It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card authors are:
and the book:
So You Don't Want to Go to Church Anymore
Windblown Media (March 1, 2006)
ABOUT THE AUTHORS:
Wayne Jacobsen: age 55, Publisher of Windblown Media. Wayne is also the director of Lifestream Ministries, and he wanders around the planet helping people sort out what Jesus really taught. He is the author of So You Don’t Want to Go To Church Anymore, He Loves Me: Learning to Live in the Father’s Affection, Authentic Relationships: Discovering the Lost Art of One Anothering, In My Father’s Vineyard, Tales of the Vine, and The Naked Church and co-hosts a weekly podcast called The God Journey. For 20 years he was a pastor and also a Contributing Editor to Christianity Today’s Leadership Journal.Wayne was a collaborator on The Shack. In his spare time, he acts as a mediator of religious conflicts in public education as the President of BRIDGEBUILDERS, and is recognized nationally for his expertise in resolving church and state issues. He lives in Moorpark, California with his wife of thirty-three years and enjoys his children and grandchildren.
Visit the author's website.
Dave Coleman is a retired hospice chaplain who continues to teach and counsel people on how to live closely with Jesus. Dave lives in Visalia, Caifornia.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $11.99
Paperback: 191 pages
Publisher: Windblown Media (March 1, 2006)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0964729229
ISBN-13: 978-0964729223
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Stranger and Stranger Still
At that moment he was the last person I wanted to see. My day had been bad enough already; now I was certain it was about to get worse. Yet there he was. A moment before he had poked his head into the cafeteria, walked over to the beverage station, and poured himself some fruit juice. I thought about ducking under the table but quickly realized I was too old for that. Maybe he wouldn’t see me back in the corner. I looked down and covered my face with my hands.
Out of the cracks between my fingers, I could see he had turned, leaned back against the counter, and took a drink while surveying the room. Then he squinted toward me as he realized he wasn’t alone and with a surprised look he started toward me. Of all nights, why here? Why now?
N
It had been our worst day ever in a long and torturous battle. Since three o’clock that afternoon, when the asthma made its first attempt that day to strangle Andrea, our twelve-year-old daughter, we had been on guard for her life. First we rushed her to the hospital watching her struggle for every breath. Then we watched as the doctors and nurses battled with her asthma for the use of her lungs.
I admit I do not deal with this well, although you’d think I would with all the practice I’ve had. My wife and I have watched our daughter suffer all of her life, never certain when a sudden, life-threatening attack would send us scurrying to the hospital.
It makes me so angry to watch her suffer; no matter how much we’ve prayed for her and had others do the same, the asthma continues to get worse.
A couple of hours before, the medication had finally kicked in and she began to breathe more easily. My wife headed home to get some much-needed sleep and relieve her parents, who’d come to be with our other daughter. I stayed the night. Andrea finally fell asleep and I found my way to the cafeteria for something to drink and a quiet place to read. I was too wired to sleep.
Grateful to find the place deserted, I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down in the shadows of a distant corner. I was so angry I couldn’t even think straight. What have I done so wrong that my daughter must suffer like this? Why does God ignore my desperate pleas for her healing? Other parents gripe about playing taxicab for all their children’s activities; I don’t even know if Andrea will survive her next asthma attack, and I worry that the steroids she’s on will stunt her growth.
Somewhere in the middle of a good wallow in my anger, he poked his head into my private sanctuary. Now he was walking over to my table and I honestly thought about punching him in the mouth if he dared to open it. Deep down, though, I knew I wouldn’t. I’m violent only on the inside, not on the outside where anyone else can see it.
I’ve never met anyone more frustrating than John. I was so excited when we first met, and honestly I’ve never met anyone as wise as he. But he’s brought me nothing but grief. Since he’s come into my life, I’ve lost my lifelong dream job, been ostracized from the church I’d helped to start fifteen years before, and even found my marriage in rougher waters than I’d ever known.
To understand just how frustrated I am, you would have to come back with me to the day I first met John. As incredible as the beginning was, it doesn’t compare to all we’ve been through since.
My wife and I celebrated our seventeenth wedding anniversary by taking a three-day trip to Pismo Beach on the central California coast. On our way home on Saturday, we stopped in downtown San Luis Obispo for lunch and shopping. Its revitalized downtown is a major draw for the area and on this sunny April day the streets were jammed.
