DURING MY TIME at Pittsburg State University, there were a significant number of evangelically minded students that Ami had introduced me to. It is fair to say that the campus had a full-on subculture of Christians who were active, enthusiastic, and very public about their faith. While I had been living out my own Midwestern state school version of Animal House, Ami was part of a well-organized fellowship of Bible studies, prayer groups, and all-around clean living social network. Now that I had prayed my prayer and become a Christian, I was a new and welcome member.
Long before I felt comfortable enough to walk into a church, I started attending Fellowship of Christian Athletes meetings on campus. The weekly meetings were energetic, packed with young students, local adult clergy, and lay leaders. When I walked in for the first time, it seemed as though everyone knew who I was, even if I didn’t know them. I saw a few people I already knew, but had written off as a little weird. I had no idea that it was their Christianity that made them stand out.
There are few things that get evangelical Christians more excited than new converts coming into the fold. It’s like chum for sharks. My entrance into their world set off a kind of frenzy I had never experienced. It was practically a celebration to all who knew that I had “accepted Christ,” as they put it.
It was like stepping into an alternate universe. These people were exaggeratedly happy and spoke in a language that I could barely understand. Their words sounded like English, but they were a strange creole of the common words and religious vernacular. I was being swarmed by a bunch of nut-jobs who were beaming from ear to ear, coming up and shaking my hand. They were saying things like, “I can’t believe you made it! Praise the Lord!” and “I’ve been praying for you. I’m so glad you’ve finally made it!” and “Hallelujah! This is a miracle!”
I remember how one young man came up to me and declared in amazement, “Wow. If God can save you, God can save anybody!”
What the hell am I doing here? I wondered to myself. “You’ve been praying for me?” I asked quizzically, both flattered and uncomfortable. “What does that even mean?”
Unbeknownst to me, Ami had been sharing her concern about my wayward exploits with her Christian friends for some time. Some had even been witness to my exploits through their own less than advertised backsliding. The fact that everyone around me seemed to be in on some kind of conspiracy to get me to know God was killing my salvation buzz. It felt like this whole thing had been planned. It just seemed so creepy and manipulative. Realizing that there were a group of strangers who I didn’t know, but who knew me and were praying that my life would be spared by finding salvation through Jesus made me feel like a prize idiot. I was not only freaked out, I was a bit angry. It was hard not to feel that my privacy was being violated and judged. Like I was a bad person yesterday and thereby uncool when I wasn’t a Christian, and that today I was good just because I prayed some weird little prayer.
I found myself at odds, balancing between the suspicion that Ami and my new Christian family truly valued me for myself or because I had become a member of their club. I have no doubt that their prayers for my life were sincere. Many of them had witnessed firsthand the dangerous results of my lost hope and now they were here to greet me with excitement. It was now up to me to suspend my criticism and find the merit in their joy.
For the many who prayed for my salvation, I was epitome of what debauched drinking and premarital sex does to the human spirit. I have to believe that my friends were truly horrified and scared, and equally hopeful that their God had the power to end my misery. They had joy and happiness in their lives and, though I might have been a stranger to them, I was a suffering stranger. In their witness of my suffering, they invited me to a space where I could share in their joy, comfort, and fellowship.
When I thought of it this way I grew astounded that anyone would even bother to take the time to hope on my behalf, when I was feeling that perhaps I had no hope for myself. After all the time I had spent in a pit of despair, convinced that I wasn’t a person worthy of being loved by any human being on the planet, all of a sudden I was confronted with dozens of people who seemed overjoyed that I was still alive and safe.
It is this kind of juxtaposition that I find both oddly fascinating and maddening at the same time. Christianity can so eloquently remind me that we are all worthy of being loved. The Bible does well to illuminate and honor the selflessness and forgiveness required to keep love in motion, yet, at times, seems to suggest that God’s love is reserved for only a chosen few. It’s difficult to manage the idea that God only rewards those who do a certain measure of “right.” It’s mystifyingly complicated and alluring to me all the same. Before I became a Christian, and even now, I find myself readily angry that religion is rife with judgments born from facile assessments of good versus evil, but I cannot deny that if it were not for stumbling into this world, I might not be alive today.
It was such a relief to have hope, but there was more to it than just recognizing God. Now, I was supposed to act like Him. Inspired though I might have been to seek the promised peace of Jesus, there were things I needed to do to keep my membership current and valid. I needed to stop all my worldly ways of cursing and drinking, and of course, absolutely no sex. I needed to be baptized (by immersion was preferred), learn to pray, go to Bible studies, go to a so-called Bible-believing church every Sunday, and so on and so forth. According to all my lovely, well-meaning, sold-out-for-Jesus friends, I had to set about doing the work of becoming a new creation. If I was at all serious about the commitment I had made to Jesus, I had a lot of work to do.
seven
I had only been on the wagon for what amounted to a few shaky weeks before my freshman year of college came to an end. Summer meant that I had to move out of my dorm and head back to my hometown. My new Christian friends were headed back to their families as well, leaving me on my own without any witnesses, and little support to keep me on the straight and narrow. Many of my Christian friends were prayerful and openly concerned that I might backslide, fearing against fragile hope that away from their guardianship, I would return to my previous life of sin. Even my therapist implored me to stay in Pittsburg, where I could continue to work things out in a controlled setting, but I had no means to afford an apartment on my own. Back in Chanute, I had free rent and a job waiting for me. It would have to do. It really wasn’t the best plan, but all I could do was put one foot in front of the other and pray for the best. Whether I had the strength or faith to manage was yet to be seen. I had no idea if I could or would succeed, but I was going to have to figure out a way to manage with what I had.
