¡Cumpleaños Feliz!

Dustin

One of the best birthdays I ever experienced ironically occurred the same year I was half-way across the world. Don't get me wrong, my 22nd birthday was also a difficult day. Being in Spain, I spent the day unable to see my family, my girlfriend or anyone else that would have felt compelled to celebrate my big day. Even my best friend Jeff lived on the entire other side of Seville, a trek usually not worth the 90 cent, 25 minute bus-ride across town on a random Tuesday evening. Thus, I resolved to spend the evening at home, eating a Spanish tortilla with my host-mother, until....

Redemption with an After-taste of Urine

Jeff.

After that, everything changed. Well, except my desire to fit in. I went to a party a month later and after turning down several offers for a beer, I finally caved and opened up a can of Miller Genuine Draft.

I took one sip of it after my laudable month of sobriety, and it tasted a little sour to me. Assuming that I was a little "out of practice," I took another swig. This time, it tasted awful, almost like urine (how I know the difference is an entirely different story). I was puzzled - I had always enjoyed the taste of beer since 8th grade.

Apparently, my new life with God would not be so easily thwarted by a simple act of disobedience. This was my first stepping stone towards the grace. So, I took the hint, and stopped drinking.

My life wasn't just about me any more. Apparently, "getting saved" (I hated that term, by the way) was more than just asking Jesus into my heart; it was his allowing me into his.

The kingdom of God invaded my life that day, and I knew that it was just the beginning. He was allowing his will to be done in me, so that it could be done in the lives of others - in the world, even.

As the transformation played itself out, I realized that I couldn't live my life according to my own standards any more. Rather, I had to walk according to what this new Spirit inside of me was telling me to do. My life of relativism had taken a turn toward the universal.

I had a friend who became so convinced of this fact that she covered her Bible with a piece of paper, some tape, and Sharpie marker ink that read: "THE TRUTH." It wasn't just a book to her; it was the essence of Truth itself, and she wanted to live by it.

As I read this Truth, certain words stuck out to me, red ones in particular, words that told me to love my neighbor, to hate my own life, to give to the poor, and preach good news to the broken and destitute. I found that whatever color the letters were, they were powerful, telling me to do things that I didn't want to do.

Empowered by God and no longer by my own good intentions, I set out to follow those words, and that led me to a place I really didn't want to go. But somehow, ironically, I knew that it was where I was supposed to be. And when I got there, there was, finally, peace.

Cool Like Fresh Water

Jeff.

I had become such a "pro" at going to church, even reading the Bible, and then justifying the rest of my sinful life that I didn't feel any guilt about my wayward lifestyle. I didn't even sense the emptiness inside of me. Morality and purpose were all lost in a haze of angst and confusion. I remember hearing once something in the Scriptures about "do not judge," and that sounded pretty good to me, so I quoted it and lived by it, while aching inside me persisted.

Then, one day, I said "sorry" to God. It must've been watching that stupid train and having semi-existential thoughts that made me do it. I paid my penance to whatever Spirit in the sky was watching me. That seemed like the pious thing to do, but once I opened up my heart to an aloof moral authority, all kinds of confession began pouring out.

I literally repented of things I didn't even know were wrong; somehow, facing a holy God brought conviction and guilt to a whole new level. My own attempts at self-justification just seemed petty in light of the Spirit that was bringing me to face my own dirty reflection in the mirror. The clouds were clearing, but what an awful thing to admit that my version of clarity had been obscured by the haziness of selfishness and pride.

I prayed. And as I brought events from my life - dark things that I had tried to forget - to light, it brought a strange sense of peace in my life. It felt like a release.

It wasn't like the feeling of a hot shower after a long day's work or the feeling of filling your stomach after going a full day without not eating. It was not even like washing the dirt off of an old building to discover something beautiful underneath the grime. It was more.

It felt like doing something dangerous for the very first time - like riding a roller-coaster - and instantly loving it. It felt like true intimacy without the anxiety. It felt like starting over, but in no way that I had ever before known. It was like what I imagine the earth "feels" after a long drought, when the rain comes...

Then, I was struck with this tingling physical sensation. It tickled my muscles and skin, but also brought about an intense emotional release - pain and relief, joy and sadness, all at once. It was like cool water, rushing all over my body - warm enough to not make one shiver, yet cool enough to bring about an entirely cleansing feeling.