After lunch we split up since our preferred browsing places are quite different. I went to loiter in the bookstores while she trolled the clothing stores and gift shops. Finishing before our scheduled rendezvous time, I had perched myself against the wall of a store while enjoying a chocolate ice cream cone.
I couldn’t help but notice the heated argument going on a few feet up the street in front of The Gap. Four college-aged students and two middle-aged men were holding bright blue handbills and gesturing wildly. I had seen the handbills earlier, tucked under windshield wipers and lying scattered in the gutter. It was an invitation to a play about the flames of hell that was being produced at a local church.
“Who’d want to go to this second-rate production?”
“I’ll never set foot in a church again!”
“The only thing I learned in church was how to feel guilty!”
“Been there, done that, got the scars, and ain’t going back!”
In the few moments since I had begun eavesdropping, I think every one of them threw in a comment. Another would jump in as if he was going to burst from the pressure if he couldn’t add their own venom. “Where do these arrogant people get off thinking they can judge me?”
N
“I’d like to know what Jesus would think if he walked into one of these churches today!”
“I don’t think he’d go.”
“And if he did, he’d probably fall asleep.”
Laughter drowned him out.
“Or maybe he’d die laughing.”
“Or crying,” another voice offered, which caused everyone to pause and think a moment.
“Do you think he’d wear a suit?”
“Only to hide the whip he’d sneak in to do a little housecleaning.”
The increasing volume drew the attention of those passing by. Their pace would slow as they were drawn into the commotion. Some drawn by the passion and intrigued by the assault on something as sacred as religion joined in like puppies at the food bowl. Still others hung around on the fringes to listen. Some even asked me what was going on.
Then a full-fledged argument developed as some of the newcomers challenged the antichurch cynics. Accusations volleyed quickly in the crowd. Most of them I had heard before: complaints about extravagant facilities, hypocrites, boring sermons, always asking for money, and burnout from too many meetings. Those who sought to defend the church had to admit some of these weaknesses but tried to point out many good things churches have done.
That’s when I noticed him. He could have been anywhere from late thirties to early fifties. It was difficult to tell. He was short, perhaps only five foot four with dark, wavy hair and an unkempt beard. Both were peppered with streaks of gray. Wearing a faded green sweatshirt, jeans, and running shoes, he had a rugged look that made me wonder if he was a holdover from the rebellious sixties—except that he wasn’t shuffling by aimlessly.
In fact, what had caught my eye was the determined purpose of his gait, moving directly toward the growing debate. His face was as intense as a German shepherd when it’s pursuing an unfamiliar sound in the night. He seemed to melt into the crowd and then emerged in the center of it, surveying the more vocal ones. When his eyes turned in my direction, I was captured by their intensity. They were deep—and alive! I was riveted. He seemed to know something no one else did.
By this time the debate had turned hostile. Those who had attacked the church had turned their anger toward Jesus himself, mocking him as an impostor. As intended, that only made the churchgoers in the group more livid. “Wait until you have to look in his face as you sink into hell!” one said. I thought the combatants were going to start swinging at one another when the stranger floated his question into the crowd.
“You really have no idea what Jesus was like, do you?”
The words slipped off the man’s lips as gently as the breeze wafted through the trees overhead. They were in stark contrast to the heated argument that swirled around him. They were so softly spoken that I read them on his lips more than heard them. But their impact was not lost on the crowd. The noisy clamor subsided quickly as tension-filled faces gave way to puzzled expressions. Who said that? was the unspoken question that filled the eyes of their surprised faces as they scanned the others around them.
I chuckled under my breath because no one was looking at the man who had just spoken. For one thing, he was so short that it was easy to pass over him. But, intrigued by his demeanor, I had been watching him and the crowd for the last few moments.
As people were glancing around, he spoke again into the stunned silence. “Do you have any idea what he was like?” This time all eyes turned downward toward the voice and were surprised to see the man who’d spoken.
“What do you know about it, old man?” one of them finally asked, his mockery dripping off each word until the disapproving gaze of the crowd silenced him. He laughed it off and looked away, embarrassed, grateful that their eyes had swung back to the stranger. But the stranger was in no hurry to speak. The resulting silence hung in the air, far beyond the point of awkwardness. A few nervous glances and shrugs shot through the crowd, but no one spoke and no one left. During this time the man scanned the crowd pausing to hold each person’s gaze for a brief second. When he caught my eye, everything inside seemed to melt. I looked away instantly. After a few moments I glanced back, hoping he was no longer looking in my direction.
