by John Lynch
Awakening: For faith to avail, it usually must first appear as though it might not.
Christ’s love holds even more fiercely in the storm.
A tested grace is superior to an idealized grace.
Fragile but authentic trust is more enjoyable to God than strong inborn capacity.
I let go of some expectations of God while forming new and more significant ones.
Love is experienced most when it is needed most.
The best life is not the one with the least pain or suffering.
God goes on doing his beauty when I opt out of trusting him. It’s just that I miss it.
The enjoyment of friends is more sacred when I rediscover them in my need.
Jesus does not change in my darkest times. He remains a playful and true romantic.
Jesus is enough…and he cannot and will not ever be taken from me.
Laughter in a hard season is like stumbling upon a great red wine in a bus-stop cafeteria.
2013
These days my life is marked by one singular block directly outside my home. The place where God meets me—where I most accurately reflect on where I’ve been and where I’m going—is no longer in a pulpit, on the road, or in words typed onto an electronic page. Every time her parents bring her over, my nearly two-year-old granddaughter Maci points to the front door and urgently pleads these words to me: “Alk. Bawi, Apa.” I choose to believe she is saying, “Walk. Bali. Pops.” Bali is my dog. Pops is me. The walk is the two-hundred-yard stretch down to the corner and back. I used to carry her. She now loves walking nearly the entire route. I used to run four hundred yards in fifty seconds. It takes the three of us now over twenty minutes. They are the most sacred minutes of my week. Shuffling along, looking at details of a journey I rarely before noticed. This is all new to me. I’ve been slowly learning for it to be enough. On this stretch, I am Maci’s safety net, allowing her to explore her new world. She is becoming my safety net to reexamine this world I stopped exploring awhile back. I kiss her and tell her I love her. She whispers back with a tender, trusting smile, “Yeah.” In that moment, moments past sunset, shuffling along, with two creatures who think I’m one of the greatest humans alive, God surrounds the event. I’m almost sure he’s saying,
I have not forgotten. Someday, you will shuffle this walk with someone taking your hand. Today, we are walking this walk, because holding her hand is healing you. All, so you can go back out and run, in health. Take your time. I’m in no hurry. I know what’s up ahead. ‘Tis all grace, my friend. Now, stop daydreaming. She’s out in the street again. You might not want to let her put that cat poop in her mouth.
I look back. She is wearing a diaper and no shoes. We must be a sight to anyone passing by—a senile old man mindlessly wandering ahead of a child he can no longer find or dress. I scoop her up and carry her for a bit. In this moment, I am the happiest I’ve been in a very long time.
2013
Bruce McNicol once said, after a long, sometimes adversarial road trip, “It’s like we’re standing on a street corner, holding up rocket fuel in plastic bags, calling out, ‘This stuff is crazy powerful! It’ll change everything. … Now excuse me for a moment. These bags are leaking.’”
For much of the last twenty years, I’ve been part of this ministry movement named Truefaced. Bill and Bruce started it. But they are only some of the most recent voices who’ve been calling out since Day One. We’ve been trying to figure out how to help others discover this magical freedom of the Original Good News. What was, for moments, the only Christian voice on the market has now fallen upon hard times and is no longer the majority voice in the Body of Christ. We have stood often on street corners, rocket fuel leaking all over our pants.
There are days when I want to say, “Okay, Judiazers, you win. Live in your damned duplicity and corrupted sham! Poison the next generation, and the next. Knock yourselves out.” I have tried to walk away and show up somewhere to preach polite messages the majority would enjoy. But it’s like convincing myself to give up my love for Cockburn’s music in favor of The Greatest Hits of Carrot Top.
(Again, here I go with the lists. But I thought you must see some of the tenets which have informed and animated my life. This way of life is starting to happen more and more. But the majority voice out there is still missing it. Here, I give the hope of grace and the damage where it does not exist.)
I dream in color of the Church one day:
drawing out each other’s new natures, instead of comparing behaviors.
moving closer to each other when we fail.
gaining permission to protect each other.
creating environments of grace where there is safety to not hide.
enjoying the intimate and unguarded closeness of a God who is already pleased with us.
reaching to others with a gospel of hope for today, not only a remedy for heaven.
living with heartfelt obedience instead of religious compliance.
giving our life away as a response of love not as an effort to assuage our shame.
breaking the “ought code” that is anesthetizing our kids from intimacy with Jesus.
taking the moralistic filter off of God’s Word, so it no longer condemns us.
believing we’re adored on our worst day, so we are free to take off the mask.
resting in the absolute reality that a shame free story has been purchased for us.
Until that shift, our churches will continue to:
try to change people who are already completely changed.
measure our righteousness by how little we sin.
withhold love from others because we’re too busy earning love.
believe knowing what is right is the same as the power to do right.
be goaded to figure out how to please God, when he is already fully pleased.
fail to protect each other, afraid, behind our fears of rejection.
equate masculinity with machismo, thinking this will break our passivity.
create more systems, techniques, programs, and methodology, thinking it will give us Jesus.
beat ourselves up thinking, somehow, we will finally arrive at being enough.
convince ourselves he is out there, over there, and up there instead of in here.
not believe we are righteous, but instead live like saved, disappointing sinners.
still think the correct slogan is “it’s not about me.” How ridiculous. It’s about him in us.
