by John Lynch
“See, I gotta tell you. It’s just too much magic for me. Too many mirrors, too much smoke.”
He smiles again. “Humor me, will you?”
He’s turned around in his captain’s chair and is no longer steering.
I point. “Andy, you gonna… ?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He turns and resumes steering.
“So why don’t we experience that freedom, most of us?” he asks.
I look at him blankly.
“It’s not a rhetorical question. If God took our shame away, then why doesn’t everyone experience that freedom?”
“I guess I don’t know.”
Andy taps the steering wheel. “Well, it’s not because we’re not sincere or educated enough. We haven’t learned how to trust what He says is true about us. It’s that simple. See, those nice theological concepts don’t do much for you.”
“I’ll say.”
“And it’s not a matter of willpower or screwing yourself up to believe what you don’t yet believe. It’s just being willing to try on the new clothing. To think about what it would look like if you believed He really took the shame away. The person my shame has told me I am no longer needs to be listened to.”
Something in what Andy is saying is beginning to make sense.
“Until we believe what Jesus says He did,” Andy says, “it’s hard to accept the lies we tell ourselves and replace them with the real identity God’s handing us. He offers this new life, the life we were trying to fake our way to with our self-stories. And it comes without any condemnation. He’s smiling, with His arm around us, looking at our messed-up lives together with us and saying He’s crazy about us. Nothing surprises Him or makes Him want to run. He’s known about our problems from before the world began, and He knows where we’re headed now. And that flat-out trounces shame.”
We’ve slowed to an idle in front of the huge ridge of stacked boulders that separates the jetty from the ocean.
“So Jesus asks us to trust Him, not fake it or perform for Him. Slowly we discover there are some others we can grow and introduce to that trust.” He looks over at me. “Even a guy as screwed up as me can give a friend a safe place. Even a man as flawed as I am can help a friend rewrite his story with the real story, the true story—of Christ coming through me. That’s who Steven Kerner is on his worst day.”
He spins all the way around and says, “Now that dog, I’m telling you, that dog’ll hunt.”
“Okay. I’m starting to follow you,” I say. “But you lost me when you said everyone has shame. I get that some people might live out of shame. But me? Maybe arrogance or pride. I haven’t suffered ten minutes with shame my entire life.”
“Then tell me this, Steven,” he says, leaning forward. “What drives your need to be right all the time, to defeat anyone in your path? What drives you to overachieve? What keeps you beating yourself up for not performing to your high expectations? What keeps you comparing yourself with everyone, looking over your shoulder, and putting down others? Where does that come from if not a deep, innate fear that you aren’t enough and others might see it? Only one condition motivates such behavior. It starts with the letter s and rhymes with flame.”
I look up at him. “Okay, then you tell me this—why didn’t this all get solved at the start when I became a Christian?”
“Great question.”
Andy starts working his way back through the jetty, making big, slow circles as he speaks. “Steven, most of us think that once we believe in Jesus, we’ll live magically ever after. Cashews and sweet corn will grow year-round in our front yards.” He pauses. “Then we discover we still know very well how to hurt others and make crappy life choices. And this realization breaks our hearts. This is where the rewritten story kicks in. It whispers to us that we don’t deserve such a life, that Jesus is fully disgusted with our failures. So, after beating ourselves up, we start trying to fix ourselves, reform, and relieve the disgust we presume He has for us. Welcome to much that passes as church. We play right into self-disgust. And many churches keep their crowds reminded that Jesus is fully disgusted with them. This is the greatest lie in the mix—the conviction that we can fix ourselves, the conviction that He wants us to try, the conviction that He’s angry at us if we don’t try harder.”
“He doesn’t want us to try to fix ourselves?”
“Steven, if we actually could fix ourselves, why would Jesus have had to die?”
I look at the deck and eventually hold up my palms.
“That whole feeling that I’m not enough, that there’s something uniquely wrong in me? It gets dismantled the same way you first received grace—by accepting that you can’t earn it. Wrap your head around this, Steven: He offers us an entirely new story—one with no condemnation, inferiority, inadequacy, or insecurity. No more trying to prove to anyone that I’m someone I know I’m not. Over. Done.”
“This is so not what I’m used to hearing about God,” I say. “Not at all.”
Several yachts and smaller boats are slowly gliding out of slips and into the open harbor. The sun is now high enough to paint their wakes with shimmering gold and orange. It’s incredibly beautiful out here. I’ve sat here so many times and never noticed it at all.
Andy interrupts my reflection. “Let me tell you what you’ve gotten yourself into. If you’re honest, it feels really good to be cared for, to have someone stand with you in what’s been freaking you out for decades.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“But it’s scary too. It’s kind of like when we first begin to follow Him. We’re really excited, but at some point we begin to wonder, What’s God gonna do with me now that I’ve given my life to Him? We become afraid again, of the very One who has broken through our defenses to give us love.
“See, we’re still convinced we’re not really worth being loved. And our acceptance of grace is fragile and vulnerable. You’re incredibly successful, Steven, but deep down you’re convinced that you’re not worthy of that success. You’re not even worth being loved. So the thought of someone wanting to love you messes with your head, doesn’t it?”
