photo by Dave Damico

Two or three times a month I have a BLAST playing guitar at Shoal Creek Community Church. Last summer we covered the Who, Janis Joplin, Blood Sweat & Tears, Jimi Hendrix, and more in a celebration of the music of my generation. Best of all, my son, Philip, played in the band with me. I was in heaven.

But sometimes I wonder, is this legitimate? I mean, we invest a lot of time, energy, and money in our Sunday services. Are we reaching people? Are we making a difference?

Last week I read Jennie’s story. She and her husband were searching for answers to spiritual questions, and found what they were looking for at Shoal Creek on Christmas Eve 2010. Their story, and others like it, remind me that what we do on Sundays and special holidays is totally worth it. It’s okay to have fun at church. In fact, if you aren’t having fun at your church, there is probably something wrong! God meant for us to be joyful. That’s why we sign Joy To The World at this time of year. Christmas is a celebration of how God became human so that His joy might be in us, and that our joy might be made full (see John 15:11).

Jenny has graciously agreed to share her story here:

Christmas Eve 2010

Growing up, Kenny and I had very different “church” experiences. Kenny faithfully attended with his family every Sunday until he left for college. Although, it was more like a location for an obligatory appointment. God did not receive much mention except for that weekly hour. For me, church always left me wanting more. I learned to distrust the institution of “church” during my parent’s divorce in early childhood. My family became unwelcomed by our home church, and my grandparent’s church made me feel like an outsider from a broken home. Because of this, the majority of my life has been spent avoiding the church.

Though Kenny and I were both spiritual, religion was not a part of our relationship with each other. We talked about God while dating, and knew that we wanted to pursue our faith, but we had so many questions. It was overwhelming and intimidating, so we just lowered the priority and went on with our lives on our own. We married in a small non-denominational ceremony, officiated by an ordained lawyer in a campus chapel. It painted the perfect picture of where we were spiritually – we wanted God in our lives, but weren’t sure how He would fit in, so we included him just enough that we weren’t intentionally leaving him out.

Our marriage was always good, but there was element of our relationship that felt empty. It wasn’t until the birth of our daughter Kyla that we began discussing God, and his role in our lives, again. The topic of Kyla’s baptism created a lot of stress in our relationship, primarily due to family expectations. God wasn’t a major player in our lives, so we felt it hypocritical to have a ceremony that symbolized otherwise for her. Additionally, we didn’t belong to a church, and I wasn’t even baptized myself. Ultimately, we followed our hearts and decided to do what was right for us, not our families, and not pursue her baptism. And again, the topics of God and church were pushed aside.

As we approached our first holiday season as a family, it became increasingly apparent that we wanted, and needed, something more. We felt very isolated and alone. While Kenny coped by throwing himself even more into his work, I secretly began church shopping, online. I longed for a community of friends and a place to explore my faith. We didn’t know many people in the area, and didn’t know anyone here who attended a church regularly. I had noticed Shoal Creek before, by driving by, but hadn’t paid much attention. When I found the Shoal Creek website, it was a different story. I liked what I read, and I wanted to learn more. So, I began watching the services online, and I was captivated. I couldn’t wait to share my discovery with Kenny, but he was skeptical. Understandably so. But, it re-introduced a dialogue of religion and faith.

I craved for more out of Christmas for our family. I wanted it to be more than just the presents, the food, the sleeping in (which let’s face it, as new parents was impossible anyways). I wanted to celebrate the true meaning of Christmas, but wasn’t even sure what that was. We figured that going to church on Christmas Eve was a good tradition to start. If we didn’t like it, we wouldn’t have to go back. There wasn’t anything to lose. And besides, our daughter had an adorable party dress that wouldn’t have gotten worn otherwise! I still remember our nerves as we got ourselves ready for church that evening. We obsessed over what to wear, worried about being judged for being too dressy or too casual. We over-packed the diaper bag full of distractions for our baby girl, anticipating that she would become restless from a long, drawn out and boring service. The drive to church that night was a long one. Five minutes felt like eternity. So many “what if’s” went through our heads, primarily negative ones. It took a lot to get us to the point of trying church together, and we really wanted a positive outcome.

We walked in to the auditorium and took a seat toward the back, probably much like the other once per year attendees. I remember looking around and seeing all of the kids playing in the aisles before the service, and the interactions between many young families. So many smiles. And I wanted that for my own. As the lights dimmed and the music started we quickly realized that this was a church unlike any we could have imagined. We were blown away from the very first song. All of those preconceptions of a Christmas service were quickly changed. We felt welcomed, we were wanted. The people sharing their stories were so real, relatable. The message that night spoke to me personally in such a relevant way. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I listened to church members being so honest. We weren’t alone. God was with us. My husband held my hand tight. And for the first time in a very long time, I prayed. I asked God to please impact my husband’s heart as He was influencing mine. On our drive home, with my eyes still full of tears and overcome with emotion, I asked Kenny if we could please come back to Shoal Creek. There was no hesitation in his answer.

With that beginning, Shoal Creek has become our home. We never expected to get out of a church what we have gotten from Shoal. We not only found a place to worship, but a community of people who have completely changed our lives. We have started a spiritual journey together and it is incredible. We are learning, growing, and evolving. God has become a major player in everything we do. We still have a lot of questions, but we are in an environment that makes it okay. This journey is an exciting one, and it is amazing that it all started with the simple desire to start a Christmas Eve tradition.

Jennie and Kenny

Here is a video of the 2010 Christmas Eve Service that Jennie wrote about: http://vimeo.com/18164973

If you live in the Kansas City metro and are looking for a place to explore the meaning of Christmas, please join us at Shoal Creek Community Church - December 22 and 23 at 7pm, and December 24 at 5pm, 7pm, & 10pm. If you live outside the metro, you can watch live and previous services here: http://www.shoalcreek.org/video?albumId=266357&videoId=33169719.