Without knowing why, I started weeping. At that moment, every silly little story I had ever heard about a Jewish rabbi healing others, feeding others, and dying for others became true. I can't explain it, but at that moment, I knew that I was forgiven. I finally comprehended what it meant for Jesus to die for my sins and to wash all of my shame away for good.

Cloudy But Awaiting the Rainfall

Jeff

Jesus has continued to disrupt my definition of "normal" as I've walked with him through the years. I keep having to adapt and grow, always by stepping into uncomfortable, and even sometimes messy, places.

For those who are accustomed to comfort and complacency, I've heard that it can feel a bit like life as you know it coming to an utter ruin. I've even heard people use the word "wrecked" when referring to how God won them over to his agenda.

For the longest time, life was fuzzy for me - like trying to see the ground from an airplane that's flying through the clouds. Everything is translucent at best, and you struggled to understand where you are or even where you might be going. But anyone who understands the weather knows that clouds can only fill up with so much darkness, before the cleansing comes.

I myself was wrecked one day, driving home from work one summer, having spent the day in boredom at my telesales job trying to stay awake in between phone calls in which I asked people to take a general health survey, which I swore to them was for their own good.

On the drive, I was stopped at the railroad tracks, waiting for one of those interminable trains that always seem to take longer in the summer. As I was I was watching the train cars roll by, something caused me to think about life in general, about the mystery of time.

I guess it was just the movement of the train, but I was led into almost a trance, in which I had to face the unavoidable fact that life is, indeed, short, and that I had better make mine count for something.

I started reflecting on how I had spent the past weekend: getting drunk before 7pm, trying to "score" with the old homecoming chick who dumped me after one date, pulling off my belt and swinging it around my head like a sash, mooning my friends, and passing out on the couch. I had to have others help me remember certain pieces of the evening, but I do remember trying to "force" myself on that girl, and her rejecting my attempts.

Fortunately, in between her pushing me away and my calling her less-than-chivalrous names, I gave up, frustrated, and lost consciousness.

When I woke up that next morning, I couldn't face her or any of my friends. I was more ashamed than I had ever been before, because I thought that I could never do anything "that bad." Granted, I didn't have sex with her (or anyone up to that point in my life), but I knew that I probably would have if I hadn't passed out. It's a sickening feeling to realize that you're not good as you think. I came to grips with the fact that if I were left to my own devices, there was no level of depravity to which I would not sink.

To be continued...

Paradigm Destroyed: Our friend Paul's story

Paul

I missed out on my freshman year of college because I was in a long-distance relationship. I had been dating this girl for a couple of years during high school and we had made the decision to go to different colleges. We made this decision based on the fact that we did not want to rob each other of the full college experience and we wanted to prove to each other that we were not dependent upon one another. Looking back, it was one of the most mature decisions I have ever made.

Despite our best efforts to the contrary, our relationship still dominated my first year of college. We talked on the phone every night, emailed throughout the day, and visited each other when we could on the weekends. Needless to say, aside from this relationship I had little time for anything but studying. I was alright with that at first, but soon it began to wear on me that I was not getting to do the things that I saw my friends doing.

Near the end of my freshmen year and at the start of my sophomore year, I began to get involved in activities on campus. I flourished. I became a Resident Assistant, started playing in the chapel praise band, joined the Student Chaplains, and a litany of other things.

As is so common with high school relationships ours began to struggle under the weight of expectations. She expected me to spend more time with her, I expected her to understand that I was experiencing college, but we both expected that things would continue on as they always had.

I think that it was this struggle, along with the peer pressure surrounding me, that led me to decide that there was something more than what I was currently living. Unfortunately for me, I initially decided that the party scene was what was missing in my life. I slid right into it nicely and adopted many of the habits that are so common for college students and fulfilled every stereotype of the college male. The other unfortunate part of this whole process is that I was living two separate lives. There was the praise-band-playing, student chaplain-R.A. and there was the stereotypical college partier.

It did not take me long to realize that this was not what I was searching for in my quest for what was missing in my life. In all actuality it took me farther away from where I needed to be. It all came to a head on Good Friday, during my sophomore year.

After a particularly rough night of partying I awoke with a strange realization that something was different about the day. I was oddly aware of the significance of this day to my Christian faith, but yet I was still drunk from the night before. As I struggled through my haze, I began to realize that I had a choice to make. I could not continue to lead these two lives and pretend like nothing was wrong. I had to go one way or the other.