Going back to Chanute was the equivalent of heading straight into the proverbial lion’s den. I was fortunate that my Grandma Knapp offered me her spare bedroom for the summer, but her home was far from neutral territory. Staying with her meant that I was only a few miles away from the childhood home that I had left under duress. It wasn’t that I wanted to go back there; leaving had felt like a decision of survival. I was overwhelmed with crippling confusion. Every cell in my body was filled with dread at the thought of having to face my father again, yet, at the same time, I was devastated, convinced that he didn’t miss me. It had been over a year since I had left home and I hadn’t seen or heard from my father. Neither he nor I managed to find a way to close the distance between us.
My return meant that I had to come to terms with our shared failure to stay connected and, somehow, do so while remaining sober. Right or wrong, no matter how alone or abandoned I found myself, I was going to have to learn how to live with the prospect that we might never reconcile.
I found some solace by leaning into the idea of forgiveness I had been reading about in the Bible. Part of my own personal path to recovery was found in the words of Jesus. There wasn’t a single soul he met—prostitute, adulterer, or murderer—that he could not forgive. While others mocked the fallen and demanded retribution, his way was to love at
the moment of greatest need.
I saw my reflection in the story of the adulterous woman at the well (John 4:1-26) where on-lookers stood, stones at the ready, to punish her for her crime. I took comfort, learning that Jesus did not hesitate to come to her defense. I was the sinful woman who emptied her finest perfume on the feet of Christ, humbly grateful to have experienced his kindness. While others scoffed at her wastefulness, it was Jesus who encouraged her gift. (Matt. 26:6-13)
In some strange way, the full depth of that kind of compassion began to transform brokenness in me. I began to accept the fact I would never be able to go back and undo the things that led to this sorrow. It seemed that if there was any hope of comfort, I had to learn how to forgive. I had to stop beating myself up. Punishing myself for my every flaw by soaking my woes in alcohol had only made things worse.
No matter what I may have done wrong to create the gap between my father and me, or however cheaply I had given my body to strangers, I had to find a way to forgive myself. I had to open the door to the possibility that I could forgive those whom I felt had hurt me most. Holding on to all the sadness and rage I was carrying only seemed to keep me locked in a cycle impenetrable to love. I began to wonder: What do I have to lose if I choose forgiveness?
It didn’t seem things could really get worse.
That summer I decided to keep myself as busy as I could. I took as many shifts delivering pizzas as I could physically handle. I’d lock myself in my bedroom, pouring over Scripture and directing my prayers of deliverance to God. I did my best to seek companionship among friends who didn’t require social lubricants, and rocked myself to sleep praying that I might not fail. This too shall pass, it is said, and so all I had left were my prayers that it would.
I can’t say that I got through the whole summer without a single drink, but I did manage to avoid any major mishaps. There were a few Sundays when I managed to make my way to a local United Methodist Church, getting comfortable with the idea of hanging out in a church as an actual believer.
I read the Bible every day. I started praying. I even branched out and read a few other faith-based books from authors like Philip Yancey, Oswald Chambers, and C. S. Lewis. Someone had also given me a Daily Devotional, which was a daily planner of sorts, which gives you a portion of Scripture to read each day, as well as a pastoral message to let you know what it all was supposed to mean.
One of the many bits of instruction I had received from friends was that it would be helpful if I memorized verses. I was supposed to hide God’s word in my heart so that I might not sin against Him (Psalm 119:11). On the days when I was struggling to keep on an even keel, this wasn’t such a bad idea. Not that I dared utter any of it aloud in the presence of my old friends, but when I found myself having to make a choice between getting wasted or going home, repeating the phrase ‘He is my light and my salvation whom have I to fear?’ seemed to be a helpful reminder. Perhaps it was a different kind of drug. Instead of hitting the bottle, I’d curl up in my bedroom and immerse myself in the Word. I started journaling again, too. I returned to the pen and paper that had been my confidante in previous years, and found a place to rest all the chaos that was going on in my mind. After spending so long trying to disconnect from my own feelings, I found a way to face all that I had been running from and, all the while, growing in confidence that perhaps there was a knowing God who was listening.