Merry Christmas!

PS If you have a similar story, please share it in the comments below.

The road to redeeming your purpose cannot coexist with the path of least resistance. Last week I worked up the nerve to enter @gutsyliving’s My Gutsy Story contest, where blogger Sonia Marsh is recognizing one mini-memoir (1000 words or fewer) each Monday. I whittled this story down to the maximum, and am surprised and honored that Sonia chose to feature it as today’s guest post.

Please visit Sonia’s Gutsy Living web site, read My Gutsy Story, and record your reaction in the comments section. At the end of the month, Sonia will ask readers to vote on their favorite Gutsy Story, and the winner has the choice of a number of awards, including advice and counsel on getting your story published. I can use all the help I can get!

Thanks for reading!

December 24, 2010

Dear Xandra,

It is still hard to believe that you are 18 years old, a legal adult. You can leave home any time, do whatever you want, and there is nothing your mother and I can do to stop you. But you know what? That doesn’t scare me one bit. You have demonstrated time and time again that you are a responsible young woman. God has indeed begun a good work in you, and I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that He will be faithful to complete it. One of my greatest joys in life is that I get to play the role of your earthly father in the good story you are living.

In his book, A Million Miles In A Thousand Years, Don Miller defines “story” as a character who wants something and overcomes conflict to get it. No conflict, no story; or at best, a boring story. Jon Franklin, in Writing For Story, provides a simple model for a story outline: complication, development, and resolution. The way an author weaves those threads together is what engages the reader in a good story. Your story is already exciting, not because of the conflicts you have encountered (like an upset stomach the day you left for South Africa, or a looming PEO scholarship deadline at Thanksgiving), but because of the confidence and persistence you have applied toward finding resolution.

As you go off to college and from there to life on your own, you will encounter numerous conflicts. Life is complicated, and your faith will be tested when resolution is vague and uncertain. When those times come, you’ll need a reminder that there is hope. Perhaps my found gift for you will serve that purpose. It is my key to 2210 Rainbow Drive. I haven’t lived there for almost 30 years, and even though I can no longer return – in a physical sense – it still feels like home. It reminds me that our heavenly Father has reserved a place for us in His eternal home, that one day all the complications of this world will be completely resolved, and we will forever experience the happy ending for which we were created.

My primary role as your earthly father is to point you toward the heavenly Father, and to encourage you to return to Him daily. Sometimes you’ll feel very close to God, as close together as you and I were the night before last, when you rested your head on my shoulder as we watched the video of the Christmas Eve service. That moment, I think, was a foreshadow of eternity. But there will also be times when God seems far away, completely detached and disinterested. Kind of like when you come home from school with something on your mind and I’m busy working on the computer. But you know that I love you, and that God loves you infinitely more than I do. Keep this key close at hand. May it remind you of my love and God’s love; may it offer hope in seemingly hopeless situations; may it give you strength to persist in pursuit of the happy ending.

The role I play as your earthly father will diminish in the coming years. Someday I’ll exit the stage completely but, God willing, I’ll always be watching from the wings. May this key also remind you to return to your earthly home for a visit now and then. I love you so much, Xannie. You make me so proud to be your dad. Listen… do you hear what I hear? It’s an echo from the future as God welcomes you into His eternal home: “Well done, sweetheart. Well done.”

Love,

Daddy

Do you have a favorite family holiday tradition? Please feel free to share it in the comments.

Last month, Shirley Showalter of 100memoirs.com invited me to write a guest post, a review of singer-songwriter Rodney Crowell’s memoir, Chinaberry Sidewalks. You can read the review here, and I encourage you to poke around Shirley’s blog. If you like memoir, you’ll love her site. If you aren’t familiar with memoir, it’s a great place to learn more about the genre.

My favorite memoirist, Mary Karr, posted this video yesterday on her facebook page. It’s all about philanthropy (love of humanity), which is what this season is all about. If you are feeling hungover from Black Friday and/or cyber Monday, this could be the cure you’re looking for. Best wishes for a blessed holiday season!

Last week I was on a business trip, asking myself why I was still sitting on the fence with regard to mycareer transition. As I sat and prayed I recorded these words from Psalm 15 in my journal: “LORD, who may dwell in Your sanctuary? Who may live on Your holy hill? He whose walk is blameless and who does what is righteous…. He who does these things will never be shaken.” The scripture passage didn’t answer my question or fix my problem, but it stirred my spirit and gave me the courage I needed to move forward. At least for that day.

Even though I crossed the line of faith in 1978, it took me over twenty years to get serious about the Bible. One December morning in 2003 I was particularly moved by the first verse of the Gospel of John: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” The author proclaims – or rather, God proclaims through John – that Jesus is the Word of God. Scripture is also the Word of God, I thought, and I had one of those AH-HA! moments of very nearly grasping a very difficult concept. Then the moment was gone, but the memory stuck. I stopped treating the Bible like just another book, and a mysterious thing happened. A dialogue opened up between God and me.

In the last decade I have read through the Bible two or three times and recorded reflections in twenty-some journals. I don’t read scripture every day, but the habit is deeply embedded in my weekly routine. Right now I’m going through Psalms, a book of poems written long before Jesus walked the earth. Many of them are attributed to David, whom God describes as a man after His own heart. Through these verses David poured out his heart to God, sometimes in anguish, sometimes in praise. In the Psalms he recorded both defeats and triumphs as he transitioned from shepherd to king of Israel.