N
After what seemed an insufferably long time, he spoke again. His first words were whispered directly to the man who had threatened the others with hell. “You really have no idea what motivates you, do you?” His tone was one of sorrow, and his words sounded like an invitation. There was not a trace of anger in them. Embarrassed, the man threw his hands up and rolled his eyes as if he didn’t understand the question.
The stranger let him twist in the gaze of the crowd briefly, then, looking around the circle, he began to speak again, his words flowing softly. “He was nothing special to look at. He could walk down this street today and not one of you would even notice him. In fact, he had the kind of face you would shy away from, certain he wouldn’t fit in with your crowd. “But he was as gentle a man as one would ever know. He could silence detractors without ever raising his voice. He never bullied, never drew attention to himself, nor did he ever pretend to like what vexed his soul. He was real, to the very core.
“And at the core of that being was love.” The stranger paused and shook his head. “Wow! Did he love!” His eyes looked far past the crowd now, seeming to peer across the depths of time and space. “We didn’t even know what love was, until we saw it in him. It was everyone, too, even those who hated him. He still cared for them, hoping somehow they would find a way out of their self-inflicted souls to recognize who stood among them.
“And with all that love, he was completely honest. Yet even when his actions or words exposed people’s darkest motives, they didn’t feel shamed. They felt safe, really safe with him. His words conveyed not even a hint of judgment, simply an entreaty to come to God. There was no one you would trust more quickly with your deepest secrets. If someone was going to catch you at your worst moment, you’d want it to be him.
“He wasted no time mocking others, nor their religious trappings.” He glanced at those who had just done so. “If he had something to say to them, he’d say it and move on and you would know you’d been loved more than ever before.” Here the man stopped, his eyes closed and mouth clenched as if choking back tears that would melt him in an instant if he gave in to them.
“I’m not talking about mamby-pamby sentimentalism, either. He loved, really loved. It didn’t matter if you were Pharisee or prostitute, disciple or blind beggar, Jew, Samaritan, or Gentile. His love held itself out for any to embrace. Most did, too, when they saw him. Though so few ended up following him, for the few moments his presence passed by them, they tasted a freshness and power they could never deny even years later. Somehow he seemed to know everything about them but loved them deeply all the same.”
He paused and scanned the crowd. In the last couple of moments perhaps as many as thirty more people had stopped to listen, their gaze firmly on the man and their mouths agape in bewilderment. I can record his words here but am bereft of an adequate description of their impact.
No one within earshot could deny their power or their authenticity. They rang from the very depths of his soul. “And when he hung there from that filthy cross”—the man’s eyes looked up into the trees that towered over us—“that love still poured down-—on mocker and disillusioned friend alike.
As he approached the dark chamber of death, wearied of the torture and feeling separated from his Father, he continued to drink from the cup that would finally consume our self-will and shame. There was no finer moment in all of human history. His anguish became the conduit for his life to be shared with us. This was no madman. This was God’s Son, poured out to the last breath, to open full and free access for you to his Father.”
As he spoke further, I was struck by the intimacy of his words. He talked like someone who had been with him. In fact, I remember thinking, This man is exactly how I would picture John the Disciple to be.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than he stopped midsentence. Turning to his right, his eyes seemed to seek something in the crowd. Suddenly his eyes locked on mine. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and my body quivered with a wave of chills. He held my gaze for a moment; then a brief but certain smile spread over his lips as he winked and nodded at me.
N
At least that’s the way I remember it now. I was shocked at the time. Is he acknowledging my thought? That would be silly. Even if he were John, he wouldn’t be a mind reader. What am I thinking? How could he be a two-thousand-year-old disciple?
It’s just not possible.
As he turned away, I glanced behind me to see if anyone else could have been the target of his gaze. It didn’t look that way, and no one around me seemed to take notice of his wink and smile. I was stunned, feeling as if I’d just been hit in the head with an errant football. Electricity raked over my body as questions raced through my mind. I had to find out more about this stranger.
The crowd was swelling in size as more and more people poked their heads in, trying to figure out what was going on. Even the stranger seemed to grow increasingly uncomfortable with the spectacle the scene was quickly becoming.
