I was woken up this morning by my wife:
"It's 7:10!" she blurted. I was scheduled to speak at Youth Alive, a student Christian group on the campus of Crockett High School. It's located in South Austin, so I set my alarm for 6am to make the commute through the bottleneck of downtown on IH-35. After a 10-second shower, I took a swig of bottled water sitting at my desk, threw on some clothes and headed out the door. The meeting started at 8-8:15 and went to 9am.
I arrived at the high school right about 8:17, asked someone where the Principal's Office was and headed in to find out where this group met. The lady at the front desk didn't know where the group met. I whipped out my cell phone to ask my wife to preview the email with the invite on it again. Just then the m orning announcements started and one about the Youth Alive group meeting in the library gave me the info I needed. I headed over with about 20 copies of HM in tow.
Seems the group hadn't kicked into gear yet, so it was a relief to not be too late or miss anything. One of the adult leaders was this guy I met 13 years ago -- Dominique (a really good drummer who attended a Nova Shalom marriage class back when we were all newlyweds years ago). An acoustic guitarist and a bongo drummer led us through "God Of Wonders" and another worship song I knew (those kind are always the easiest ones to sing and worship along to).
Dominique introduced me and I shared a little bit about my identity as a child of God and explained one cool detail about my personal heritage of faith. My grandparents grew up in a small town in Kansas, but retired in Garden Grove, California. They became born again, even after being simply "church-goers" their entire lives. They both had a keen interest to work with young people, but one day God told my grandad, "I can't use you."
"What?!" My grandad must've been shocked. That still small voice of the Lord continued, "I can't use you because you hate someone." As soon as the Lord said that, my grandad knew what guy He was talking about. He scheduled a trip back to Kansas and reconciled with that man. He and grandma went on to a very fruitful ministry to young people in SoCal in the beginning, middle and "end" of the "Jesus movement."
One could argue that it's never ended, but the phenomenal numbers of hippies coming to Christ has slowed down, as have the numbers of people in the USA that would label themselves as "hippies."
Anyway, I wanted to point out that cool story. I've been told that people don't remember the things you tell them. They'll forget every word and Scripture you read to them. But they'll remember your stories. This is a generalization, of course, but I tell stories.
I shared how I believed that young people need not worry about discovering or unlocking the mysterious will of God for their lives. "Compared to your relationship with God," I said, "I don't think God cares what you do with your life." I shared how none of us pleads for God's wisdom when we're shopping for soda or toothpaste. And I underscored my qualified statement that compared to our relationship with Him, He doesn't care what we do with our lives. Doctor, missionary, lawyer, whatever. If we remain close to God, He'll take care of where we end up.
I also shared that we have the incredible potential inside of us. We have the same Spirit inside of us that raised Jesus from the dead. Who knows if someone in that circle of 12 to 15 students wasn't going to do something epic and heroic and incredible in the next week, year, or decade. We could be heroes of the faith. But, with the incredible potential for good, we also have the potential for bad.
I shared the story about my college roommate John. Both he and his girlfriend's name were on my prayer list, which sat on my desk in my room. I had specific people I'd pray for on certain days, as well as a list for daily prayers. One night relaxing in a jacuzzi he told me how much he appreciated having me pray for him. He looked me right in the eye and told me that he'd never had anybody pray for him. That was a rewarding moment. But it goes bad from there. Later that year during Spring break he and his frat buddies were vacationing in South Padre Island, Texas. His dog, a black lab named Tripper, would pee on our hardwood floors at the drop of a pin. And then when you'd yell at him for peeing on the floor, he'd cower and piddle again. This happend on a Sunday morning as I was getting ready for church. I decided to shut him in the bathroom with the three things he was frightened of the most: my skateboard, a basketball, and the vacuum cleaner. While I was off at church, John's girlfriend came over to feed Tripper. When she opened the door, she told me that he was so frightened that he fell into the toilet on his way out of his torture chamber.
When John returned, he told me that after the phone call he wanted to return immediately and beat the tar out of me. He also looked right into my eyes and said, "Everything you've told me..." (and I knew exactly what he was referring to -- discussions about Jesus and faith) "...it means nothing."
I had completely blown my witness with this friend and roommate. So, I shared that to underline the fact that we can blow it. I told them about The Miracle Faith Telethon of Love Album by Edward Daniel Taylor, who had a "Fruit O Ministry" tote board, where they counted up "the number of souls saved by the ministry and subtracted the number of hearts permanently hardened towards the Gospel" to come up with a grand fruit total. "Number of souls saved: 25. Number of hearts permanently heardened towards the Gospel: 253 million! People! We've got negative fruit here!!!"
I gave away copies of the magazine and answered a few questions. It was cool. They seemed very receptive and glad to have me there. On my way home I visited my old home on 5055 Fort Clark Drive, a small condo in South Austin. I viewed the place where I buried my cat and thought of him. What a great pet Holiness was. I hoped that God would raise him from the dead this morning and he'd walk up to my car, but no.
It's cool sometimes to visit old places and remember. I have good memories of that place.
Driving in my car is always fun, because I can listen to music loud and enclosed in a great sonic "studio" of sorts. I listened to U2's Unforgettable Fire album, which I hadn't heard in a long time. I love the lyrics and was amazed at how firmly they are embedded into my memory -- songs like "A Sort of Homecoming." I'll never forget their show-stealing performance of "Bad" at the Live Aid concert back in '85. Wow.
Posted by Doug Van Pelt at April 12, 2006 12:38 PM