My transition pales in comparison. Nevertheless, it’s a risky career move that trades the promise of a guaranteed salary for the uncertainty of performance-based commissions. A couple of days after my business trip I was sitting back on that fence, when I picked up my Bible and read these words in Psalm 16:

I will praise the LORD, who counsels me;

           even at night my heart instructs me.

I have set the LORD always before me.

           Because He is at my right hand,

           I will not be shaken.

Twice, in back-to-back Psalms, God has stirred my spirit. He doesn’t take away the fear; He gives me courage to move forward in the face of fear. He doesn’t guarantee that things will turn out exactly as I want; He promises that my faith will not be shaken.

He doesn’t ignore me in silence.

He speaks to me through His Word.

Traffic was light as the late-summer sun set on the Pacific Coast Highway. I was driving south and west from Ventura to Long Beach, stereo cranked, and feeling really good about myself. In less than two weeks, Tracy and I would celebrate our 12^th anniversary. For eight months I had been consistently reading Scripture and writing reflections in a journal, a habit I had long wanted to cultivate. For two weeks I had stayed faithful to a diet and exercise regimen that would ultimately shed 20 pounds from my 5 foot 7 inch frame. In addition, I was beating the odds in my career. The average tenure of a professional fundraiser is three years. I had been with American Humanics for almost five, after completing six years at the University of Dubuque. But my sense of well-being was most influenced by the role I played as volunteer leader of my church’s music program.

It was hard to believe I had awakened in Kansas City that morning; even harder to believe that my plane had arrived on time in Los Angeles. After renting a car I had driven to Malibu to meet with a marketing professor at Pepperdine University; she had just taken over the school’s nonprofit management program. Next I drove to Ventura to meet with the CEO of the Boys & Girls Club. He had graduated from the Missouri Valley College Humanics program in the early 1970s. Both meetings had gone well.

The rental agency had been out of compact cars, so I had been upgraded to a Chrysler LHS with a premium car stereo. When Hillsong’s The Power of Your Love came on I pulled off the highway to watch the waves and listen.

Lord I come to You
Let my heart be changed renewed
Flowing from the grace that I found in You

Lord I’ve come to know
The weaknesses I see in me
Will be stripped away
By the power of Your love

The power of God’s love, continually flowing, sometimes soft and gentle, sometimes wild and crashing. Just like the waves reduce jagged rocks to soft sand, God’s love just keeps on coming, rolling over me, smoothing away my weaknesses, transforming me into the man I want to be, the man God created me to be. Again and again and again.

I closed my eyes and remembered the events of the last year that had drawn me toward Him; the fears and insecurities that had held me down.

Hold me close
Let Your love surround me
Bring me near
Draw me to Your side

And as I wait
I’ll rise up like the eagle
And I will soar with You
Your Spirit leads me on
By the power of Your love

The waves just keep coming. They never end.

God’s love just keeps flowing over me. It never ends.

After maybe half an hour I pulled back onto the highway and drove to my hotel. It had been a good day, a productive day all the way around. It was turning out to be a really good year.

The good vibrations continued in the morning. Still stuck on Midwest time, I woke with plenty of time to read Scripture, write reflections, and walk the treadmill. After a quick shower I was ready for breakfast. As I stepped on the elevator, a solitary occupant acknowledged me with a frown.

“Can you believe what’s happened?” he asked.

“I don’t know – I’ve been working out.” I was tempted to add, And reading my Bible – what have you been doing? Instead I asked, “What’s going on?”

He stared at me with bloodshot eyes. The elevator doors opened and he walked out, shaking his head. How rude, I thought, and followed him into the lobby. Several people were gathered around a television on which I saw – for the first of many times that day – a Boeing 727 crashing into the World Trade Tower in New York City.

The next several hours passed in a slow-motion haze. My first appointment was at California State University – Long Beach, but the agenda was completely disregarded. CNN was tuned in on a large screen in the auditorium; newscasters speculated that there could be other planes targeting additional national landmarks. All air traffic was grounded. It could be days, even weeks before commercial airlines were running again. Suddenly I was desperate to get home. I called to reserve a rental car, then called my wife.

“You’re going to drive 1500 miles all by yourself?” Tracy asked. “I don’t like that idea at all.”

“I agree, it’s a long drive, but I can’t just sit here in California. Who knows when I’ll be able to fly home?”

“Why can’t you stay with your sister?”

Although Kay lived only 30 minutes from Long Beach, I had dismissed the idea of calling her. I didn’t like giving up control. I wanted to see my family again, right now.

A year earlier we had been on vacation just a few miles from where I now slumped. Our hotel was a short walk from “the happiest place on earth.” Our daughter Alexandra was 8 years old; our son Philip was 4. Tracy and I were putting them to bed when the phone rang.

“Richard, this is Roy,” said my pastor. “Are you sitting down?”

“I am now.”

As I sank to the bed, Roy explained that earlier in the day the church music director had confessed to an affair and resigned from his position. Given that Tracy and I would be standing in endless Disney-lines the following day, he asked that we take advantage of the time to discuss an opportunity. Would I consider taking over as leader of the music team?

“It would be on a volunteer basis,” he added. “We really can’t afford to pay you.”

“Sure,” I said, wondering where the music director’s salary had gone. “We’ll talk about it. But I think you should explain what’s going on to Tracy.” Philip idolized the music director’s five-year-old son, and this was no time to draw either of our kids into the story. It would be hard enough for them to sleep with Disneyland on their minds. I handed the phone to Tracy and felt the weight of the request settle on my shoulders.

Tracy and I had joined Shoal Creek Community Church in 1997, just two years after Roy had established it. By 2000 Sunday attendance was hovering around 150. The music director was very popular – a key factor in the church’s growth. He could play multiple instruments, sing like Paul McCartney, and compose songs with as little effort as it took me to compose a shopping list. I played rhythm guitar on the music team two or three Sundays a month and occasionally added background vocals. I had no experience leading a music ministry, and I didn’t see how it could be done in addition to my full-time job. But what if…?