Through what I firmly believe to be Divine Intervention, the college praise band was playing a special, Good Friday service at my church; I was scheduled to speak as part of the service. In my preparations for the night, the Lord led me to Romans chapter eight in the Holy Scriptures. There I found words that told me that no matter what I had done, God would still love me, and that He was what I was searching for to fill my life. He was the “more” for which I searched.

Life was not perfect from that point forward. My girlfriend and I ended out relationship after 4 and a half years, I struggled with reigning in my lifestyle for a bit and I had to make some tough choices about my friends. But in the end, I was thankful because my whole outlook on life changed. The way I viewed the world was different. I had undergone a serious shift in perspective.

I was in a band at the time and we wrote a song about that night. It was called “Paradigm Destroyed.”

Cindered

Jeff

I was born in Illinois, the alleged "Land of Lincoln." I spent my infancy in the suburbs of Chicago, where I was baptized in a Lutheran church, which basically meant a glorified head-rinse without shampoo.

As a baby, I had no idea what the rite meant, and the only people who would later teach me about God (my parents) would do so in between bouts of alcoholism and domestic abuse. Just before middle school, I moved with my family out into the country, where we attended a small, rural Presbyterian church. Since it was my only exposure to the denomination, I inherited a warped and somewhat unfair perception of the religious group.

Presbyterians believe in predestination, which I thought meant no surprise birthday parties (sounded like a bummer, if you asked me). All I knew of the denomination was this small, mid-western church, which didn't have its act together. I was convinced that Presbyterians collectively didn't know how to clap on-beat, that their sanctuaries were notoriously cold, that being an acolyte was a free "get into heaven free" card, and that all their services were filled with music from an off-pitch organ that the church was too frugal to fix and too set in their traditions to let someone defile the "altar" with a guitar.

I didn't know much about religion, or Christianity for that matter, but I did remember in the Old Testament that altars were where dead things lay. For a church of people that were called the "frozen chosen," it seemed all too true. We were a church of dead people.

Though we had potlucks and Vacation Bible School, we were not living abundantly. While we squabbled over which new pastor we were going to hire and fire within a year, we lost hundreds of chances to share hope with a world that was just as hurt and as dying as our little steepled building. It was sad, and worst of all, I didn't even know it was sad. I kept thinking that if I was good enough at being religious that somehow, one day, I might find the purpose for which I was hoping I was put on this earth... maybe.

Liturgical Christians, including some Presbyterian churches, have this curious tradition of placing ashes on the foreheads of their parishioners during the season of Lent, which is observed as a time of fasting and repentance. The ashes symbolize three things: the dust from which Adam was created, our own mortality as his descendants, and repentance from sin. I remember when I was younger, I would see my mother come home from church, still with the ashes on her brow. Sometimes, she would leave them there all day. It always made me wonder.

I didn't learn this until much later, but what's interesting about the ashes is that, traditionally, they are burned from the palm fronds of the previous year's Palm Sunday celebration. They take the green leaves, which have been used to wave a the coming of the messiah only days before they condemn the same man to die, and they incinerate them.

The leaves burn in effigy of committing our phony religiosity to the flame. It's almost like they are lamenting their own hypocrisy - that although they may appear vibrant on the outside, they are like the green leaves that have been removed from the tree. They are very much dead inside and in desperate need of a rebirth. In order for that to happen, though, you have to take what is "leafy" on the outside and reduce it to cinders. There is no other way to get reborn, and that was a hard lesson for me to learn.

And so, I entered college like a green palm frond - with a frozen-dead, religious spirit. I didn't know Jesus, but I knew so much about him that the invitations to accept such a man were preposterous to me. I knew about the story of the loaves and the fishes, had stumbled over that quizzical hyperbole about the camel and the eye of the needle, and was familiar with all the pictures of a blue-eyed, goatee-wearing dude with kids and sheep always hanging around. What else really was there?

The whole "good news" cliche bored me. I didn't buy the Jesus Freak message that you had to get saved or else you would go to hell. It sounded fabricated and based upon fear. Besides, most of the people I knew who talked like that were getting drunk on the weekends like all the other loser parents I knew in town... or they were negligent landlords ripping off their tenants. I was certain that a life of faith had to be better than that, even if I had to make it up myself.