“If I were you,” he said with a wink and a smile as his eyes swept over those who’d started the discussion, “I would waste far less time ragging on religion and find out just how much Jesus wants to be your friend without any strings attached.
He will care for you and, if given a chance, will become more real to you than your best friend. You will cherish him more than anything else you desire. He will give you a purpose and a fullness of life that will carry you through every stress and pain and will change you from the inside to show you what true freedom and joy really are.”
With that he turned and made his way through the crowd in the opposite direction from where I was standing. No one moved or said anything for a moment, unsure just how to end the confrontation and break up.
I tried to move through the crowd so that I could talk to this man personally. Could he really have been John? If not, who was he? How did he know the things he seemed to speak about so confidently?
It was difficult to navigate through the pack of people and keep my eye on John. I pushed my way through just in time to see him turn down a gap between two buildings. He was headed up Bubble Gum Alley, a forty-yard stretch of brick wall that joined the shopping district with a parking lot behind. It had gotten its name from the thousands of chewed-up wads of gum that had been affixed to the wall during the years. The array of colors made for an impressive if somewhat grotesque sight.
He was only fifteen feet in front of me when he went out of sight. I was relieved to know I’d at least get a chance to talk with him, for no one else had pursued him. I rounded the corner, prepared to call out for him to stop, but instead stopped instantly upon looking down the alley.
It was empty. I turned back to the street confused. Had he really turned in there? I looked both directions up the sidewalk but didn’t see any green sweatshirts like the one he was wearing.
No, he did go in there. I was certain of it. But he could not have covered the forty yards in the three seconds it had taken me to get to the alley.
My heart began to race. Fearful I would miss him. In a panic I finally ran down the alley past the brightly colored wads of gum. There was no doorway or nook where he could have gone. At the end I burst into the parking lot, scanning every direction at once.
Nothing.
A few people were getting out of their cars, but no sign of the stranger.
Confused, I ran back up the alley and into the street, surveying quickly for any green sweatshirts, all the time praying that I could find him again. I looked in nearby store windows and at passing cars, but to no avail. He was gone. I could have kicked myself for not having followed him more closely.
I finally sat down on a bench, a bit disoriented by the whole experience. I massaged my bowed forehead, trying to pull together a cohesive thought. I could hardly finish a sentence in my mind before another thought would intrude. Who was he, and what happened to him? His words had touched the deepest hungers of my heart and the thought of his wink at me still gave me the shivers.
I knew I’d never see him again and wrote off the whole morning as one of those inexplicable events in life that would never make any sense.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
At that moment he was the last person I wanted to see. My day had been bad enough already; now I was certain it was about to get worse. Yet there he was. A moment before he had poked his head into the cafeteria, walked over to the beverage station, and poured himself some fruit juice. I thought about ducking under the table but quickly realized I was too old for that. Maybe he wouldn’t see me back in the corner. I looked down and covered my face with my hands.
Out of the cracks between my fingers, I could see he had turned, leaned back against the counter, and took a drink while surveying the room. Then he squinted toward me as he realized he wasn’t alone and with a surprised look he started toward me. Of all nights, why here? Why now?
N
It had been our worst day ever in a long and torturous battle. Since three o’clock that afternoon, when the asthma made its first attempt that day to strangle Andrea, our twelve-year-old daughter, we had been on guard for her life. First we rushed her to the hospital watching her struggle for every breath. Then we watched as the doctors and nurses battled with her asthma for the use of her lungs.
I admit I do not deal with this well, although you’d think I would with all the practice I’ve had. My wife and I have watched our daughter suffer all of her life, never certain when a sudden, life-threatening attack would send us scurrying to the hospital.
It makes me so angry to watch her suffer; no matter how much we’ve prayed for her and had others do the same, the asthma continues to get worse.
A couple of hours before, the medication had finally kicked in and she began to breathe more easily. My wife headed home to get some much-needed sleep and relieve her parents, who’d come to be with our other daughter. I stayed the night. Andrea finally fell asleep and I found my way to the cafeteria for something to drink and a quiet place to read. I was too wired to sleep.
