place for a couple of days, it’s time for the real treat—the beach, shopping, or hitting the bars. My favorite mission trip was to France. I spoke to a group of youth for an hour, attended some dinner parties, then off to Paris! Ahhh…telling people about Jesus has never been so luxurious.
Upon return, it’s great to strut through the church—people patting you on the back for being a good Christian. You told those darkies about your white god. Show some photos of cute, foreign children, pass around a primitive looking headdress you picked from a street vendor, and cry when you describe the old woman you lead to Christ. You’re the man. You’re special. You “feel” like God has “blessed” you. You come home to 21st century amenities and all the peasants are left with is piles of LifeWay propaganda littering the streets.
Be proud! You're doing the Lord's work!