I’m looking out at the water, unable to respond to Andy quite yet.
“But you have to receive it. It’s a lot different than trying to love others or God enough. It’s learning to say, ‘If God says I’m worthy of being loved, then I’m worthy. Forget what my old tapes tell me. I’m going with God’s assessment.’ ”
“Okay,” I say. “I think I can do that.”
“It’ll feel like you’ve opened Pandora’s box. Because you know you, and all the garbage inside. And you’re terrified someone else will now see it. But here’s the difference—” Andy leans in even closer. “It won’t matter to you anymore. If they see the truth about you, you’ll actually be happy about it. You’ll feel completely different about yourself from there on out. And that’s because you’ll see all your junk now only through God’s eyes, through the eyes of love, not condemnation.”
“So, I don’t have to get there all at once, do I?”
“You kidding me?” He leans back and laughs. “Look at Peter. He changed in and out of his new identity more often than Bette Midler changed her wardrobe at a reunion concert.”
I’m no longer listening to Andy as much as watching him. He’s really enjoying himself. He’s waited for this a long time.
A breeze has picked up from the direction of the ocean. The boats in the marina are bobbing and creaking as we talk, as if happy to be here.
“Andy, since the moment we met, I’ve been asking myself why you’re doing this. Was I a project? Were you doing a favor for my dad, or what? You know what I think now?”
He stares at me.
“I think you wanted a friend. I think you wanted to care about me.”
“I do. I really do. I care about you a lot. Why else would I drive around with an arrogant jerk who thinks my sunglasses look stupid?”
“Not stupid.” I smile. “They just make you look like, well, an
old guy.”
He laughs hard. “Steven, look at me. I am an old guy. I was watching The Ed Sullivan Show the evening he introduced the Beatles to America.”
“On what show?” I’ve heard of the show, but it feels good playing him a little.
Andy looks at me with annoyance and pity.
“Besides,” he says, “today’s sunglasses cost too much, and they make you look like a bug.”
Andy pulls on the rope of a bell above his head, for no apparent reason.
“Yes. God has given me a real care and love for you, whether or not you ever figure out how to receive it. Whether or not you ever figure out how to love or be loved by your wife. I’m going to be your friend. I want to stand with you.”
“I think I always felt if I let someone too close, they’d have something on me, leverage or control.”
“Control is an expression of superiority,” he says, “always using the power of position and title. That’s why you withhold permission from everyone. But protection is an expression of love.”
“So you’re saying I’ll get there,” I say.
“Pretty much. And have you noticed, we barely talk about symptoms anymore? You don’t still think the goal is to fix you, do you?”
“I guess not.”
“Pretty cool, huh?”
I nod. “Unless you have a wife somewhere in L.A. contemplating divorce.”
“Patience, my friend,” he says. “My guess is she’s contemplated divorce before today.”
I chuckle. “Thanks for the encouragement.”
He relights his cigar and starts puffing away again. “Okay, okay. Stay focused. I’m actually working toward a point here. One more thing that protective love does—it creates vulnerability. My guess is you never imagined sharing the stuff that’s been coming out of you these last few hours. That’s why this is never about technique, never about ‘five things to get someone to open up.’ I never had a plan with you. I just wanted to allow this vulnerability to come out. My friend, this truth alone, being lived out, is going to turn your marriage upside down.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, I think you’ve been sad over what you’ve done a thousand times before. You’ve been sad that you got revealed, that you hurt Lindsey. I think you’ve felt lots of sadness, even remorse. But this might be the first time you’ve been able to face that it’s more than a behavioral problem—you’re actually admitting you use anger to control your world.”
“Stop,” I say. “I said that?”
“I believe you did.”
I think for a moment. “Okay. I can see that. It just sounds like a pretty big deal when I hear you say it that way.”
“And you’re also discovering that you don’t know how to stop it. For the first time, you can take those truths and offer them to God and to Lindsey. You get to really repent this time. Do you understand that? Repentance?”
I’m caught off guard, still thinking about my anger as a tool to control. “Uh, sure. Repentance. That’s when you stop doing what you’ve been doing wrong and turn a 180. Right?”
He scrunches up his face. “Well, isn’t that special?” Then, with mock sincerity he says, “Gee, I don’t know why we didn’t just do this before. Just stop doing what you’ve been doing wrong. Well, by golly, let’s get right to that. What do you say?” He slaps his knee for mock emphasis.
I glare back at him. “Well, here’s another time when you make what I say sound stupid.”
“Yeah, I might be doing that. It’s just that those tired, mindless clichés are part of the thinking that got you into this mess in the first place. Steven, don’t you think if you could stop doing what you’ve been doing wrong, you’d have fixed things by now?”
I shrug with growing frustration. “I don’t know what you want to hear, Andy. I’m back in junior high and the science teacher is looking for a specific answer. Why don’t you just tell me, and then I’ll know and we can move on?”
“I remind you of your science teacher in junior high?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did he have those little white balls of spit at the edges of his mouth?”
