I watched my friend Nabeel Qureshi captivate a room for an hour, telling story after story. Afterwards, I saw the line of people stretching across the sanctuary to get their books signed. I smiled and helped to keep the event running smoothly, but my stomach felt tight. I wasn't just observing his success; I was measuring my invisibility against it. It's hard to watch someone else get exactly what you wanted. After all, what's the point of my ministry when he was so talented?

My friend looked me in the eye and asked, "So, do you think I'm going to hell?" My stomach tightened. I didn't want to threaten him or sound like a judgmental street preacher. I wanted to be liked, but I also wanted him to know the Jesus who saved my life. I felt stuck between being polite and being honest. We highly value tolerance, so the Bible's straightforwardness is uncomfortable.

We were expecting a fabulous meal at the ski lodge's steakhouse. High ceilings, mahogany leather chairs, elegantly dressed staff. But by the time the entrees arrived, no one was talking. We marinated in the silence of a family trying not to make things worse. Whenever I stopped staring at my plate to look up, I saw angry, frustrated faces. We had everything, but it wasn't enough.

"How's your week been?" I asked him. He started talking about the stress of his studies. It was safe terrain, and I knew it meant he didn't want to talk about his girlfriend this week. As a campus minister, sometimes I was too afraid to ask the uncomfortable questions. But Jesus always knew when and how to help.

"I just called everyone on my phone and told them about Jesus." I was stunned. I didn't even know she was a Christian. She certainly didn't seem like one! Then I felt convicted. In one afternoon, this student had done more evangelism than I had in the past year. And I was the one in full-time ministry.