The conversation between Tracy and me stretched far beyond the lines at Disneyland and continued long after we arrived home. Roy had promised to continue paying the former director’s salary to his wife while he looked for a new job. Roy was also reevaluating the church’s organizational structure. He wasn’t convinced that a full time music director was the best use of resources. He told me that I might be invited to come on staff at some point in the future, but he couldn’t promise.

Despite the uncertainty, the possibility was music to my ears. Tracy heard fingernails on a chalkboard. Her dreams and aspirations did not include the label, “Music Minister’s Wife,” thank you very much. The truth is we both like the things a nice salary affords. But I was blinded by the mirage of playing guitar eight hours a day. It looked a lot more attractive than soliciting contributions for American Humanics.

Lots of kids dream of being rock stars. I have yet to meet someone who dreamt of becoming a professional fundraiser. I had backed into the career, almost by accident.

In college I waffled between the schools of music and business, ultimately graduating with a business degree. Over the next three years I trudged through the muck of retail management and radio advertising sales. In 1985 I was hired by the National Multiple Sclerosis Society to raise money through special events like radio auctions and grade-school “Read-a-thons.” The job lasted seven months. Five subsequent months of unemployment led me to resign from my ego and accept a job as a telemarketer, first selling long distance telephone service, then soliciting alumni for donations to their college or university.

This was no dream job. It was a nightmare. But I had never given much thought to what my own, personal dream job might be. “Rock Star” isn’t a dream job. It’s a pipe dream, and it’s a lot easier to get high on the pipe than it is to work and build the dream.

After six months of paying my dues on the phones, I was promoted to project manager in the telemarketing company’s fundraising division. Most of the sales staff had previous experience as fundraisers in higher education; I was surprised to learn that the work had evolved into a legitimate profession. It wasn’t the most appealing career path, but I could do a lot worse. After four years of managing “tele-fundraising” projects for colleges, public television stations, and other nonprofits, I landed a job as Director of Development for the University of Dubuque, a small, Presbyterian college and seminary in northeast Iowa.

It turned out to have some unexpected perks. In my first month on staff I learned that university employees could attend classes free of charge. I took a master’s level class in business that fall, took another the next semester, and repeated the pattern until, four years later, I had enough credits to receive an MBA.

I never got comfortable with the label, “fundraiser.” Apparently I’m not alone – you rarely see that title on a business card. It’s always “Director of Development” or “Vice President for Advancement.” But despite my discomfort, I was pretty good at it and I didn’t know what else to do. A year or so after earning my MBA I began to search for a better-paying job in the field. Xandra was four and Philip was 9 months old when I was named Vice President for Development with American Humanics. It was a national nonprofit dedicated to preparing college students for careers as nonprofit professionals, established in 1948 by a former Boy Scout professional who later served two terms as mayor of Kansas City. We moved there on Christmas Day, 1996.

Four years later I was ready to move on, and the lure of a full time music gig was impossible to resist. As such, my motivations for accepting Roy’s invitation were far from altruistic. There is always a healthy dose of “What’s in it for me” every time I volunteer. Even if I were to stop and help a stranded motorist, the act would be as much about me as it is about serving someone else. You see, I love to feel good about myself. I love telling others how good I feel about myself even more. Between the words is an attitude that says, “Don’t you wish you could be as selfless and kindhearted as I am?”

There may have been a whiff of nobility in my decision to lead the music team, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the smell of self-centeredness. I had wanted to play in a band since 1964, when I first saw the Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show. Ten years later the dream touched reality when I played in a junior high school variety show. In high school I altered my driver’s license so I could play in bars, first in a rock band, then in a folk duo. In college I played in a variety of jazz and bluegrass bands, and after college I played in community theatre pit orchestras. But when I got married an inner voice whispered that I should put the guitar aside. It had been fun, but I was a responsible adult now.

After Xandra was born I would play a song for her once in a while. A couple of times a year I provided special music as they passed the offering plate at Third Presbyterian Church. Then a seminary student at the University turned me on to contemporary Christian musicians like Stephen Curtis Chapman. I realized that rock music was not restricted to secular society, nor was it the exclusive property of single men under 30 with full heads of hair. When we moved to Kansas City, Tracy and I were committed to finding a church where we could express our faith through the arts.

Shoal Creek was all that and more. Not only did the programming include contemporary Christian music, there was no hesitation to drive the message home with contemporary pop music. A song like the Edgar Winter Group’s Free Ride can be very appealing to a spiritual seeker: “The mountains are high, the valleys are low; and you are confused about which way to go.” In the three years I played with the former music director, we covered songs by the Beatles, Boston, the Eagles, and many other favorites from my younger days. On Easter Sunday, 1999, we shared the stage with Kerry Livgren, founding member of the group Kansas and composer of the songs Carry on Wayward Son and Dust In The Wind.

At Shoal Creek I had regular opportunities to play music I loved with talented, like-minded musicians. I could not imagine giving it up ever again. If I didn’t accept Roy’s invitation, who would step forward? What if nobody did and the church fell apart?

Yes, there are stories about people whose curiosity was piqued when the first time they visited Shoal Creek they heard us play a song like The Wallflowers’ One Headlight. They came back a second time just to see if it was a fluke, and some of them stayed. Such stories more than justify playing rock and roll in church. But was that the primary reason I took on the leadership of the music team? Did I do it to serve God and draw people into His family, or did I do it to serve myself?

The truth is the latter. But you know what’s truly amazing? God used me for the former anyway. And when I surrendered to the Truth, the truth ceased to matter.

