Refugee Oasis Articles

Degrees Not Required: The Simplicity of the Gospel

When I first moved overseas, I assumed that meaningful spiritual conversations required a perfect mix of vocabulary, cultural understanding, and timing. I thought if I could just say the right thing, in the right language, with the right tone, then maybe I could point someone toward Jesus.

But the longer I’m here, the more convinced I am that the gospel doesn’t travel on our polished words — it travels, by the Holy Spirit, through the simplicity of presence, listening, and the shared experience of your average everyday image-bearing human.

Some of my favorite moments haven’t come from well-crafted lessons or Bible studies. They’ve happened around a table, with coffee in hand and laughter mixing with broken grammar. They’ve happened not because I was impressive (spoiler: I wasn’t.) but because I was available and present.

We live in a world that prizes complexity. We design programs, strategies, and step-by-step methods to reach people. And while planning has its place, I’ve learned that most people — no matter where they come from — don’t need a presentation or program. They need a person.

When someone sits across from you and shares their story — in halting French or hesitant English — they aren’t asking for a sermon. They’re asking, “Do you see me?”
And if we can answer that question with kindness, curiosity, and genuine attention, we’ve already spoken something profoundly spiritual.

Jesus modeled this better than anyone. He met people where they were — at wells, in boats, along dusty roads, and in the middle of storms. His conversations were sometimes short, often personal, and disarmingly simple. “Can I have a drink?” “What do you want me to do for you?” “Follow me.”

The nature of the Numinous is infinitely complex. The gospel itself is simple: God loves us, pursues us, invites us into His family, and made a way through Christ. We make it complex when we wrap it in systems and create litmus tests that we think ought to have been included in the deal.

I remember one of the first times I sat with a Chadian friend in my living room. We had maybe ten common words between us, and most of those were mispronounced. But somehow, through gestures and laughter and Google Translate, he shared that he missed his wife and children, that life in France was harder than he expected, and that he often felt invisible.

I told him, in broken French, “Dieu te voit.” God sees you. He smiled. I prayed for him. And that was it. No big emotional moment. Just connection. A seed planted in the soil of simplicity.

That’s how the kingdom often works — quietly, in normal conversations between ordinary people.

And the irony is, it’s harder to stay simple. We want formulas. We want complex diagrams that show us how to get from point A to goal B. We want to know what to say next. But Jesus often seems far more interested in teaching us how to be present with the least of these more than anything else.

When we sit with someone from another culture, the most spiritual thing we can do might be to listen — to really listen — without rushing to fill the silence or to fix their pain. In those moments, we’re joining the patient rhythm of God’s love, which moves slower than our words but goes deeper than we realize.

I’ve started to think of these moments as “holy simplicity.” A shared meal. A question asked with curiosity. A story exchanged. A prayer whispered at the right time.

It’s not complicated. It’s connection. And that’s exactly where I’ve seen the Spirit most at work.

The longer I do this work, the more I see that the gospel doesn’t need translation nearly as much as we think. Compassion and authenticity translate in any language. Gratitude translates. So does laughter.

When people feel seen, hope sneaks in. When they feel loved, the gospel begins to make sense — even before they’ve heard it fully explained. So maybe the best way to start a gospel conversation isn’t to memorize another script. Maybe it’s to ask someone about their day. To listen longer than feels efficient. To share a meal. To laugh. To let the Spirit guide, not our agendas.

Simplicity doesn’t mean shallowness. It means trust — trust that God can use the small, unpolished moments to do something eternal.In the end, the most powerful conversations are the ones that feel effortless. They sound less like a debate and more like friendship. Less like persuasion and more like peace.

And maybe that’s the point: when we stop trying to prove something, we start to embody something — the quiet, steady, and unfailing love of Christ Himself.

• Brad Walker, Refugee Oasis City Coordinator - Nantes, France