Soon, very soon, the bags will no longer leak. And you will not be giving this out on street corners. It may not be you who get to see this, but it will happen before I return. This is my message. It is my responsibility. Your part is to keep trying new ways to get behind the lines.
2013
Late last afternoon Stacey and I opened a bottle of wine to sit out front and watch the sky change colors. The back of the bottle bears this description: “This blend presents aromas of fresh mixed red berries, juicy cherries, and hints of vanilla … that linger with red fruit notes through a long, smooth finish. … Enjoy this wine with salads, pasta, and meats.”
If there were any truth in advertising the label would read: “This bottle of swill is harsh and undesirable at first and then subtly changes into what kelp, vinegar, resin, and burlap might taste like if allowed to age between the nubs of a moldy shower mat. Enjoy this wine with food that starts with the letter x.”
2013
Several weeks ago Bill said to me, “John, I was watching a special about Johnny Carson on PBS. All I could do was think about you. Johnny was an entertainer. You’re an entertainer. You know that, right?”
I wanted to respond, “No! I’m a legitimate preacher guy, a writer, an articulator of profound things.” Before I could answer, he said, “John, do have any idea how much our lives have been changed because you are an entertainer? Yes, you are owned by these truths as much as any of us. But you live them out as an entertainer!”
I sat there in my living room and l
et his words wash over me. I had never given myself permission to believe being an entertainer was godly enough. It is. It’s how I have been fashioned by the God who loves me more than ten million yet unnamed galaxies.
2013
Nadine Houston and my wife pull a masterful surprise on their husbands. Doug and I discover on the way to our respective airports that we are going to meet together in Las Vegas.
The Houston and Lynch families have become lifelong friends these last few years. Doug and Nadine have been wonderfully transformed by these truths of grace since hearing a recording of a talk I gave years ago called “The Two Roads.” Doug’s now on the board of Truefaced.
Doug has recently been working incredibly hard, under intense pressure, in his businesses. The women decide what he needs most is to wander around Las Vegas.
With me!
… Sweet mother of creamed corn!
For three days, the four of us dine at some world-class restaurants. We buy really cool shoes at a store Stacey and I normally only walk past on dates. Doug and I are treated to an hour-long shaving experience, wearing hot face towels scented with something smelling like lemon cream pie. The four of us stroll the Strip and spend the entire evening at a prestigious steak house overlooking the Bellagio water show. We drink scotch that famous generals never got to taste. We stay up late and then sleep in as long as we want in fancy hotel rooms with those heavy, pitch-black curtains, electronically closing on their own. We are playing like dressed-up kids, driving a showroom Mustang convertible, cruising down Main Street on a warm Saturday night.
Nadine has also booked us to see a Garth Brooks concert.
I’m not a huge country western fan, but she has heard he puts on a fantastic show. If they want to see Garth Brooks, then so do we.
Just minutes before the show begins Nadine and Doug have to leave. Nadine is allergic to crab. She ate some at dinner, disguised as langostino, less than an hour ago. We are deeply sad for them, and a little sad for us. Stacey and I are now sitting next to each other, at a concert we might not have ever chosen.
What follows is one of my favorite three-hour blocks of time I’ve had in my life.
There is no band, no pyrotechnics. It’s Garth, a single spotlight, and his guitar, in a relatively small room. He has put together an evening to honor all of the musical influences who have helped form his music. He is brilliant, winsome, anecdotal, funny, heartbreaking, heartwarming, and deeply inspiring. For three hours he keeps spellbound a beer-drinking audience with black hats and boots, expecting a night of rowdy country western. Instead they are getting artistry and life and hope. Cynical intellectual hipsters would be deeply moved. We are watching the culmination of a man’s journey. He is brilliantly and naturally walking us through the life-shaping moments that came from hearing songs in his room on transistor radios and the radio dial of his father’s car. After each song, he bows and gives the name of the artist he’s been lauding. It’s profound, nostalgic and immensely entertaining. We are riveted in our chairs. He’s walking us through our own experience of the last decades. He’s helping us interpret our own timelines. It is hard to say these words; but that evening may have been one of the finest shows I’ve ever seen.
But much, much more is happening for me this evening. As we slowly move with the crowd leaving the theater, my wife turns to me.
“I only know of two people in the world who have that kind of passion and storytelling ability to pull off such an evening.
“I’m standing next to one of them.
“John, forgive me for whenever I have devalued your gift and not supported to help promote it out of you for others.”
I am dazed. We shuffle along with the exiting crowd, in silence. I am smiling, rocked by my wife’s intimate knowledge of who I long to be at my core.
… God speaks to my heart in the moment.
