Refugee Oasis Articles

Simple Conversations in a Complex World

One of the first “conversations” I remember having upon arriving in France took place about three hours after landing in Paris. I was exhausted, hungry, and running on roughly three hours of questionable sleep after a ten-hour flight. I also had three small children and a wife in tow—equally tired and hangry.

We still had a five-hour drive ahead of us. This was not going to be easy. I needed to feed my wife, kids, and myself quickly. As I pulled out of the maze of airport roads and parking lots, I spotted the lighthouse of all weary American travelers (at home or abroad): the golden arches.

We pulled in with a plan—five boxes of nuggets, five fries, five drinks. Easy-peasy. And that’s when I ran headfirst into the wall of cultural differences and language barriers. I stepped up to the counter and, before the young fast-food worker behind it could say a word, I ordered. Well… I attempted to order.

“Nuggets?” I asked.

Side note: I pronounced this as such—‘Nugg–Ettes.’ 

As one does.

A blank stare. Nothing. Possibly even a look of mild incredulity.

Panic sets in.

“Poulet?!?” I offered, as if that explained away the entire awkward exchange.

“BON-jour, monsieur,” she interjected. I had forgotten to greet her. Things were sliding into chaos fast.

“Uh, sorry. Yes. Oui. Désolé… Bonjour… uh… Nugg–ettes?”

Blank stare.

Then her face lit up. “Ah oui! New-gay!” she said, pronouncing it the French way (bien sûr).

“Yes! Oui!” I replied, holding up my hand to show that I wanted five—ironically, the way I did when I was five. I think I even point at my counting hand with my non-counting hand. Pro-move… in kindergarten.

She smiled and laughed. I grinned sheepishly. My family was fed, and all was well.

My French has improved since then, but I wouldn’t say my general interactions have changed all that dramatically. I love France. I live here. But I’m not French—and I never will be. My French is decent, but I’m probably never going to be reciting French prose in the town square or competing in a poetry slam at the local café. And that’s okay.

I’ve had equally awkward spiritual conversations throughout my seven years here. I’ve made a lot of mistakes—and I’ll make many more. Thankfully, I serve a Lord who not only carries the burden of salvation but has already secured that victory.

We always come to the table with preconceived ideas about how things should go—what needs to be said and what a “win” looks like. In our minds, the perfect spiritual conversation neatly covers every theological point, preempts every potential heresy, and presents such a strong argument that… well, who wouldn’t come to saving faith?

But that’s never how it goes, is it? It’s often awkward, and we wander down uncertain paths in the conversation. And that’s when we’re speaking the same language! Add in cultural and linguistic barriers, and—oh boy—watch out.

Thankfully, we are told not to let our hearts be troubled. Jesus has got this. He is enough. Whatever barriers we see are not insurmountable to Him. God uses the imperfect to call the imperfect into His perfection.

It’s right to take the Word of God seriously and to want to communicate it well. But this isn’t a burden meant to rest on our shoulders—we’re not equipped to carry it. We’d do well to remember that God didn’t confuse the languages at Babel as punishment, but as mercy—a reprieve from self-destruction.

It would’ve been easy to see my fast-food fiasco as a failure. I certainly didn’t feel like a competent adult in that moment. But most of what colored that impression was simply my ego. After all, it ended in success—with smiles and nuggets.

My communication wasn’t impressive—it was simple. And that was enough. The Lord doesn’t need well-spoken theologians, though He has many. He chooses to use the simple to do the amazing.

I’m thankful to work with an organization—Refugee Oasis—that believes all that’s necessary is a simple conversation and a heart that listens. The rest is in Jesus’ hands.

In the end, it’s never about how fluent we are. It’s about how faithful He is.

After all, sometimes grace sounds less like a sermon… and more like laughter over a box of nuggets.

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