Mystery

A Daily Mystery
A Jesus Journey is beyond Reason

“As Emmanuel, Cardinal Suhard says: ‘To be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda, nor even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery. It means to live in such a way that one’s life would not make sense if God did not exist’”. From Madeline L’Engle: Walking on Water, Reflections on Faith and Art.

I have been thinking…as the drift of young millennials away from the church increases, my heart breaks. As Simon Sinek speaks so eloquently, “we must find the why behind the what.”

It was 1976, December that I surrendered to another narrative for my life. The warm Durban summer with its humid heat, robed me as I lay on my bed in my parent’s home. As a freshman, my academic year had been met with very mixed results. I had decided to go to a small liberal arts university, known to be a “party school”. Little did I know. 

I graduated from high school as a young seventeen year old. Leaving home was a joy and an adventure. Rhodes University was the place to go - well for me anyway. Driving into Grahamstown that sunny summer afternoon, a year before, stirred me. The beautiful old buildings lined the broad streets of this old town, loaded with history from 1820. The campus was at the end of the High Street and loomed over the town as if to command her presence in shaping and forging the region. Many amazing men and women had darkened the doors of this hallowed institution and I felt the sense of privilege.

Soon, however the captivation of these old magisterial colonial buildings were lost to the young and impressionable, as I stumbled into a world of endless campus activities, normally well laced with alcohol - something my seventeen year old mind could not process. Added to the timeless intramural activities, I was on my way. Life had begun and I was in the adventure.

As the academic grades faltered and my social life improved, an event shattered my foolhardy romance. I guess it was about 2 o’clock in the morning, after one of the school’s many dances and the liquid beverages soaked our dreamy eyes, when a fight broke out. Truthfully, I can’t even remember what it was about, But in the milieu, one of the students lashed out with a wine bottle which slashed my face, sparing my eye by millimeters. The utopic life of a partying college adventure was destroyed on the bed of the hospital as they stitched me up, laughing as they did it “this one definitely does not need anesthetic.” My self proclaimed hedonism, lay shattered on the bruised ego of pain, embarrassment and the humility of walking around the campus for a month with a bulging blue eye and stitches. What on earth…?

That brings us back to that steamy humid afternoon at my parents home. Now, as an 18 year old, I asked a simple question: “If you are real, will you come into my life?”. This was not the prayer of  intellectual inquiry, nor the desperate prayer of the dying. This was the humble prayer of a hedonist, deeply desiring to know that there was transcendence beyond existentialism.

He came to me. Not in person, as I am not sure I could not have coped with eternity engaging my very tangible humanity. He did not speak to me audibly though I longed to hear his voice, but my ears were open enough to listen to the whispers of antiquity. He came to me in peace, infinite peace broke into my troubled soul and I knew it was going to be OK! New creation had broken in, new life had begun and a new adventure was sweeping me off my feet.

I am not sure I know the answer to the return of the millennials. The clever spiritual social anthropologists or the culture prophets may unravel that complexity. But the heart of man longs for more. Deep in our soul lies the quest for transcendence, finding meaning, authenticity and reality in a world flooded by pretense, fragmentation and lament.

Somewhere in my story lies some of the answers, I suspect. I cannot forget December 1976. Robed in my 70’s attire of t-shirt and levy’s, I met a captivating Christ - not the imprisoned Christ of culture, nor the baby Jesus of Will Ferrel, nor the lady Jesus described by Alan Hirsch. Rather I was scrummed to the ground by a captivating Christ whose robust redemption pinned me to surrender. This was a brutalized, tortured, rejected, betrayed Christ whose cross carried my calamitous life, who saved me. It was this lover of my broken soul who showed me unconditional love beyond anything I dared believe possible. It was a ransomed redeemer who plucked me from my defeated, deflated narrative. He loved me. That was enough. The eternal pure one, concerning himself with ruling project planet earth, took the time to leave his throne of grace, to gather a fractured me. I was captivated. I had to give him my all. I knew this could not be a flirtatious relationship that I could switch on and off as my hedonistic moods desired. I gave him everything.

Secondly, I knew instinctively I had to find true, transparent, tenacious fellowship. Isn’t it sublime that it was not great academia that drew me to the bride we call “church”. Rather it was the overflow of his love that drew me to others. I did not expect perfection, just Jesus lovers. I found them in a dusty little urban church in the musty industrial part of town, as the “Invisible Church” became my home. This nice suburban kid stumbled into a world of ex-addicts, prostitutes, jailbirds and Jesus seekers…and I found my tribe. They weren’t like me, but we had Jesus-that seemed enough. We lived in communal homes, we preached on the street, played our band in the park and proclaimed Christ “has died, he has risen and he shall return again”…the greatest love story ever and we could proclaim it. It was a compelling community.

But thirdly, I had found a life worth living. The “overwhelming, reckless love of God” gripped my soul. Surrendering my idols that demanded my all and gave so little back, was not so difficult after all . I remember taking all my recently purchased cricket kit and gave it to my brother to the despair of my father and the confusion of my friends. Sport had defined me, shaped me and falsely applauded me. Now amidst the din of my decisions I could hear the great heavenly throng celebrating in song - “the son has come home”.

For 40 years I have walked with Jesus and I can say with conviction, I love him more today than I have ever done before. He is more captivating and the church is more compelling than ever. Of course she has hurt me deeply with incisive slashes more painful than I ever imagined - but I never died for her. I am only trying to live for her.

But the great gift of December 1976, is the mysterious life I have been granted. I am certainly not living my dream. If that had happened I probably would be leading a large church in Durban SA (well maybe) surrounded by the subtle nuanced captivity of fame and recognition. But here I sit in Costa Mesa. A city where very few know my name, with a remarkable group of 50 beautiful strangers as we forge a new community around the conversation of “church future”. The average age is around 22 years old. But we love Jesus. We eat together, we sing together, we pray together, we tell stories together, we trying to do life together. This certainly is a mystery that does not make sense.


My life has been a mystery. So much has never made sense but for a expatiating savior who reached from his heavenly throne and redeemed a young broken hearted Afrikaner. And my life has been a mystery since then. Maybe that is why they call me the “Dos Equis Pastor”.

Comments

  1. Nice one Chris...may the untamed Christ enliven all we are and do. Thanks for this

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  2. A true leader! Living by Faith and not by sight!
    As Jesus lovers, we can totally comprehend the glorious, unglamorous sacrificial heart of being a majestic servant of Christ. What a sensational God we serve, who takes our egotistical souls and uses it for his great and perfect will, for his plans and his purposes, it's beautiful to comprehend!

    Would love you guys to plant a church here in Devon hey, trust me no one will know you hear😉😂

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