Don’t miss this John. I arranged for you to see this tonight. Worry not for Doug and Nadine. They will be cheering what I did for you. Besides, I am soon taking them on a cruise with their family that will cause them to momentarily forget your name. We are far from done with this journey. You are healing, maturing, coming alive, becoming free. You no longer carry the heavy bags that kept you from giving your version of the evening you just watched. You saw your future this evening. Listen to Stacey. Dream big, my friend. Dream with your heroes. Tell them what I’m telling you. They will know what to do with it. Tell them you’re ready. Tell them you’re not afraid. Then tell them you’re very afraid. Tell them you’re fully alive. Tell them you still have one long ride left in you. I have so many to reach, whose hearts will be opened only by story and self-effacing humor. What you learned in a VW doing all-night talk shows; what you learned on the stage for Dr. Witt; what you have learned telling stories in messages, I am now going to release. I’ve been doing it all along, but this may actually become your finest hour. Go figure.
Well, that’s all I can tell you right now. This whole thing is still run by trust, not pre-information.
Kid, this is some of the payoff of your worst days. I never stop working in you. I never stop seeing the big picture. I never stop protecting what I put on your heart all those years ago. Sleep well, my friend. You’re going to need it.
2013
I am listening to The Good America by Keith Jarrett this evening, sitting outside on the patio with my dog. I’ve got my ear buds in. Stacey’s at a baby shower. Inside, thieves could be riffling through our refrigerator, filling their satchels with yogurt and cilantro. Out here, life is very, very good. Pillage away thieves, pillage away. Just don’t come out to the patio and disturb me. My wallet is on the dresser. Leave me alone to my evening with my God. …
2013
So, you’re about to turn this manuscript in to the editors. If you don’t mind, I’d like to offer several concluding remarks. This is not the end of our journey, but it is the last entry your readers will receive.
First, I know this is not the book you had originally hoped to write. Three years ago, you thought you could change the world by giving a picture of how grace could be lived out. You were strong and pretty assured of these truths.
Now that ship has sailed. Many of those you started this voyage with are no longer here. You are no longer strong. You can no longer hold the ropes as tightly. You are no longer as funny, clever, or full of capacity. Some of that capacity will never return in full measure.
I have spoken to you in the dark, before you even knew me, if only to give you the deep imprint of my love. Now I speak plainly, in the light.
You are living some of your finest moments on this earth. I know it doesn’t feel that way. I know you had hoped for more—for smoother, for more influential, for easier. It’s the nature of life on earth, that humans can’t see what I’m doing in them. It’s what makes evenings in heaven so special.
For these last thirty years you’ve asked me, “Am I teaching this correctly? Am I teaching something I only wish was true? Are you the way I’ve been telling others? I can do anything as long as I know I’m representing you in a way that glorifies you.”
John, you have taught about me—my grace, how identity is lived out—all of it in great honesty and beauty. I think you’ve captured my voice exceptionally well. You used to hear me as never satisfied, always mildly disgusted, ready to expose and break you, presuming it must be for your own good. But you’ve come to believe how I see you, even on your worst day. Many never get this.
When you make up songs to me and sing them on long walks, I stop and turn, closing my eyes until you’re done. I miss nothing, but I draw even closer at such times. You need never doubt the depths of my affection and care. I could not be more happy with our relationship. You need not try to pray more, read more, do anything more. Respond to this new life in you. Your affections are wired for me. When you’re thirsty, drink.
Life will not necessarily get much easier. But it will get richer. You will read books to children more. You will drink wine with your wif
e more. You will understand even more fully why I gave her to you. You will see me resolve relationships you thought were forever broken.
John, you will need, more than ever, to allow others near you. Let them tell you the truth of what they see. They are your fans. They have much invested in your health and joy. You used to say, “No one can know this is true about me.” Now you are learning to say, “I must be certain that the people I trust know the absolute truth about me.”
Oh, and you will go back to Dodger stadium. You’ll take grandchildren. You will buy them malts with those wooden spoons. You will buy them Dodger Dogs and bobble-head dolls. You will purchase upper deck seating because it is still what you can afford.
2013 Summer
We are here. “Here” is Puerto Penasco, Mexico. And “we” is my entire family—Stacey, John, Caleb, Kali, Amy, Carly and our grandchildren Maci and Payton. We are on vacation.
Amy and I are on the beach … running.
That last phrase may mean little to you. To me, it carries more unbridled splendor than I have keystrokes to convey.
First, I am sixty. I have not “run” in over a decade. Yes, I’ve limped the old-man-survival-shuffle for blocks at a time. It is more of an extended controlled fall than a jog.
I ran a marathon once, when people could still watch a movie outdoors. From their car.
I damaged my legs badly back in the early ’90s. I tried to run several miles back home one day on a badly strained calf. I’ve never been the same since. I went to a specialist about it, unwilling to give up running. He did a few tests and took some internal pictures. He deadpanned these words:
“John, when you think of your calf muscles, imagine strands of beef jerky, loosely tied to a bone on either end.”
… Nice bedside manner, Doc.