Richard M. Potter, 21 July 2011

The following is an excerpt of the memoir I mentioned in this post. Here is some background to set the stage: From 2000 to 2005 I led the Shoal Creek Community Church music program as a volunteer. Rachel Haffey came on staff as an intern in 2004, and I passed the baton of leadership to her very capable hands when she was hired full-time in 2005. In July of that year, Scott Shaw and I spent a week volunteering our services at a youth camp in Poland. Shoal Creek was exploring a partnership with proEm, the evangelical ministry that facilitates the camp. While Scott and I went to Poland on behalf of Shoal Creek, I was also seeking the answer to “What’s next?” in terms of my role in the Church.

————————————————————————————————

Rafal, the director of the FishArt youth camp, met me at the Warsaw airport. He was about 30 years old, full of energy and thin as a pencil. A group of volunteers from a Kansas church had arrived the same day, and Rafal had arranged for all of us to see a little of Warsaw. The new mall was a bit of a shock. It could have been transplanted from any American city. Poland was not the backward, Eastern European stereotype I had pictured, based on Hollywood movies like “Stripes.” Next Rafal took us to Old Town Warsaw. That was like stepping back into a pre-war European town square, complete with cobblestone streets and vendor carts. Rafal explained that the Germans had practically leveled this part of Warsaw, but the people of Poland had faithfully reconstructed it after World War II. I was shamed by my prejudice. Not only had Poland embraced the 21^st century, it was proud and protective of its heritage.

As we drove to the camp I asked Rafal what he had lined up for me to do that week. “Scott has agreed to lead a workshop for kids who are interested in the dramatic arts,” he said. “We have eight or ten campers who want to learn guitar, so I thought you could lead an acoustic guitar workshop.”

Gitara akustyczna warsztat.

WTF? I had tried teaching guitar in high school. My one and only student was the son of a blue-collar working stiff. He smelled bad and had dirty fingers and a piece-of-crap guitar that was extremely difficult to play. No wonder the kid never practiced. It was a horrible experience for both of us, which I terminated as quickly as possible. From then on I told myself that I was not a teacher.

Part of my problem was that I was primarily self-taught. Through cello lessons I had developed good fingering technique. In high school and college, whenever I hit a guitar plateau I’d find someone to get me over the hump and then go back to figuring it out on my own. By the time I arrived in Poland I had been playing for almost 35 years and hadn’t had a lesson in 25. I couldn’t remember how I learned! What the hell was I going to do with eight students in a guitar workshop? For five days!?!? FOR PETE’S SAKE, THEY DIDN’T EVEN SPEAK ENGLISH! I did not sign up for this, I thought, as I moped and dozed for the rest of the 90 minute drive.

It was evening when we arrived at the camp. Scott helped me get settled in the cabin that we shared with a half-dozen teenaged boys. It was a mock A-frame with one large room for campers and a smaller, adjacent room for camp counselors. I found a phone and called Tracy to let her know we had arrived, safe but exhausted. Then I climbed into the top bunk, read for a while, and turned off the light at around 10pm. In the distance I could hear one of the campers yelling “WHAAZZUUPP!” every five or ten minutes. Instead of sleep, a sense of inadequacy invaded the cabin. Snores from the room next door stoked my fears. Before long anxiety was boiling over.

What the hell am I doing in Poland? I thought. I’m already a mess. If I can’t get to sleep, I’ll be even worse.

Maybe I’ll get sick – then I can skip out of the guitar workshop. I could feign diarrhea.

No, that would be too easily ratted out.

I could take Dramamine. It makes me drowsy. Maybe that could be my excuse to stay in the cabin. I could make this trip to Poland a kind of personal retreat; really spend some quality, one-on-one time with God.

Eventually I realized the silliness of my thought patterns. I could not face the Shoal Creek church family if all I had to report were inner revelations from a personal retreat. As I lay there longing for sleep, the picture of resting in the bosom of the Rabbi appeared. It was a struggle to surrender, a battle between the person I was and the person I longed to become. Somehow we wore each other down. Or maybe God wore us down. Either way, we finally settled into His arms and let the lullaby of His heartbeat lead us to slumber.

On Monday morning I walked to the Gazebo where my gitara akustyczna warsztat would shortly begin. The setting reminded me of the Boundary Waters between Minnesota and Canada, where I had spent four successive summer vacations in the early 1970s. Large rocks poked through a thin layer of soil, on which a carpet of pine needles had been laid by the coniferous canopy. The morning sun took the edge off the slight chill. Near the Gazebo a sculpture of a lion’s head protruded from a small mound of earth. It gave the impression of a lion emerging from the grave in a triumphant roar, and brought to mind Aslan, the Christ-figure in CS Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia. It was a small comfort. I took what I could get.

As the students gathered I suggested that we start by getting to know each other. Szymon, the camp counselor and translator assigned to my workshop, also wanted to build his skills as a guitarist. We tag-teamed introductions, and later that day I recorded my impressions in a journal:

Luke (Łukasz) – wants to play badly; and he does! But he is working hard. Lord, you and I, we must encourage him.

Paula (she pronounces it with three syllables: “pah-OO-lah”) – is catching on. Born in Australia, moved here at 10, she is now 15. She wants to learn Clapton’s “Tears In Heaven” and she already has some of it down. She learns quickly.

With my "gitara akustyczna warsztat" students.

Natalia – poor girl has never played before, her fingers are so sore! She wants to learn “House of The Rising Sun” and “Smoke On The Water.” Hope I can get her there.

Kuba – he is the camper who regularly yells “WHAAZZUUPP!!” at the top of his lungs. Crazy boy/teen, has learned that weirdness gets attention. Trying to play but not very hard.

(Two days later I added “I was mistaken – he’s doing well.”)

Julia – a good folk-guitar player in the making.