Grateful to find the place deserted, I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down in the shadows of a distant corner. I was so angry I couldn’t even think straight. What have I done so wrong that my daughter must suffer like this? Why does God ignore my desperate pleas for her healing? Other parents gripe about playing taxicab for all their children’s activities; I don’t even know if Andrea will survive her next asthma attack, and I worry that the steroids she’s on will stunt her growth.
Somewhere in the middle of a good wallow in my anger, he poked his head into my private sanctuary. Now he was walking over to my table and I honestly thought about punching him in the mouth if he dared to open it. Deep down, though, I knew I wouldn’t. I’m violent only on the inside, not on the outside where anyone else can see it.
I’ve never met anyone more frustrating than John. I was so excited when we first met, and honestly I’ve never met anyone as wise as he. But he’s brought me nothing but grief. Since he’s come into my life, I’ve lost my lifelong dream job, been ostracized from the church I’d helped to start fifteen years before, and even found my marriage in rougher waters than I’d ever known.
To understand just how frustrated I am, you would have to come back with me to the day I first met John. As incredible as the beginning was, it doesn’t compare to all we’ve been through since.
My wife and I celebrated our seventeenth wedding anniversary by taking a three-day trip to Pismo Beach on the central California coast. On our way home on Saturday, we stopped in downtown San Luis Obispo for lunch and shopping. Its revitalized downtown is a major draw for the area and on this sunny April day the streets were jammed.
After lunch we split up since our preferred browsing places are quite different. I went to loiter in the bookstores while she trolled the clothing stores and gift shops. Finishing before our scheduled rendezvous time, I had perched myself against the wall of a store while enjoying a chocolate ice cream cone.
I couldn’t help but notice the heated argument going on a few feet up the street in front of The Gap. Four college-aged students and two middle-aged men were holding bright blue handbills and gesturing wildly. I had seen the handbills earlier, tucked under windshield wipers and lying scattered in the gutter. It was an invitation to a play about the flames of hell that was being produced at a local church.
“Who’d want to go to this second-rate production?”
“I’ll never set foot in a church again!”
“The only thing I learned in church was how to feel guilty!”
“Been there, done that, got the scars, and ain’t going back!”
In the few moments since I had begun eavesdropping, I think every one of them threw in a comment. Another would jump in as if he was going to burst from the pressure if he couldn’t add their own venom. “Where do these arrogant people get off thinking they can judge me?”
N
“I’d like to know what Jesus would think if he walked into one of these churches today!”
“I don’t think he’d go.”
“And if he did, he’d probably fall asleep.”
Laughter drowned him out.
“Or maybe he’d die laughing.”
“Or crying,” another voice offered, which caused everyone to pause and think a moment.
“Do you think he’d wear a suit?”
“Only to hide the whip he’d sneak in to do a little housecleaning.”
The increasing volume drew the attention of those passing by. Their pace would slow as they were drawn into the commotion. Some drawn by the passion and intrigued by the assault on something as sacred as religion joined in like puppies at the food bowl. Still others hung around on the fringes to listen. Some even asked me what was going on.
Then a full-fledged argument developed as some of the newcomers challenged the antichurch cynics. Accusations volleyed quickly in the crowd. Most of them I had heard before: complaints about extravagant facilities, hypocrites, boring sermons, always asking for money, and burnout from too many meetings. Those who sought to defend the church had to admit some of these weaknesses but tried to point out many good things churches have done.
That’s when I noticed him. He could have been anywhere from late thirties to early fifties. It was difficult to tell. He was short, perhaps only five foot four with dark, wavy hair and an unkempt beard. Both were peppered with streaks of gray. Wearing a faded green sweatshirt, jeans, and running shoes, he had a rugged look that made me wonder if he was a holdover from the rebellious sixties—except that he wasn’t shuffling by aimlessly.
In fact, what had caught my eye was the determined purpose of his gait, moving directly toward the growing debate. His face was as intense as a German shepherd when it’s pursuing an unfamiliar sound in the night. He seemed to melt into the crowd and then emerged in the center of it, surveying the more vocal ones. When his eyes turned in my direction, I was captured by their intensity. They were deep—and alive! I was riveted. He seemed to know something no one else did.
By this time the debate had turned hostile. Those who had attacked the church had turned their anger toward Jesus himself, mocking him as an impostor. As intended, that only made the churchgoers in the group more livid. “Wait until you have to look in his face as you sink into hell!” one said. I thought the combatants were going to start swinging at one another when the stranger floated his question into the crowd.