I also remembered something that my friend Ami had mentioned to me as we parted ways for the summer. I had a nasty old guitar that I barely knew how to play. Occasionally, I would break it out and attempt a dreadful rendition of a Cowboy Junkies tune, or maybe some Tracy Chapman. I didn’t really have any natural skill at the instrument, but I did enjoy the chance to close my eyes, use my hands and voice, and let the music carry me to some faraway place. I don’t think Ami, or anyone else for that matter, found me entertaining in those early days, but she suggested that perhaps I could write a song about what God was teaching me. At the time, her encouragement seemed weird and out of the blue. Why she suggested such a thing, I couldn’t imagine. Maybe she just wanted me to stop singing other people’s worldy pop songs? Or maybe she just wanted to suggest a means of getting me to focus more on God? Either way, it seemed bizarre that it had never occurred to me to sit down and merge my poetry and love of music and write a song with my guitar in hand. Yet, in that one fateful suggestion, Ami planted a seed that would eventually take root and dramatically affect my life.
I didn’t know the first thing about how to approach writing a song, but it seemed like a useful way to remember all the Bible verses that I had been studying. I started by taking a verse that spoke to me and crafting it into a song. I’d weave it into the story of my experience. If I doubted, I’d sing of it. If I was confused, I’d reach for clarity with abandon. For all my longing to start my life anew, I’d make a melody of the prayer. It was such a release to take everything swirling inside my head and heart and speak it aloud into the music. It made it easier to speak of my journey without the pressure of worrying whether I was praying correctly. It was a safe place for me to be honest and truthful without the insecurity of being judged or ridiculed for my weakness. It was as though I were writing my own Psalms, and through them, finding a way to manage my energy and anxiety, and moving toward a kind of healing. They were my own tunes, written between me and God. It never occurred to me to share them. What made it easy to write honestly was that no one would want to hear them, so I just wrote, unafraid of the outcome and eager to express my deepest longings.
When summer had ended, I made my way back to Pitt State, found a few wholesome roommates to share an off-campus house with, and started catching up with all the Christian students. Before I knew it, I was knee-deep in prayer circles and Bible studies and had even written a few songs about my experience. I think most of my friends were very surprised to see that I made it back in one piece. I was probably just as stunned as they were to discover that I was getting more and more at ease with the idea of identifying myself as a Christian. It really did seem quite improbable that I would truly adopt the faith, but there I was, spewing out verse after verse, rocking back and forth on my knees in fervent prayer, and rewriting my life story with the songs I had composed. It seemed like every time my friends and I got together, they’d ask me to pull out my guitar, play a few songs of my own, and encourage me to play some of their favorite praise and worship tunes as well.
I had finally jumped all in. It felt good to be surrounded by the safety of those who understood what I had been through. Everyone was on my side and wanted me to succeed. With God, we all knew that all things were possible. Whatever reservations and judgments I had previously had in regard to Christianity, I had put them out of my mind. Slowly but surely, all that prayer and Scripture were starting to sink in. These weren’t just words on a page; it was as if the Bible were a living thing. The verses were instructional and helpful, to be sure, but it started to feel as though these words were written specifically for me and to me every single day. Always right on time and in rhythm with the very anxieties, needs, and lessons required in the very moment they presented themselves.
Trust in the lord with all your heart, lean not on your own understanding.
In all your ways acknowledge him and he will set your path straight.
—Proverbs 3:5
It was such a relief that I could absolve myself from the worry of being responsible for knowing what I was supposed to do next. All I had to do was open my Bible, like reading tea leaves, or casting lots, and pray that God would show me what to do next, and there my leading would be. I no longer felt the pressure of having to make decisions on my own. God had a plan for me, and all I had to do was be faithful and follow exactly where He led me.
I didn’t get to that understanding alone. I found that whenever I sought encouragement or support, or struggled to get on board with what my Christian leadership had hoped I would become, the push w
as always to return to the Word. I wasn’t to lean on my own understanding; I needed to learn to listen for God’s voice over my own. In some ways, it felt like I was being taught to mistrust my own voice. When I approached my elders for advice, I was encouraged to discern the difference between what I might desire and what God would have me desire. The idea was that whatever I could imagine or want, God might want to replace it with something better. If I intended to be serious about my faith, I needed to learn how to prioritize God’s voice over my own.
After all I had been through, my task was now to pray and listen for God’s calling in my life. He had saved me, for certain, but for what I had no idea.
DURING MY SOPHOMORE year of college, I was asked to play guitar in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes (FCA) worship group. I was nervous about the endeavor. It was not an activity I would have chosen on my own. If I were honest, I wasn’t that into singing worship music, so the thought of leading other young adults in what seemed to me like childish vacation Bible-school songs wasn’t exactly appealing. But when I responded that I wasn’t interested, my friends encouraged me to pray about it and seek God in the same manner in which I was being taught, through prayer and daily Scripture reading. Ever earnest, I did as I was encouraged, when lo and behold, a verse seemed to jump right off the page and speak directly to me.
Sing unto the Lord a new song; play skillfully and shout for joy.
—Psalm 33:3
A serendipitous reading of the words “new song” and I at once had the answer. God was telling me that I was supposed to sing in the worship band. He was making a way for me, so now it was my job to be obedient to the call.
Month after month, I did my best to faithfully mine the pages of my Bible in order to discover what God had in store for me. A theme began to develop. Music had always been the gift that rose above all others in my life, but now it was starting to look like my calling had already been foreseen.
Facing the Music Page 7