Asia (pronounced “AH-shah”) – is 21, I think she may also be a camp counselor. She too has good folk foundations and wants to learn more songs.

Pietrok – has played five years but wants to do more. I think he likes electric better.

Filip – reminds me of John Lennon’s son, Sean. Eager to please me. He also wants to be noticed…turns his amp up too loud.

Szymon – my interpreter and a decent player. He is very shy and insecure. He seems to be warming up. He is also a good teacher – worked better with Kuba and Luke than I did, and I told him so.

“They don’t really need me here,” I wrote, closing the journal entry. “But I think I need to be here. Is this what people mean by ‘living by faith’? We shall see.”

Before my arrival I had pictured Poland as a country stuck in the 1940s, where people lived in cinderblock houses and had little knowledge of 21^st century western culture. When the FishArt worship band asked me to sit in with them, I expected I would play the musical guru, offering sage advice on contemporary music. I was totally surprised by what I found. There may be remote corners of Eastern Europe that fit my stereotype, but Poland is not one of them. The FishArt band had high-quality instruments and sound equipment. There were five Polish musicians:  three female vocalists, a drummer, and a keyboard player. The bass player was an American in his early 20s, also serving as a camp counselor for the summer. As I plugged in and we began to practice, it was clear that my musical skills would be stretched to their outer limits. That’s a good place to be – the only place where you can hope to grow your talent. Or your faith for that matter.

We rehearsed for 90 minutes or so, then packed up our instruments and cleared the stage. Rafal told me that Verna Law, a professional singer from Atlanta, had brought her band to FishArt. They gave a concert for the campers that evening. I was humbled once again, this time to share the stage in a kind of “opening act” capacity. With each hour that passed, God was leading me farther away from the familiar.

On Wednesday morning I joined the camp counselors for a pre-breakfast pep talk. Rafal encouraged us – both camp staff and volunteers – to devote time during the day’s workshops to tell our stories. How did you come to believe the Gospel message: that God so loved you that He sacrificed His only Son to make up the shortfall, so that you could one day enter into His presence for eternity? Rafal reminded us that the evening program would include an invitation for the campers to cross the line of faith. Our personal stories could have a powerful impact.

Hmm – that will be interesting, I thought, given that my students speak so little English and the only Polish I know is daj mi buzi (“give me a kiss”). Not to mention the shame that accompanies my story.

I grew up in a nice family. Mom was the church organist, Dad taught Sunday school, and we attended church every week. The Protestant work ethic was instilled at a young age; I started delivering the daily newspaper before I turned 12. Mom was my Cub Scout den leader and Dad volunteered for Boy Scout campouts. I progressed all the way to Second Class Scout before I quit. Mom also taught piano lessons. I took piano for a couple of years, then played cello in the school orchestra.

At 14 I traded the cello for the guitar. Shortly after that I traded church and Scout values for rock and roll. My favorite bands were the Beatles and the Eagles; my heroes were bad boys like Keith Richards and Jimi Hendrix. I started smoking cigarettes and drinking at 15, followed quickly by marijuana. Before I graduated high school I was into LSD and cocaine and had completely turned away from God and the church. During my senior year I worked full-time at a music store, where I met and sometimes partied with musicians who toured the Midwest bar and nightclub circuit. Just like Pinocchio, I was living large on Pleasure Island – and turning into a total ass.

About a year after I graduated from high school I dropped acid (i.e. took LSD) with Jeff and Dan, two friends who attended the local university. (I was still working at the music store, having postponed college in favor of my own brand of “higher” education.) Jeff’s parents lived on a farm just south of town; the acid started to kick in while we were playing pool in their basement. When Jeff’s girlfriend arrived, I went with Dan to his apartment. It was the Saturday before Mother’s Day.

My hippy-wannabe daze (guitar adorned with a marijuana plant).

At Dan’s apartment we smoked pot, listened to music, and watched TV with the sound off. Then my acid trip took a wicked turn and the apartment started to shrink. I asked Dan to take me back to Jeff’s farm where I had left my car. I don’t know what I planned to do after I got there – I had no business driving. I just had to get out of the apartment.

Dan was enjoying his trip. He didn’t want to finish it alone, so he stalled. First he couldn’t find his cigarettes. Then he wanted to wear the new poncho his mom had brought back from Mexico. Then he needed to feed the puppy. The acid magnified my frustration; then I realized I could walk to my car. It was probably close to midnight, and a good three or four miles to the farm. I didn’t care, and I didn’t bother to say goodbye.

The fresh air cleared my head. Streetlights illuminated the branches of tall oak trees on each side of the road. Heaven will probably look a lot like this, I imagined. A light brown Camaro approached from behind and slowed to match my pace. The driver extended his right hand in a gesture that asked, Do you want a ride or not? I got in the car. Dan pulled away from the curb, stroking the neck and ears of the Doberman puppy in his lap. We didn’t talk, and the feeling of entrapment resurfaced. When I turned to look, Satan was in the driver’s seat. I was the puppy in his lap.

In a panic I grabbed for the door handle but it was too late. Demons held me down. The road I had walked a few minutes earlier did not lead to heaven. How could I be so stupid? Heaven is not lit by streetlamps. I had been traveling the road to hell for quite some time. Now I had arrived. This was it. I had messed up big time, and there was no turning back. Welcome to eternity, Dick.

Back in the real world I had indeed jumped out of the car. Somehow Dan had transported me to an emergency room where orderlies and nurses struggled to restrain me on a gurney. My parents arrived as the effects of the LSD were wearing off. When they led Mom in to see me, I couldn’t understand what she was doing in hell. My mom would never be in hell. When she held my hand I realized that maybe I wasn’t in hell after all. Maybe I had been given a second chance.