“You really have no idea what Jesus was like, do you?”
The words slipped off the man’s lips as gently as the breeze wafted through the trees overhead. They were in stark contrast to the heated argument that swirled around him. They were so softly spoken that I read them on his lips more than heard them. But their impact was not lost on the crowd. The noisy clamor subsided quickly as tension-filled faces gave way to puzzled expressions. Who said that? was the unspoken question that filled the eyes of their surprised faces as they scanned the others around them.
I chuckled under my breath because no one was looking at the man who had just spoken. For one thing, he was so short that it was easy to pass over him. But, intrigued by his demeanor, I had been watching him and the crowd for the last few moments.
As people were glancing around, he spoke again into the stunned silence. “Do you have any idea what he was like?” This time all eyes turned downward toward the voice and were surprised to see the man who’d spoken.
“What do you know about it, old man?” one of them finally asked, his mockery dripping off each word until the disapproving gaze of the crowd silenced him. He laughed it off and looked away, embarrassed, grateful that their eyes had swung back to the stranger. But the stranger was in no hurry to speak. The resulting silence hung in the air, far beyond the point of awkwardness. A few nervous glances and shrugs shot through the crowd, but no one spoke and no one left. During this time the man scanned the crowd pausing to hold each person’s gaze for a brief second. When he caught my eye, everything inside seemed to melt. I looked away instantly. After a few moments I glanced back, hoping he was no longer looking in my direction.
N
After what seemed an insufferably long time, he spoke again. His first words were whispered directly to the man who had threatened the others with hell. “You really have no idea what motivates you, do you?” His tone was one of sorrow, and his words sounded like an invitation. There was not a trace of anger in them. Embarrassed, the man threw his hands up and rolled his eyes as if he didn’t understand the question.
The stranger let him twist in the gaze of the crowd briefly, then, looking around the circle, he began to speak again, his words flowing softly. “He was nothing special to look at. He could walk down this street today and not one of you would even notice him. In fact, he had the kind of face you would shy away from, certain he wouldn’t fit in with your crowd. “But he was as gentle a man as one would ever know. He could silence detractors without ever raising his voice. He never bullied, never drew attention to himself, nor did he ever pretend to like what vexed his soul. He was real, to the very core.
“And at the core of that being was love.” The stranger paused and shook his head. “Wow! Did he love!” His eyes looked far past the crowd now, seeming to peer across the depths of time and space. “We didn’t even know what love was, until we saw it in him. It was everyone, too, even those who hated him. He still cared for them, hoping somehow they would find a way out of their self-inflicted souls to recognize who stood among them.
“And with all that love, he was completely honest. Yet even when his actions or words exposed people’s darkest motives, they didn’t feel shamed. They felt safe, really safe with him. His words conveyed not even a hint of judgment, simply an entreaty to come to God. There was no one you would trust more quickly with your deepest secrets. If someone was going to catch you at your worst moment, you’d want it to be him.
“He wasted no time mocking others, nor their religious trappings.” He glanced at those who had just done so. “If he had something to say to them, he’d say it and move on and you would know you’d been loved more than ever before.” Here the man stopped, his eyes closed and mouth clenched as if choking back tears that would melt him in an instant if he gave in to them.
“I’m not talking about mamby-pamby sentimentalism, either. He loved, really loved. It didn’t matter if you were Pharisee or prostitute, disciple or blind beggar, Jew, Samaritan, or Gentile. His love held itself out for any to embrace. Most did, too, when they saw him. Though so few ended up following him, for the few moments his presence passed by them, they tasted a freshness and power they could never deny even years later. Somehow he seemed to know everything about them but loved them deeply all the same.”
He paused and scanned the crowd. In the last couple of moments perhaps as many as thirty more people had stopped to listen, their gaze firmly on the man and their mouths agape in bewilderment. I can record his words here but am bereft of an adequate description of their impact.
No one within earshot could deny their power or their authenticity. They rang from the very depths of his soul. “And when he hung there from that filthy cross”—the man’s eyes looked up into the trees that towered over us—“that love still poured down-—on mocker and disillusioned friend alike.
