On My Worst Day

by John Lynch

  Stacey walks into the backyard and notices me.

  God quickly goes to work in my behalf. God directly speaks words to her.

  “That man, right there. He is going to be your husband. Go talk to him.”

  All afternoon, we flit around each other, like geeky junior-high kids at a school dance.

  The next morning in church, she notices me staring at her. She composes a note and slips it into my shirt pocket after the service. It starts with these words:

  “Blue-eyed one. I’ve noticed you …” The wonderful, soaring note ends with her phone number. I find a mirror to see if I have blue eyes.

  … I’m toast. Toast.

  Stacey says God gave her me to open up a life of significance, of grace—with children raised in tenderness, experiencing the immediacy of Jesus.

  God gave me Stacey as my object lesson of my newfound theology of grace. All other women before her loved me because or if. Two decades of women told me they loved me. I think they did. Until they saw how messed up I was. My weaknesses, my fear, my irrational outbursts of panic eventually caused them to leave. When I was no longer the life of the party, they left the party.

  Stacey is the first to love me just because. When I’m not on my game, when my breath is bad, in my pajamas with oily hair. When she sees the obsessiveness, insecurity, and jealousy in me. She is the first woman to convince me that who I am when I am not on is more than enough. Her love has shaped me more than any other person on this planet.

  I get lost in lies that can still keep me from the truth of who Christ is in me. I can write and speak about the truths I love so much better than I can live them. So God gave me a woman who refuses to believe the lies I tell myself, whose playfulness draws me out from my head.

  I always feared something horrible would happen to our world—that Stacey would go south, drift away in bitterness. In truth, when things do go south for us, it’s Stacey who holds us together.

  I will write this into my phone, on the patio of a restaurant at Crystal Cove, at our twenty-eighth anniversary dinner:

  Today, twenty-eight years ago, we both took this high-stakes gamble that the other would stay in the arena. That day, she couldn’t be sure, she didn’t know if I would revert back to my old life, my checking out into isolation, medicating and running to the next place. She didn’t know if I’d continue to allow Jesus in, to be everything for me, for us, and whatever family he would give us. I didn’t know if she would be courageous, if she would stay in the hard times, if she would be faithful to me, if she would keep trusting him when it seems like he’s forgotten about her. You don’t know what the other will do. You think you know. You fall in love and hope.

  But we put so much on the line, in those vows—trusting God to protect us, trusting the other to show up each day, even after we’ve failed or been adrift for so long. I don’t know why we’re still here, deeply in love with each other, in a deeply hard period. Why us? Many don’t make it. They are not less good, less loving, or less trusting of God. I only know he is good and has been good to us. Beyond that, I’m not sure I can explain anything. But I do know this: after having seen the very worst life can throw at us, I’d choose her over every single woman in history … save for Ruth from the Old Testament. I’ve said it before; I would have dumped Stacey early on for that woman. Stacey would have pushed me off a pier for a chance to marry the patriarch Joseph. But having missed out on those two, we’ve done all right settling for each other. I’m in for twenty-eight more. Then I’m out of here. Mark it.

  June 3, 1985

  The Sunday before our wedding, I was invited to speak at Open Door Fellowship. It was overwhelming to speak to the community who took me in during the first year of my faith. I prepared a message out of chapter three of Zechariah—my exegetical passage for my second-year Hebrew class. The passage presents a vision of the pre-incarnate Jesus defending Joshua, the postexilic leader of Israel. The evil one was the accusing prosecuting attorney. God the Father was the judge in the case. It’s one of those wild and woolly Old Testament sections convincing me God must like rock and roll. There are forty ways to tell this truth, but God went creative and acted some of the stuff out, with others, in a dream sequence!

  If there is a supremely important passage of grace in the Old Testament, this is it. Satan was accusing Israel of failing to be a defensible witness to God. “Joshua was clothed with filthy garments and standing before the angel.” Satan knew if he could discredit him, the entire line of the Messiah would unravel. In the middle of the accusations, “the angel of the Lord” spoke. Whenever the article “the” (rather than “an”) is in front of “angel of the Lord” in the Old Testament, most scholars agree we are watching a pre-incarnate appearance of Jesus. Wow! He rebuked Satan, and then turned to Joshua and in one sentence handed out the freedom from guilt he would one day purchase. “Remove the filthy garments from him. … See, I have taken your iniquity away from you and will clothe you with festal robes.”

  I’m not sure I will ever spend forty minutes doing more of what I was put on this earth to do. I was frenetically working my way around the stage as if in that vision’s very courtroom. Absolutely locked in the moment, I was having so much fun, I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want to top out on one of my first messages, when I had several thousand left to go! But I think that’s the case.

  Stacey and I were in Lake Tahoe on our honeymoon, when we got word that Bill Thrall, the pastor who started Open Door, said these words the following Sunday:

  “That was the finest message ever preached in this church.”

  The man who spoke those words had been the primary preacher in this church.

  In that instant, I knew I was a preacher.

