In College (circa late 90’s in Lubbock, Texas), I took a part-time job as a fiberglass repair person in a boat shop. That kind of work in any part of the world is miserable – a little past miserable in the West Texas heat.
My boss was a devout Christian who made frequent attempts to convert me. I did my best to listen, but a) thought he was crazy and b) wasn’t interested in sacrificing my frat-boy lifestyle to something that looked really boring. I was having a good time and didn’t want anyone to ruin it.
According to my Catholic upbringing, God loved me, but also got really mad when I broke his rules, necessitating confession, church attendance, and a few other activities aimed at the remediation of my sins. That sounded boring too, and I couldn’t reconcile the apparant love/hate thing that the Catholic God had for me, so I bailed sometime around early adolescence.
About halfway through my senior year, on a quick visit to Dallas (home), I witnessed the shooting death of my best friend (I’ve written about it a few times – don’t want to re-burden you with the details). I then spent a week or so with local law enforcement folks, then back to Lubbock with a much-changed, far less confident perspective on how the world works. It’s an understatement to say that the party had ended.
A couple of years later I entered a serious relationship with a Baptist girl whose devotion exceeded that of my boat shop boss’. While her attempts at my salvation weren’t well received, I finally gave in the day she broke off our relationship.
Emotionally, I was at the end of my rope; depressed, traumatized, ready to quit in every way a person can quit if you know what I mean. On my way home from the breakfast buffet where she dumped me, I decided to give the God thing a try. I had tried everything else up to this point and felt that there was nothing to lose. I made a deal of sorts, promising that I’d give God whatever he wanted if he would just come get me.
William Wilberforce put well into words what happened next. He used the phrase “strangely warmed” to describe his experience. In a similar encounter, the famous hymn “It is Well with My Soul” was penned by Horatio Spafford shortly after his 4 daughters were killed in a collision at sea. On his journey to retrieve his grieving wife, near the spot where his daughters died, he encountered something that left him with an unexplainable hope:
When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to know
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
History is full of would-be God-snubbers who experienced something they couldn’t walk away from: C.S. Lewis, Martin Luther, Blaise Pascal, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Alice Cooper, and many others came to faith through some mixture of reason and tangible encounter.
A friend of mine experienced the same, and says it felt like he was swimming in “warm Jell-o” when it happened, though he’s quick to admit how weird that sounds.
For me, weird it was: I went from the most depressed, hopeless moment of my life to the kind of joy that makes you cry. You might be tempted to chalk this up to some kind of manic episode brought on by PTSD followed by the loss of a hot girlfriend, but I’ve never been manic, and I knew that our relationship wasn’t good. It had to end at some point.
On that morning, I encountered something that, to this very discouraging, complicated, difficult day, stands as a 20-ton stone of remembrance that will not be moved. Since then, I’ve had similar encounters; moments of desperation and hopelessness attended by a strangely human presence, like home, with people in it – a place where I am known, where I can feel my own weight, and have no problem believing that all is, or shortly will be, well.
Theology (humanity’s attempts to make sense of God) is important, but I’m not sold out to this Christian stuff because of the bible, or my theological understandings. God continues in this tangible relationship, especially when things feel impossible. Even when he seems distant and for whatever reason forces me sit in such painful moments, I have assurance that the recourse I could never deserve still belongs to me and is on the way.
This is where Jesus’ crucifixion comes in handy, inconvenient as it was for him. Because a sacrifice was made that removes every sin I could ever commit, and every barrier between he and I, I can’t feel guilty in these moments. To focus on my sin (or anyone else’s) in light of what Jesus did to get rid of it would be the definition of faithlessness.
Because the work that I could never do has been accomplished, my job in these moments is to believe that I am somehow worthy of God’s presence. I don’t have to worry about the legion of mistakes/sins/outright rebellions that I’ve perpetrated against me/God/everyone else.
Having this relationship means that I have a relationship with hope, peace, forgiveness, compassion, mercy, and all-around life that I didn’t have before. When things go grim, I am no longer forced to turn to remedies that are the opposite of hope, peace, forgiveness, compassion, mercy, life, etc. Sometimes I have to wait – to sit with whatever pain sits with its claws extended in my lap – but time after time, when I’ve chosen to wait (I don’t always), the warm Jell-O shows up with all the stuff that comes with it.
If this sounds like religious mumbo jumbo to you, it should, as should the idea of God taking on the form of a human and walking with other humans for a few decades. The existence of God alone should turn your brain’s stomach.
But if there is a God who is responsible for the creation of the cosmos, there will by definition be things that won’t make sense to us – his ken would be much bigger than ours There would be at least a few things that would assault our cognitive hubris.
Personally, I don’t need to see or understand how all the pieces fit. Like a 3 year old confronted with nuclear physics, I don’t have the ability to make sense of the cosmos. If I try to force the pieces together, I either have to deny science, or reject the idea that God intervenes miraculously in this world. I choose instead to accept the mountain of tension that follows from allowing both to occupy my ontology.
On having a relationship with Jesus, my personal experience is proof enough that this is real. It’s been real over the past 30 years; I believe that the next 30 will be the same.
Without this – pardon the drama – I wouldn’t be married. I definitely wouldn’t have 3 kids. I’m pretty sure that I wouldn’t be here. I struggle just as much as anyone else with unbelief, but these personal, tangible, intimate, hopeful moments keep piling up, making it more and more difficult to reject the idea that Jesus is real, that he is God, and that he wants to be as close to me as I’ll allow.