And so, I was on a search for my own gospel.

Three O'Clock Thursdays: My first exposure to a movement

Jeff

I remember my friend Paul Vasilko once saying that every group of dedicated visionaries reach a critical mass point where passion overrides structure and the institution you are creating becomes bigger than any single leader. "That's when you've got more than a large group," he told over coffee one evening in a smoky Mid-Western diner called BJ's. He looked at me seriously, his gaze piercing through the smoky fog in the room. "You've got a movement."

Movements, I've found, are tricky creatures, usually starting when you're not expecting them and taking you places you never intended to go. If you're not ready for them, they can be disastrous.

My Sophomore year in college, five of us guys got together every Thursday night around 11pm and would just share what God was doing in our lives. The desire to do this was born out of the lack of true fellowship we were experiencing in large groups, mainly at the fault of our own unwillingness to open up.

In this small band of brothers, we talked about edgy issues and struggles of which we were ashamed but also desperately needed to confess. The effect was, to say the least, cleansing.

We came from all walks of life. One guy was a resident assistant. Another was in the campus praise band. Another was the leader of the largest campus fellowship. Another was the president of the most popular, non-Christian fraternity. And I was involved all of those activities. We wouldn't usually finish our times of prayer, worship, and study until 3am. Sometime, they went longer.

It didn't take long for others to hear about our little get-togethers. Several people asked us if they could join, and we gently turned them down, encouraging them to start something similar on their own. No one did, and the requests kept coming in.

People saw that we had something special, and they failed to realize that they could have that same thing, if they were willing to be vulnerable in a small group setting. It was frustrating for us, because we know other Christians were getting jealous, but we also suspected that opening it up to the masses would destroy what we most loved about the fellowship.

There comes a point in any movement when you must do what's best for the most, not the few. Yet, if we did the unthinkable, turning our fellowship into something corporate, would it lose its beauty? Would we lose interest? I'm sure it's the same question that famous franchises once asked of themselves when they were just a "Mom 'n' Pop" joint.

When you have something good, is it always worth sharing? And is there a way to go big and not contaminate the personal feel of it?

The fellowship we had grown comfortable calling "Three O'Clock Thursdays" had grown into something we never imagined. We five men were pouring our hearts out to each other, baring it all without shame, and openly receiving correction from each other.

We had built such a high level of trust and accountability with one another, it was incredible. It truly was the fellowship I had been searching for. It was church in the purest sense of the word. We shared our brokenness and were healed by the loving affirmation and rebuke of community.

After a semester of meeting together like this, more and more outsiders were talking. I don't know if we were somehow flaunting it in people's faces or if it was just jealousy, but I remember even girls coming up to me, wanting in on the goodness of our small community. Was it just because we were leaders and out in the limelight? Whatever the cause, I heard from a lot of people that we were a stumbling block to others. We didn't get it; we were just trying to do something authentic.

We struggled with our consciences for a few weeks. It seemed that we were inadvertently hurting others by not letting them into this fellowship; yet, it was the truest experience of the Body of Christ any of us were having. It was a risk to open it up to the public, but ultimately, we felt that it was the best thing to do. It became the official men's campus Bible study.

Five guys turned into ten, then, fifteen. Then thirty, then fifty. We met in a dormitory basement once a week, read a passage of Scripture corporately, broke into small groups to discuss, and usually ended much sooner than 3am.

We used this as an opportunity to raise up new Christian leaders, asking a couple men to lead these small groups, men whom we thought needed some training and experience. We did this, admittedly, so that our group of five could stick together. It became clear to me why the apostles stayed in Jerusalem when the rest of the Early Church was scattered. The large group kept growing, more leaders stepped up, and eventually, the Bible study had to break into two parts.

Eventually, our group of five got mixed in with the rest, and the Thursday night of intimate fellowship and community turned into another programmed religious activity. The five of us soon got tired of it and went on to start other things. It's a picture of how the church universal has evolved--beginning with a few brothers committed to each other and turning into an institution. We were too young to understand what was happening, but as the stewards, we let it happen.

I'm still puzzled over what we should have done better, but I did learn some key lessons about how movements grow. It had multiplied beyond our expectation (as all good things do), and we didn't have the maturity to guide it in the right direction. Soon afterwards, the whole thing got relocated to the Chapel and was anesthetized. As founders of a movement, we had failed.