  At 3:45 a.m. twenty-eight years later, several thousand messages into this craft, I would write these words about what I have stumbled into:

  Early Sunday morning is the most surreal four hours for some who preach. You get up in the middle of the night because you alone know the sum total of your study during the week has given you pages of sincerely good notes, clever turns of phrase and skilled segues, but no real message from God to man. So once again you panic and begin to beg God to show up. The ideas which sounded clever and insightful days before now barely hold even your interest. You ask God to give you something at the last second which would give something to someone. Life. Something to convince you that you’re not bluffing this morning.

  And then it happens. New thoughts, channels of entry, my heart engaged, courage to type dangerous, unrehearsed thoughts, vulnerability and … slowly something like the very heart of God. That entire mechanically correct but hollow message I was willing, last evening, to foist upon a congregation, transforms in front of my very eyes. I’ve lost interest in whether it’s clever or eloquent. For the first time all week, I’m believing what I will now preach. For twenty-eight years I’ve woken up before bakers and newspaper carriers, gambling God would do this. I wish he’d do it on Wednesday or Thursday, but he doesn’t. And now, sitting in the dark with a cup of coffee, he did it again. No one may even notice the difference. But I will. It has kept me from feeling like paid clergy these last twenty-eight years. So, now I’m off to perform this high-wire act. I’m asking he’ll turn this message into what he’d like for the one who risks walking over from the cheap apartments across the street, fearing God no longer hears her or wants to live through her. … How did I get this privilege?

  July 1985

  We returned to Los Angeles, married. I excitedly handed a tape of my Zechariah message to the pastor of the church I’d been attending during seminary. I wanted him to be proud of me. He listened to it and passed it on to the head of the district in the denomination I expected to candidate for as I prepared to graduate.

  Several weeks later he called me to meet for breakfast. A venerable and soft-spoken, white-haired man, he was deeply beloved and respected within the denomination. He’d been in this role for decades.

  Have you ever ha
d that experience where everything in front of you suddenly morphs into a slow motion crash, with the sound of screeching metal giving way to explosions?

  His response to my message shocked my very being. The wreck was formed of these words:

  “John, I listened to your message. What I heard was immature, self-seeking and self-serving. It was too dramatic and emotional. I tried to finish it, but couldn’t. My recommendation is you not go into the ministry for quite awhile. Take some time to grow up, maybe volunteering with the youth at this church after you graduate. Preaching is a very serious and sacred endeavor. You did not treat it with the gravity it demands. That message was unacceptable. It offended me on many levels. Here’s your tape back.”

  I have no idea what happened next.

  I vaguely remember crying the entire way up the 605 from Long Beach to Whittier.

  I don’t think I’ve ever since worked on a message as hard as I had on that one. I truly believed it was the best I could ever hope to do, with a message allowing me to be the most fully John Lynch, representing God’s heart.

  All my life, I’d doubted my own sincerity. Only these last several years in Christ was I beginning to believe I could trust my authenticity was growing. Now here was a venerable religious authority questioning not only my capacity but also my character and motives. Everything was on the line in this moment. I would either allow someone to protect me or I would secretly bluff and pretend I believe my identity in Christ, when I no longer did.

  It was so hard to tell Stacey. I feared even she’d change her perception of me. I feared the same when I called Bill. I was frozen. I didn’t know how to move forward. “If I am wrong about that which I felt singularly most proud of and convinced of, then what do I know about me?”

  Bill listened patiently to the entire story over the phone. After silence, he said, “Well, I’m no prophet, but it appears this man did not enjoy the message or your presentation of it.” He started laughing. I laughed too.

  “John, maybe you do need to mature. Maybe a lot. But no one should take the permission to critique and rebuke another unless they’re willing to draw closer into the solution. If you want, when you graduate, you could come to Open Door. I would commit to work with you on the issues of your maturing as much as you would like.”

  I’d been already candidating for church staff roles. One church in Oxnard had offered me a position as a “Christian Education Curriculum Director.” One should probably not accept a job with a title whose meaning one does not understand.

  “Look, John, this man’s critique has forced you to form a conclusion about who you are. There are many people who can do a number of things well. You are not one of them. But many have spoken to me about the message you preached here. I have not many times experienced the presence of God in the Word like I did that day. You’re a preacher, John. You may be young in the faith and immature in your experience, but if you can be convinced to stop speaking, many in the future will lose out. I can’t think of a worse thing for you to do than to find a Christian job so you can have a religious title. Give me the phone number of those people who want you to be their curriculum director. They’re making a horrible mistake. You’d be terrible at it. John, I’d be honored to help you get started speaking at camps and retreats and conferences. You could speak at our midweek service, to get some experience.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “To keep those poor folks from having you as their curriculum director, I’d do a lot.”

  On that day, I experienced protection. Without it, I imagine walking around crippled, wounded and self-doubting; one of the best theologically trained shoe repairman in town. Without his commitment to me, to stand with me in the middle of my fear, insecurity and immaturity, I wouldn’t have made it. I wonder how many thousands of hopeful young God-lovers have been sideswiped, without a Bill Thrall to brace them.

  Two years later, in his backyard: “So, I think it’s time for you to take the pulpit. I’ll stay and help develop leaders. You’re the one who should be leading us in the pulpit.”

