Have They Really Heard?

Sometimes I catch myself wondering how many children and teens today have ever really heard the gospel of Jesus Christ. Not just that “God is love,” but that “all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). Not just that we should “be kind,” but that “the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord” (Romans 6:23). Not just a vague idea of a “higher power,” but a real Saviour who “came to seek and to save that which was lost” (Luke 19:10)—lost people like you and me.

Not long ago, I was talking with a young person who admitted they weren’t sure if God was real and didn’t know much about Him. I asked, gently, “Would you like to?” Their answer was honest: “No, not really. Me and my friends kind of look at it like this: if God really exists and He’s going to judge us, then as long as we don’t live too crazy or go around robbing and killing people, He won’t judge us too harshly and we’ll still get into heaven. And since none of us plan on doing those things, I think we’ll be fine.”

My heart sank—not in anger at them, but in sorrow for how little they’ve been told. That is not the gospel. That’s the wide gate and broad way “that leadeth to destruction,” where “many there be which go in thereat” (Matthew 7:13), wrapped in a polite, decent, middle-class package. It’s the same old lie from Eden in a new outfit: “Ye shall not surely die” (Genesis 3:4). Just be “pretty good,” and everything will sort itself out in the end.

When I was a child, it seemed harder to grow up without at least hearing about God. In almost every neighborhood we lived in, people would knock on doors and leave flyers inviting families to church. They promised special programs and treats for the kids. Sometimes an old school bus—painted any color but yellow—would roll through the streets on a weekend morning to pick up children whose parents didn’t want to attend. Moms and dads, grateful for a few hours of peace and believing it was a safe place, would encourage us to go.

We piled in with our friends, chattering and giggling, knowing there would be songs, stories about Jesus, maybe a craft, and usually a cookie or a little prize at the end. From about five to twelve years old, before my parents ever committed to a church themselves, I rode those buses and sat in all sorts of pews. I didn’t know the difference between denominations; I just knew that in those rooms, I kept hearing the name of Jesus. For all the silliness and sugar, there was still a message: there is a God, there is a Saviour, the Bible matters. Looking back, I can see how much seed was being scattered into little hearts—including mine.

Then the stories began to surface. Allegations of abuse. Headlines about “misconduct.” Some children who should have found safety in church settings found something very different. Fear and betrayal cut deep. Parents who once opened the door to church workers began to close it. The buses stopped coming. The flyers stopped appearing on doorknobs. The invitation thinned out. And the children—those of us who would once have been herded onto buses and into classrooms to hear Bible stories—found other ways to spend our time.

In the years since, many have found a different kind of teacher: glowing screens, endless feeds, voices that rarely mention sin, judgment, repentance, or a crucified and risen Christ. We now have entire generations growing up in an age of information, yet starved for the knowledge that truly matters—“for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved” (Acts 4:12).

When I think about this, I’m reminded of a verse that quietly sits in Romans: “None of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself” (Romans 14:7). Our choices don’t stay put. Our actions, reactions, and words spread outward long after we’ve moved on. Some consequences are painfully obvious—like the mistrust born from failures and sin in religious spaces. Others are quieter, hidden. But God has warned us, “Be sure your sin will find you out” (Numbers 32:23), and again, “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap” (Galatians 6:7). One secret compromise, one unguarded life, one “small” sin can set in motion a chain that reaches children we’ll never meet.

But this isn’t only about those who did terrible things in the name of religion. It’s also about those of us who know the truth and stay silent. How many times have we walked past a searching young face and never once said, “Do you know that Jesus loves you, that He died for you, and that He is coming again?” Paul asks, “How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard?… and how shall they hear without a preacher?” (Romans 10:14).

Most of us will never stand in a pulpit. But we do stand at kitchen sinks, in office break rooms, on playgrounds, in group chats, and in classrooms. People are watching. “Ye are our epistle… known and read of all men” (2 Corinthians 3:2). There may be only one pair of eyes on you—but how many more eyes will that one life influence?

Scripture gives a sobering picture of what happens when a generation isn’t grounded in God. After Joshua died, “there arose another generation after them, which knew not the LORD, nor yet the works which he had done for Israel” (Judges 2:10). They weren’t just ignorant of religious ideas; they were cut off from the stories of what God had done. I look at the teens and children around us and tremble a little. They know how to swipe and scroll, but do they know the story of the cross? They can repeat pop lyrics, but have they ever heard, “Ye must be born again” (John 3:7)?

Many vaguely assume they’re “good people,” not realizing that “there is none righteous, no, not one” (Romans 3:10), and that without Christ they stand on the brink of eternal loss. The Deceiver “which deceiveth the whole world” (Revelation 12:9) has done his work well—often not through open rebellion, but through comfortable blindness.

So this is a plea—first to my own heart, and then to yours. We can’t shrug and say, “At least they’re not robbing or killing anyone; they’ll be fine.” That’s not what the Bible says. Apart from Christ, no one is fine. Apart from His blood, no sin is small. Apart from His Spirit, no heart is safe.

What do we do with that? We start with repentance—for our lukewarmness, our silence, our comfort. We ask God to soften what has grown numb. We can pray harder, watch more closely, and lean more fully on Jesus, that His character might be seen in us. We can speak the true gospel in love, even when it cuts across the easy assumption of “I’m a good person.” We can “teach them diligently” to our children, and talk of His words “when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way” (Deuteronomy 6:7)—in car rides, over dinner, during bedtime routines, on quiet walks and ordinary days.

We have already lost too much ground. We dare not lose another generation of souls to the lies of the enemy. But this is not a call to panic; it’s a call to shine. “That ye may be blameless and harmless, the sons of God, without rebuke, in the midst of a crooked and perverse nation, among whom ye shine as lights in the world; Holding forth the word of life” (Philippians 2:15–16).

Somewhere, there is a boy or girl who hasn’t really heard the gospel yet—not clearly, not personally. My prayer is that when they cross paths with you or with me, they won’t just hear that “God is love,” but will also see in our lives the beauty of a holy, loving, crucified, risen, and soon-coming Saviour—and finally recognize, in us and through us, the face of the living Christ.

If this Fireside Chat warmed your spirit and sparked fresh resolve to live what you believe, fan that flame with Scripture—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” (Colossians 3:16). Pull a little closer to the Light, and carry it into the week ahead.

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