My right leg was fractured, my left shoulder blade was shattered, and my spirit was crushed. After two weeks in the hospital, I visited a Lutheran counselor and told him what had happened. He was reminded of the Prodigal Son who demanded his inheritance only to squander it on fast living and loose women. Yet the father readily welcomed him home and back into the family. It was the first time I could remember seeing myself in a Bible story; the first time I considered that the Bible might have been written with me in mind. It was the first step of a long road to recovery, one I still travel today.

Szymon did his best to translate as I told my story. When he got stuck, Asia and Paula helped out. Between the four of us, we made it to the end. Szymon thanked me for sharing. Asia clapped her hands. “Shall we play some guitar now?” I asked. They would have kept playing through lunch if I had let them.

That afternoon the students were invited to play with Verna Law’s band of professional musicians. Most of the students jumped at the opportunity. Natalia and Karolina said they would prefer to stay behind with me.

“How will I fill up 90 minutes with just these two?” I pondered over lunch. “Natalia is fascinated with classic rock and roll: the Doors, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Pink Floyd. How can I teach her songs like that when she can hardly convince her fingers to switch from a G chord to a C?”

Lost in thoughts that bordered on self-pity, I walked back to the cabin. There on the bed was my mp3 player. On the mp3 player was Roadhouse Blues, a Doors composition with a relatively simple intro. Natalia and Karolina were waiting when I returned to the gazebo. They didn’t recognize the song, but they liked it as soon as I played it. I worked up a simple arrangement and showed Natalia where to place her fingers. Karolina copied her. Soon they had the hang of Roadhouse Blues, so I asked if they’d like to try Deep Purple’s Smoke On The Water.

From left: Natalia, Karolina, and Asia.

“Oh, YES!”

We spent the next hour going back and forth between the two songs.

“Omigosh!” Natalia squealed, bouncing up and down on the wooden bench. “I play Doors! I play Deep Purple!”

I smiled to myself and nodded. I know the feeling very well.

Scott was at the cabin when I dropped off my guitar before dinner. He showed me a note that Natalia had written, on which she had drawn a lovely picture. I had no idea she was so talented. “She said she has something for you, too,” he promised.

On the last day of the workshop we didn’t play much guitar. I devoted most of the time to hearing my students’ stories. Paula was born in Australia to Polish parents; the family moved back to Poland when she was 10 years old. No wonder she spoke English so well. Łukasz attended the Baptist church. He was assigned to assist one of several campers with physical disabilities. They all lived together in a specially equipped cabin and were affectionately referred to as the “Cappuccinos,” partly because they always had cappuccino in the afternoon and partly as a play on the word “handicapped.” This was Łukasz’s second summer at the camp, and he hoped to return again.

Filip dreamed of being an actor. Julia wanted to be a doctor. Asia was working toward a college degree and wanted to serve physically or mentally impaired children. Szymon was studying theology and hoped to earn a master’s degree. He planned to buy an electric guitar soon.

Natalia didn’t know what she wanted to do. She loved music. I told her that Scott had shared her note with me. “I’m jealous!” I said, and she giggled.

With Maui (center), head of proEm, and Scott (right).

That night there was a special picnic-banquet with kielbasa, potato salad, homemade pumpernickel bread, and brownie-cake. The closing program began at 8pm. Our band accompanied a choir that included several Cappuccino soloists. Then we performed a half-dozen praise songs. Next the drama workshop students performed skits they had written. Scott had asked me to provide background music, “something in a minor key,” so I fiddled around with variations on 16 Tons. The skits ranged from sad to morbid. It seems that teens are absorbed with much the same things, no matter what the country of origin.

Our second set of songs ended with U2’s It’s A Beautiful Day. The campers danced, waved, and sang along. The Cappuccinos had front row seats, hearts dancing in their wheelchairs. It’s not often that I get to play an extended set of songs like that. I had never played with more talented musicians, and never played better. As the joy of the evening saturated my soul, I realized that it was God who had given me the desire of my heart, and that night He fulfilled my desire.

Don’t fly by that sentence. Please read it again. Let it sink in.

As a teen-ager, learning to play my first chords, I thought the desire of my heart was to be a rock star. But that was MY desire. It had little to do with my heart, and much to do with another part of my anatomy. That final night in Poland I realized that God had placed a much holier desire in my heart. It was my life’s purpose: to worship Him and draw others into the mystery of His irrational love. He gave me that desire, and then He gave me the tools and ability to FULFILL the desire. For years I had twisted and tortured it, trying to make the desire fit my standards and expectations. Even now, I had come to Poland thinking I would lead backward misfits into the promised land of Wretchard Almighty. But God had other plans. He used the people of Poland to help me understand that I depend completely and totally on Him – for everything. For sustenance, for shelter, for health, for the very air that I breathe. Even for the desire of my heart. When I surrendered to that truth, He showed me my desire, and then He fulfilled it.

Once in a while, when you are in the right place at the right time, doing the right thing for the right reason, God lifts the curtain and gives you a sneak peak of eternity. Words cannot describe it, but there is one overused word that comes close.

Awesome.

With Rafal (left) after the closing program.

As the evening program ended, the celebration continued outside. A bonfire lit the scene as I made the rounds and said good-bye to new friends, took pictures, collected email addresses, and made false promises to stay in touch. Then there was a tap on my shoulder.

“Someone would like to say something to you,” said Rafal. Natalia peaked out from behind him.

“Thank you so much for teaching me songs I love, and for sharing your story,” she began as Rafal translated. “I have a friend in Warsaw…” She paused and turned to Rafal. “This is so hard!”

As if it the joy I had felt on stage was not enough, God continued to pile blessing upon blessing. Tears welled in Natalia’s eyes as she cleared her throat to continue.

