Linda and I were fortunate enough to assist French Teacher Diana Thelen take up to 106 Christian students, teachers and administrators to the UK and Europe over a 10-year period around the turn of this century. On one of our trips to London, we ended up at Picadilly Circus. If you haven’t been there, think Times Square in NYC. Busy. Flashy and memory-making.
At a distance, I could hear and see a street preacher. I remember him more clearly than anything else. While I can’t remember his exact words, his enthusiasm was heard and felt. More people walked past him than paused to listen. I thought to myself how they perhaps caught a word or phrase that stuck with them.
In our Bible Study group, as I’ve wrote a few days ago, we are delving into the Book of Acts. It is fascinating to read about Peter and Paul as they are at their very first steps of street preaching. You can easily feel their lightheadedness as they rise from a sitting position to share Gospel. Christ came to show us the way, died for our sins and then rose to join His Heavenly Father. Believe in Him, and you will have everlasting life.
So, based on these two images, today’s essay is again a collaboration between AI and me. LFM
Introduction
I am a street preacher. Some people admire me; others dismiss me as a nuisance. But my voice, my presence, and my message come from a place deeper than opinion—it is a calling from God. Behind every word I speak in the open air lies a journey of conviction, struggle, and faith, one that connects me to prophets, apostles, and countless heralds before me.
My Calling
I did not choose this work for comfort or convenience. The Lord placed His word in my heart, and it burns there like fire in my bones. I cannot hold it in. He has called me to the streets to speak of His Son, not because I am worthy, but because He chose me for this task before I was born (Jeremiah 1:5).
I go where the people are—bus stops, markets, sidewalks—because I am commanded to go into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature. I cannot wait for them to come to me. Life is short, eternity is real, and the message is urgent. My heart breaks for the lost, and I carry their burden as my own.
My Motivation
I obey because He commands it, even when obedience costs me my comfort, reputation, or safety. I preach because love compels me—not love in word only, but the kind that risks rejection to rescue a soul. I stand in public where all can see, because even those who will not listen must be reminded that there is truth beyond the noise of life. My life is not my own. My time, my voice, and my reputation belong to Christ.
My Struggles
This calling comes with a cost. I have walked alone more than I can say. Many brothers and sisters in Christ do not understand my methods, and so the fellowship is sometimes thin. I have been mocked, cursed, and shoved. I have fought the temptation to answer in anger, and I have prayed for my heart to stay soft toward those who hate me.
The battles are not just outside—they rage in my mind. The enemy whispers that my words are wasted, that I am doing more harm than good. There are days when my body aches from standing, my voice strains from speaking, and my heart feels empty from pouring out. Yet I rise again, because the message is not mine to withhold.
A Day in My Life
I rise before the sun, my first thoughts turning to prayer. I open the Scriptures, looking for the day’s anchor—a word from God to carry into the streets.
I gather my tools: a small speaker, gospel tracts, a wooden cross, water, and a sign that says, Christ Died for the Ungodly. I know the weather may turn, but rain is no excuse to be silent.
At the bus terminal, I raise my voice above the hum of engines and footsteps. Most pass me by, but one man lingers, sharing the pain of his dying brother. We pray together, the noise of the city around us.
Later, teenagers jeer and throw trash. My flesh wants to snap back, but I remember my Lord’s example. I answer with gentleness and keep speaking.
Alone on a bench at midday, I fight the thought that nothing I do matters. I remind myself that I plant and water, but God gives the growth.
In the afternoon, a young man on a bike remembers what I said last week and confides his guilt over past sins. We talk. Seeds are planted.
By evening, I am weary, but I deliver one final message in a plaza. Someone watches from across the street for several minutes before disappearing into the crowd. I do not know if I will see him again, but I leave with hope.
My Place in History
I do not stand alone. I walk a path worn by those who came before me:
- Noah, a preacher of righteousness.
- Jeremiah, proclaiming truth at the temple gate.
- Jonah, warning Nineveh in the streets.
- John the Baptist, crying in the wilderness.
- Jesus, preaching from hillsides, seashores, and city streets.
- Peter, speaking to thousands in Jerusalem.
- Paul, reasoning daily in marketplaces.
I share in the legacy of Francis of Assisi, the Lollards, Martin Luther, George Fox, Whitefield, Wesley, and countless others who took the gospel beyond the church walls. Their voices still echo through time, and mine is but one more in the same song.
My Creed
I am called, not by man, but by the voice of the Living God.
Before I was formed in the womb, He knew me; before I was born, He set me apart. My commission is not a career but a cross, not a choice of convenience but a mandate of obedience.
I will proclaim the truth in the open air,
as the prophets did in the gates of the city,
as John cried in the wilderness,
as Christ preached on hillsides and by the sea,
as the apostles spoke in marketplaces and in the streets.
I will not measure my work by the size of the crowd,
the applause of men,
or the absence of scorn.
I will measure it only by my faithfulness to the message entrusted to me.
I will endure the loneliness of this calling
knowing my Lord was despised and rejected,
a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.
When they mock me, they mock Him;
when they reject me, they reject the One who sent me.
I will guard my heart from pride,
remembering I am a beggar showing other beggars where to find bread.
The power is not in my voice, my skill, or my presence—
but in the Gospel, which is the power of God unto salvation.
I will love those before me, even if they hate me.
My words may wound, but only as the surgeon’s knife wounds to heal.
I will remember that every face I see is a soul that will one day stand before God.
I will not be silenced by fear, fatigue, or failure.
The enemy may bruise me with insults,
the law may restrain me with fines,
the weather may beat me with rain—
but I will rise again, for the message is not mine to withhold.
I will pray before I speak, and after I speak.
For without prayer, my words are wind.
But with prayer, the Spirit may carry a single sentence into the heart
and awaken the dead to life.
I stand in the tradition of the faithful—
from Noah to Paul, from Francis to Wesley, from Whitefield to nameless saints whose voices echoed through streets and alleys the world forgot.
Their reward was never here, and neither shall mine be.
And when my voice is silenced at last,
may it be said that I spent my final breath in obedience to the One who called me—
not as a celebrity, not as a scholar,
but simply as a herald, crying in the streets:
“Be reconciled to God.”
Conclusion
This is my life, my labor, and my love. I know the cost. I have felt the loneliness. But I also know the One who walks beside me, and His presence is worth more than the approval of the world.
So tomorrow, and the day after, I will take my place again in the streets. Not for applause. Not for recognition. But for obedience—and for the hope that even one will hear and live.
Let's Talk About It, Lewis! 