  Something amazing happens when we stumble into spiritual safety. Many of us have never known it. We aren’t even sure it exists. We’ve existed in the realm of “following Jesus” in a culture of being more right, accurate, and exact about our theological positions. We can go from theological conviction to creed to manifesto. But we’re still on our guard.

  Awakening: We can hold the most orthodox positions, with exacting accuracy, and still be a lousy parent, unwise boss, or a board member no one wants to be near.

  All the while we convince ourselves we’ve put our ladder up against the right wall. But at night, it may occur to us … “I don’t know how to let my guard down. And I have a suspicion I make others all around me feel less safe.”

  Awakening: Safety allows me to ask questions I can’t when I’m proving myself. It allows me to trust another to describe me to me.

  1987

  I told you when I was eleven I felt God.

  I felt something that night I don’t know how to describe. I don’t talk to anyone about it. But I never felt anything like it before. I want life to be that way, the way it was those two minutes. I want it to come back so much.

  Tonight I will see the best picture yet of what I felt that night.

  Stacey and I are sitting smack-dab in the middle section of the prestigious Grady Gammage Theater in Tempe. We’ve been given tickets to see a new production of Les Misérables. I know Victor Hugo is a famous historic author. In Laguna Beach there is an elegant restaurant along the Pacific Coast Highway bearing his name. But I’ve never read this book. I know nothing of what we are in for.

  My disdain for much that passes as musical theater is well documented. So, when the overture begins, I’m ready to endure an evening of over-emoted, vapid spectacle.

  … But it is free … and the seats are great. … Bring it on, affected, garish vanity. Bring it on!

  Then the scene with the priest and Jean Valjean explodes upon me. Suddenly the entire world around me recedes. I am alone, staring at the cold, thin, blue light enveloping these two.

  You may know the story. A priest takes in a desperate Jean Valjean after his release from prison. He is repaid by having his silverware stolen. The priest discovers Valjean in the middle of the robbery. Valjean knocks the priest down and runs off. The next day, the authorities return a captured Valjean to face the priest.

  What will happen next appears certain. Frightened, old priests want their safety, their silverware and uncomplicated justice and order.

  But this is a real priest … who understands power.

  He knows no rehabilitation or restraint will change him. Jean Valjean is convinced he is only anger, revenge, victim, survivor—a just man turned hard by injustice. Love is foolish weakness to him.

  The priest knows he is infused with God. Love is his identity. He is made to love the unlovely. He became a priest not for a title and privilege, but to give dignity to those who don’t yet know who they are meant to be.

  Only one power will change Jean Valjean from the inside out.

  Love, wearing the cloak of grace.

  Sometimes old and feeble releases the most potent measure of brave and good.

  … So the moment arrives. The authorities await the answer, which will send Valjean back to prison for the rest of his life. The priest has seconds to form his plan. He has already made his decision moments after he was knocked to the floor. Seconds are all he needs. Mature lovers don’t have to weigh each moment. Their inclination to a response of love has been formed in advance. It is instinctual. Words not unlike these follow.

  The lieutenant laughs, “He claims you gave him this silverware.”

  “Well, why yes. Of course I did. But, my friend, I don’t understand why you didn’t take the candlesticks. They’re worth over two thousand francs. Why did you leave them? … Did you forget to take them?”

  The priest asks his assistant to bring the candlesticks fro
m the house. The priest then personally places the candlesticks into the rucksack carrying the stolen silverware. The lieutenant orders the captive to be unshackled. The priest excuses the soldiers with the offer of wine inside.

  He then draws close, so close, to Jean Valjean. He whispers, “And don’t forget … don’t ever forget. You’ve promised to become a new man.”

  Jean Valjean responds, “Promise? Why are you doing this?”

  “Jean Valjean, you no longer belong to evil. With this silver, I bought your soul. I’ve ransomed you from fear and hatred. And now I give you back to God.”

  How can this be? How will such a confounding, upside-down, utterly undeserved act of apparently foolish grace and mercy do anything?

  How can Valjean see anything but a foolish, irrelevant old priest standing before him? How can anything ever change? Valjean is still who he believes he is. A hardened, skulking outcast, who must destroy to not be destroyed. Won’t he soon steal again, only to be arrested again … only to have everything he has believed about himself validated once again?

  Ah, except for the power of love! More powerful than hatred and shame. More powerful than the course of the world, the pattern of humans, the way of things. More powerful than who we falsely believe we are.

  The priest has played a well-worn card. For long before this day, he has understood his own hidden failures, his own duplicity, his own secret demons. And he has understood the unfathomable love of God, who calls him clean, beloved, and free.

  This old priest stands and stares sternly into this man’s face. He is speaking to the new man who will soon believe and emerge. He is calling to him with deep and solemn gravity. It is a voice and a strength which will haunt Jean Valjean until he obeys it. Then it will free him into a new identity, a new name, a new life.

  When the grace and love of Christ are seen clearly they do not elicit a response of callous indifference or self-entitlement. They don’t cause us to make sin less sinful, or breaking God’s heart less bothersome.