The Glory that Sends Us: Rethinking Why We Go

There's something profoundly uncomfortable about the story of Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. We celebrate him with parades, shamrocks, and green beer every March 17th, but we've sanitized his story beyond recognition. The real Patrick—the one history remembers—was a sixteen-year-old boy stolen from his family's estate in Roman Britain by Irish raiders. He was enslaved, forced to tend pigs and sheep in the desolate northern fields of Ireland, far from everything he knew and loved.

What happened next defies human logic.

After years of captivity, Patrick escaped. He found passage on a ship back to Britain and returned to his family. By every reasonable standard, his story with Ireland should have ended there—a traumatic chapter finally closed. But something had changed during those years of enslavement. In those lonely fields, the nominal Christian boy had encountered the living God. And God, it seemed, wasn't finished with Ireland.

Patrick had a vision. The very people who had enslaved him were calling to him: "Come back. Help us." And incredibly, impossibly, Patrick went.

The Wrong Foundation
Most of us, if we're honest, would assume Patrick returned to Ireland out of pity. After all, the Irish were living in spiritual darkness, worshiping pagan gods, with no knowledge of Christ. Surely Patrick felt sorry for them—sorry enough to risk everything to bring them the gospel.

But pity, however noble it might seem, is an insufficient foundation for mission work. Pity depends entirely on the response of those we're trying to help. When people receive us with gratitude, pity feels validated and sustainable. But when we're met with hostility, mockery, or indifference, pity quickly gives way to self-preservation. We retreat to safety, telling ourselves we tried.

Patrick's own writings reveal he frequently feared for his life. The Irish weren't waiting with open arms to receive his message. They resisted. They mocked. They threatened. He experienced moments of genuine despair, wondering if his efforts meant anything at all.
If pity had sent Patrick back to Ireland, he would never have stayed.

The True Foundation: Worthy Is the Lamb
The book of Acts gives us a different picture of what drives authentic mission. In Acts 13:2, we read: "While they were worshiping the Lord and fasting, the Holy Spirit said, 'Set apart for me Barnabas and Saul for the work to which I have called them.'"

Notice what they were doing when the Holy Spirit spoke. They weren't sitting in a committee meeting, strategizing about unreached people groups or debating where the greatest need existed. They were worshiping. They were fasting. They were concentrated in their devotion to God.

The missionary impulse was born from God-centeredness, not man-centeredness.
This is the theological principle we so often miss: missions isn't fundamentally about what people lack. It's about what God deserves. The nations are without Christ—this is tragically true. They are perishing—this breaks our hearts. But the driving engine of the Great Commission is the conviction that Jesus Christ, the risen and reigning Lord, is worthy of worship from every tribe, tongue, people, and nation.

Revelation 5:9 paints the picture: "Worthy are you to take the scroll and to open its seals, for you were slain, and by your blood you ransomed people for God from every tribe and language and people and nation."

The goal of redemption isn't merely to rescue us so we can have better lives. It's the glory of the Savior who left His throne, endured mockery and slander, and died so that we might live. He is worthy. And missions exists because the whole world does not yet worship Christ as He deserves.

When pity would send the missionary home, the glory of Christ keeps them there.

Every Believer Is a Local Evangelist
At this point, many of us breathe a quiet sigh of relief. "Well, I'm not a missionary. I haven't been specifically called to leave everything and go overseas. So this doesn't really apply to me."

But consider Jesus's words in Matthew 28:19: "Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you."

Implicit in this command is a simple truth: every believer is a local evangelist. This doesn't mean standing on street corners with a megaphone (though if that's your calling, go for it). It means that as you go about ordinary life—walking your dog, shopping for groceries, sitting on your porch, going to work—you're called to share the gospel with those you encounter.
"But that's not natural for me," you might protest. "Maybe it's easy for some people, but not for me."

Here's the liberating truth: it's not supposed to be easy. Even the most seasoned evangelists experience fear and trepidation. The solution isn't getting stronger or braver on your own. The solution is found in Acts 1:8: "But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses."

It's not dependent on you knowing enough, being bold enough, or being crazy enough. It's all dependent on Him. And you saying, "Okay, Lord, as long as You walk with me, we can do this."

The Global Call
While Scripture is clear that all believers are witnesses locally, it's equally clear that some will leave. Some will leave their homes, their cultures, their families, and their home churches to settle in another place for the sake of preaching the gospel where it has never been heard.

Consider the current state of Cork, Ireland—a city of 250,000 to 300,000 people, set to nearly double in size within the next decade. Within Cork are sixteen parishes, seven of which have at least 30,000 people living in them with zero gospel-preaching churches. Not one. In some parishes, there isn't a church building of any kind.

This is one city in one country. But the story is the same across much of Europe. Millions live with no meaningful access to the gospel. Church buildings have been converted into bars, hotels, and apartments. The harvest is ready, the fields are vast, but the workers are few.

What Will You Do?
Patrick could have stayed in Britain. Paul and Barnabas could have stayed in Antioch. Missionaries today could choose comfort over calling. But they don't—not because they pity the lost, but because Christ is worthy of worship in every corner of the earth.

The same Spirit who set apart Barnabas and Saul is setting apart people today. Perhaps some reading these words.

So here's the question: What is the Lord saying to you? Not what feels comfortable or safe or reasonable. What is He saying?

Pray for the workers already in the field. Pray for the unreached. Pray for your own church. And ask the Lord of the harvest genuinely: What are You saying to me?

Because in the end, this isn't about us at all. It's about a King who is worthy of all worship, all honor, all glory—and a world that desperately needs to know His name.