The Journey Begins

We each have a story, a journey of how we got to where we are. This is because we are a part of a larger story, the Story that God has been telling since before the creation of, well, everything.

The center of God’s story, the hero if you will, has been and always will be Jesus. Not me. Not you. Jesus.

This is my story of how I first came to know Jesus…

A crucial part of all our stories is that at our heart, we are fallen rebels. We have each chosen to go our own way, to place ourselves at the center of the story. As if we are writing it or something. Sure, some of us hide our rebellion better than others, or we somehow have convinced ourselves and others that we aren't so bad as the next guy or gal. But in our heart of hearts, each one of us is on the same rebellious playing field.

Growing up in Southern California, I was rebel just like the rest of us. I lived my life as if I was in charge of everything. I made decisions based on MY story, not God's. Sure, I was ignorant of God's plan for my life. But that is no real excuse. A short look at my life and it is plain that I was living for my own personal gratification. I abused alcohol, and smoked a lot of marijuana. I lied and deceived my parents. I learned how to manipulate people to get what I wanted. I put up a facade of being generally a good kid, but in my heart I was still a rebel.

When I was 18, college was not in my future. My dad and I remembered that there was a man named Tony Campolo who spoke at a church retreat we had gone to. He talked about a non-profit he had set up in Philadelphia working with at-risk inner city kids. It seemed like a good avenue to pursue.

In reality, it was a miracle that I was able to join this work. One of several times over the years where I can clearly see the hand of God at work in my life. I was definitely not a follower of Jesus. Sure, I had gone to a youth group and was a fairly regular attendee at the church it was tied into. But my profession of faith in Christ was in word only. I was an unchanged rebel, living my own story, my own life.

In Philly, I lived with a community of Christian men and women. 26 of us under 1 roof. It was to this day the most radical experience of Christian living in my whole life. We shared meals, money, devotions, life, and ministry. Part of my salvation story is tied into this reality of community. I saw a love present there that was unlike anything I had ever experienced. While I was certainly not convinced that Jesus was the answer, these brothers and sisters had something that was so attractive to me, and as so unlike the "community" I had experienced back home.

But I was still a rebel. In my rebellion, I made the type of request that I would never tell people to do. I told God that He needed to reveal Himself to me or I would go back to LA and live my life for me again. In hindsight, what arrogance, right? What had He been doing my whole life to this point? Being a passive observer?

After opening my eyes to the vitality of Christian life, on December 8, 1990 God performed a miracle to get my attention. I call it "the 2x4 of the Holy Spirit". One of those times we all need where God has to clobber us to make us pay attention.

My friend Dave and I were taking the kids from our community recycling. In Philly back then, people would just drop their bottles of Olde English 800 and Colt 45 where ever they were done with them. At a busy intersection, we had all the kiddos line up to wait for the light. Two girls, Brianna and Theresa, decided to run out into the street. They both got plowed by a car. Theresa flew across 3 lanes of traffic to the opposite sidewalk, while Brianna took the brunt of it and bounced down the road.

Jesus at that point shut off my emotions. Numbly, I saw that Theresa was crying on the ground and figured she was alive. Brianna was splayed out on the road, still as death. Dave and I knelt over her and I did not know what to do. Dave said we should pray, but I was thinking in my head "what for"? She was dead. Dave said something to the effect that God can do anything and that I should pray for her. I was thinking he should be the one to do the praying, because he claimed to follow Jesus and it was lame that he was passing the buck on to me.

But I did pray. I asked God to not let this sweet little 8 year old die. Right after we said Amen!, her eyes popped open, she started to look around in confusion, and asked where her mom was.

After that, everything was kind of a blur. The police wanted to talk to me and drove me to hospital in the back of a car. Being 6' 4", I remember deciding that I never wanted to break the law and ride in the back of a squad car. Ever. We went to the hospital and I was struck by the fact that several people from my Christian community were there for support. So between praying with them and having some smokes with the girls’ parents, several hours passed.

After a while, Brianna's mom came out of the emergency room crying and told me I needed to go see the girls. To this day, I remember dreading that moment. I went to the room they were in, and saw two little piles of hospital gear on the cots, but no girls. Turning to leave, I see Brianna and Theresa with huge grins on their faces. They ran up to me and jumped on me with the squeals that only excited 8 year olds can do. It was then that God decided to remove my numbness. I was so emotional, I almost passed out. But I succeeded in breaking a medicine cabinet as I fell on it, so I guess that is cool.

When we got home about 6 hours later, I found the Community praying and singing, rejoicing that God had worked a mighty miracle. Now remember, I had not told anyone about my foolish challenge to God. One brother made a comment that changed my life. Whether or not he knew what he was saying, he looked me right in the eye and said God had revealed himself to me and provided a miracle. He then went back to singing the song "Jehovah Jireh, My Provider" and was dancing around the room along with the rest of the crazy Christians who loved Jesus, but couldn’t dance.

I went upstairs and wept. I wept for the rebellion in my heart. I wept for the sins I had committed. I wept for the people I had hurt. I wept for the grace of God to a wretch like me. I wept for joy. I wept for the freedom that washed over me.

That night, a broken rebel threw down his weapons, his pride, his self-centered existence at the foot of the one place we are all equals.... the Cross of Jesus. That night I set my hand to the plow of discipleship and I have not looked back.

My next post will be about what happened after that, and what led me and my family to the place where we are planting a church in Spokane.

Thanks for reading.