“Yeah.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “It’s just that when I give you the answer, you presume you get it, that you have it all figured out. I want you to get it on your own so you’ll see that what you’ve previously believed won’t get you where you need to go. Even right now you’re looking for a fix, the right words, to get things back to normal with Lindsey.”
He gets up and leaves the captain’s seat, walking over close to me. He says the next sentence slowly and intensely.
“And your version of normal is exactly what is forcing your wife to contemplate a life without you. Am I making sense?”
I sigh. “Keep going. It’s just that right now I’m fighting the clock.”
“Still don’t trust the old sea captain, huh? Still think you’ve got it figured out. You just need a few one-liners, and you’re on your way. Steven, that’s like bin Laden thinking he just needs a round of golf with the Dalai Lama. Then he can come out of hiding and start touring alongside Up with People.”
I gesture out to the seawall. “You’re aware no one’s steering the boat, right?”
Andy turns to take back the wheel… and then drops his hands.
“Hey, look at that. We’re coasting toward those big rocks. Wow, crashing into that would be bad news for everyone concerned, don’t you think?”
I look at the approaching jetty. “Andy, don’t mess around. I get your point.”
“Listen, I keep driving weird. I keep making those big looping circles, and I’m always wanting to get up from the captain seat and walk around. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why don’t you take over? You’ve been on this boat plenty of times.”
“Stop it, Andy. I have no idea how to steer the boat. I’ve never even watched them operate it. That’s not my deal. Now sit down and drive the boat.”
We are now no more than two hundred yards from the rocks, moving slowly but still directly toward them.
“Whoa,” he calls out like a casual observer. “Those rocks are getting close. It seems to me that if I just showed you how to turn the wheel, you could get in the chair and get us out of this crisis. I’d take the wheel if I were you. You’re the answer guy. You’re the big-time executive. This is your boat.”
Andy throws his hands up. “Suddenly I just don’t seem to know what the heck I’m doing.”
“Andy, knock it off!” I yell. “You’re putting your job at risk. You’re putting us at risk.”
He looks back at me. “Am I now? ’Cause I would have thought you could solve this. You don’t need anyone. Man, those rocks look sharp, don’t they? I mean, imagine what they’d do to the side of this boat. I’ll sure have some explaining to do.”
I jump up from my seat. “Andy, you’re an idiot! You’re gonna destroy a boat to make a stupid point?”
I run to the chair, take the wheel, and spin it hard, trying to maneuver us away from the rocks. But it’s too late to steer it away. I panic and turn the wheel back hard the other way.
Less than a hundred yards from the rocks, Andy walks up behind me and pulls the engine handles into reverse. The boat continues forward for a moment and then slowly groans backward.
Andy sits back down at the wheel as I retreat to my seat.
“Wow, would you look at that,” he marvels. “I never knew what those handle things were for. That was a close one!”
He gently turns the boat gradually back into the calm waters toward the slips.
I’m breathing hard, clenching my fists and trying not to punch him. His ridiculous game has convinced me of my greatest fear: he’s a complete maniac. Neither of us talks for more than a minute. He’s back to making lazy loops in the harbor.
“You’re a jerk,” I say.
“Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking there.”
“Knock it off, Andy! Knock it off!”
He turns toward me again and quietly but firmly says, “No, you knock it off, Steven. Do you have any idea what I was doing a moment ago?”
“You were making a stupid point with a stupid analogy. And you almost damaged a really expensive boat while doing it.”
“Actually,” Andy replies, “we were never in any danger. We had plenty of time to make the turn. You just didn’t happen to know that. If you kept trying to steer your way out of it, we might have been in danger. But as we were heading toward those rocks no matter how hard you tried to steer, it was just too late.”
“I don’t want to listen to you anymore.”
“Look, you could be the best dang captain in the entire free world, and you still would’ve hit those rocks. Because you thought your steering would make a difference.”
I can’t look at him right now. I won’t.
“Steven, this is exactly what you’ve been doing since long before I met you. That’s where your life is right now—about eleven feet from the rocks. The boat is traveling at a pretty good clip, and you’re doing everything you can to make the turn. And you can’t navigate it. You’ve finally reached a place where steering doesn’t do squat. Sharp course corrections don’t matter anymore. God has been trying to teach you that lesson for a long time, but you’ve been making so much noise panicking and floundering at the wheel that you can’t hear Him. Even right at this moment you still just want to get home and fix things up. And this time it is not going to end well. Do you hear me? You’re about to lose your wife, your daughter, and your career. And you’re irritated at me for trying to get your attention. Give me a break.”
It’s quiet again.
Finally, I ask, “So what do I do?”
“I’m gonna pretend, for the sake of argument, that you really want an answer to what you’re asking, Steven,” he says. “Let someone protect you. I, me, the guy you’re sitting in front of, I happen to know, from slamming into rocks ten years ago, where the reverse handles are on the boat. God can use me to get you out of this mess and into waters that are smooth like glass, like you’ve never been in before.”
I finally look up at him. “So maybe I wasn’t quite as ready as you thought twenty minutes ago?”