As he approached the dark chamber of death, wearied of the torture and feeling separated from his Father, he continued to drink from the cup that would finally consume our self-will and shame. There was no finer moment in all of human history. His anguish became the conduit for his life to be shared with us. This was no madman. This was God’s Son, poured out to the last breath, to open full and free access for you to his Father.”
As he spoke further, I was struck by the intimacy of his words. He talked like someone who had been with him. In fact, I remember thinking, This man is exactly how I would picture John the Disciple to be.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than he stopped midsentence. Turning to his right, his eyes seemed to seek something in the crowd. Suddenly his eyes locked on mine. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and my body quivered with a wave of chills. He held my gaze for a moment; then a brief but certain smile spread over his lips as he winked and nodded at me.
N
At least that’s the way I remember it now. I was shocked at the time. Is he acknowledging my thought? That would be silly. Even if he were John, he wouldn’t be a mind reader. What am I thinking? How could he be a two-thousand-year-old disciple?
It’s just not possible.
As he turned away, I glanced behind me to see if anyone else could have been the target of his gaze. It didn’t look that way, and no one around me seemed to take notice of his wink and smile. I was stunned, feeling as if I’d just been hit in the head with an errant football. Electricity raked over my body as questions raced through my mind. I had to find out more about this stranger.
The crowd was swelling in size as more and more people poked their heads in, trying to figure out what was going on. Even the stranger seemed to grow increasingly uncomfortable with the spectacle the scene was quickly becoming.
“If I were you,” he said with a wink and a smile as his eyes swept over those who’d started the discussion, “I would waste far less time ragging on religion and find out just how much Jesus wants to be your friend without any strings attached.
He will care for you and, if given a chance, will become more real to you than your best friend. You will cherish him more than anything else you desire. He will give you a purpose and a fullness of life that will carry you through every stress and pain and will change you from the inside to show you what true freedom and joy really are.”
With that he turned and made his way through the crowd in the opposite direction from where I was standing. No one moved or said anything for a moment, unsure just how to end the confrontation and break up.
I tried to move through the crowd so that I could talk to this man personally. Could he really have been John? If not, who was he? How did he know the things he seemed to speak about so confidently?
It was difficult to navigate through the pack of people and keep my eye on John. I pushed my way through just in time to see him turn down a gap between two buildings. He was headed up Bubble Gum Alley, a forty-yard stretch of brick wall that joined the shopping district with a parking lot behind. It had gotten its name from the thousands of chewed-up wads of gum that had been affixed to the wall during the years. The array of colors made for an impressive if somewhat grotesque sight.
He was only fifteen feet in front of me when he went out of sight. I was relieved to know I’d at least get a chance to talk with him, for no one else had pursued him. I rounded the corner, prepared to call out for him to stop, but instead stopped instantly upon looking down the alley.
It was empty. I turned back to the street confused. Had he really turned in there? I looked both directions up the sidewalk but didn’t see any green sweatshirts like the one he was wearing.
No, he did go in there. I was certain of it. But he could not have covered the forty yards in the three seconds it had taken me to get to the alley.
My heart began to race. Fearful I would miss him. In a panic I finally ran down the alley past the brightly colored wads of gum. There was no doorway or nook where he could have gone. At the end I burst into the parking lot, scanning every direction at once.
Nothing.
A few people were getting out of their cars, but no sign of the stranger.
Confused, I ran back up the alley and into the street, surveying quickly for any green sweatshirts, all the time praying that I could find him again. I looked in nearby store windows and at passing cars, but to no avail. He was gone. I could have kicked myself for not having followed him more closely.
I finally sat down on a bench, a bit disoriented by the whole experience. I massaged my bowed forehead, trying to pull together a cohesive thought. I could hardly finish a sentence in my mind before another thought would intrude. Who was he, and what happened to him? His words had touched the deepest hungers of my heart and the thought of his wink at me still gave me the shivers.
I knew I’d never see him again and wrote off the whole morning as one of those inexplicable events in life that would never make any sense.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Here is my review of this incredible read:
“So You Don’t Want To Go To Church Anymore” brought me to tears and ultimately, healing. I am personally guilty of thinking I could build a relationship with God without any involvement from the church. In the past, I have placed my pastors and leaders on pedestals on which they didn’t belong. This book reminded me that the church is made up of fallible human beings, myself included. We are fallible, but usable by God. I have discovered a new favorite author in Wayne Jacobsen who ministers to my heart.
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