“My friend smokes marijuana. Every time I visit she asks me if I want to try. She gives me pressure. I decided before coming to FishArt that next time I am with her, I will try it. Then you told your story. Thank you for sharing your story with us. Now I have decided not to try the marijuana. I promise you I will not do drugs.”

“Be strong,” I said. “Keep God in your heart.” We hugged each other tight; then she was off to join her cohort, long brown hair bouncing in tandem with her flowered peasant skirt.

Rafal put his arm around me. “You see Richard, even in your fifties you can make a difference in a young person’s life.”

“Thanks, Rafal. I’m 46.” His face drew tight, then broke into a smile as I started to laugh. I would miss this young man.

The next morning, as I settled into the trans-Atlantic flight, I picked up my journal to record in detail the events of the week. Several hours later I closed with these words:

Lord, I don’t know what you have in store for us, but I am filled with gratitude for how you have blessed me in this adventure. Have I experienced ‘living by faith’ as never before? Yes, I think so, but that isn’t really saying much.

My greatest amazement comes from the talent I had the privilege to make music with these last five days, and the value I was able to add to the mix. Thank You first for giving me this talent and passion; second for the fulfillment of using it to give glory to You in such a phenomenal environment.

Help me now to tell this story in such a way that glorifies You and You alone, and motivates others to come and see what You are all about.

————————————————————————————————

Although I’ve shared this story verbally a number of times, it took six years to finally write it down. Does it glorify God alone? You tell me. I see a healthy dose of “Lookit me!” on every page; some readers will relate and others will not.  It is written for those of you who can see yourself in the story, who feel called to be part of something bigger than yourself, and who are afraid – like I am more often than not – to live by faith. If the story moves you in that direction, then it will have served its purpose. 

 The book of Hebrews paints the picture clearly: “Faith makes us sure of what we hope for and gives us proof of what we cannot see. It was their faith that made our ancestors pleasing to God” (Hebrews 11:1-2, CEV). The author then lists the members of the Hall of Fame of Faith, people like Noah and Abraham and Moses, people who took those first steps in darkness, without any promise of how things would turn out in the light of day. 

 All too often I am guilty of being a risk-free Christian. I have read stories of how God used ordinary people to accomplish extraordinary things, but I never thought it could happen to me. What made me change my mind? I don’t know. Maybe I read one too many stories. Now it’s your turn. If this story motivates you to move toward God and see what He is all about, I would love to hear your story. Please leave a comment, or contact me through this form. Thanks for reading.

Photo courtesy of Dave Damico

Before he died last week, Schwartz gave the Hollywood Reporter a letter to publish after he passed away. In the letter, A Conver- sation At The Gates, Schwartz imagines himself knocking on the Pearly Gates of heaven. A Voice responds, and a conversation follows. I had to smile when the Voice acknowledged that Schwartz began writing after college and never stopped.

“That’s because writing isn’t a profession, it’s a disease;” Schwartz replies. “And it’s accompanied by a disease that’s even worse, rewriting.” (I’m right with you there, Mr. Schwartz.)

But despite this incurable affliction, the conversation illustrates how blessed Schwartz was on earth, and ends with the Voice saying: ”Go ahead: Ask. Ask what they all want to know when they knock at my gate: Am I going to Heaven or not?”

“That’s what I was going to ask when I got here,” Schwartz says. “Then I suddenly realized something when we talked. Heaven is where I’ve been since the day I was born.”

That’s pretty cool, I thought at first. Sherwood Schwartz found contentment right here on earth. But the letter concludes without an invitation to pass through the gates, and implies that Schwartz is content to remain outside. It reminds me of the story told in chapter 19 of the Gospel of Matthew.

A rich young ruler asks Jesus, “What good thing shall I do to obtain eternal life?”

“Why do you ask me about what is good?” Jesus responds. “There is only One who is good. But if you wish to enter the kingdom of heaven, you must keep the commandments: don’t kill, be faithful to your spouse, always tell the truth, honor your parents, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

“I’ve done all those things,” says the young man. “What am I still lacking?”

(Interesting. Does he believe good works are not enough?)

“If you wish to be whole, then go and sell everything you own, give the proceeds to the poor, and be content with your treasure in heaven. Then, come follow Me.”

He couldn’t do it. He had too much invested in the material world. He went away grieving, for he knew that the rewards he enjoyed in this life would do him no good in the afterlife.

In The Weight of Glory, CS Lewis wrote, “Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.”

This guitar has allegedly been played on every track of every ZZ Top album to date.

Too easily pleased. That’s the curse of our American culture. We have too much of the material, and it’s too easy to acquire more. I don’t know about you, but my possessions never truly satisfy. I always want more. I’m pretty sure that even if Billy Gibbons gave me his original “Pearly Gates” Les Paul, I wouldn’t be content for long.

CS Lewis also said, “If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.”

As the rich young ruler walked away, Jesus turned to His disciples and said, “It’s hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. In fact, it’s easier to thread a camel through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”

“Then who can be saved?” they asked.

Jesus looked them in the eye and said, “With people this is impossible. But with God, all things are possible.”

I don’t think Jesus is saying we shouldn’t enjoy things like good food and nice houses and Gibson Les Paul guitars. The problems arise when we get our priorities mixed up. And I think the richer we become, from a material point of view, the easier it is to forget what’s really important.

Don’t store up treasures on earth! Moths and rust can destroy them, and thieves can break in and steal them. Instead, store up your treasures in heaven, where moths and rust cannot destroy them, and thieves cannot break in and steal them. Your heart will always be where your treasure is.

Matthew 6:19-21, CEV

Shortly after my last post, my consulting practice was absorbed by Hartsook Companies, the firm that provided fundraising counsel when I was with my former employer, American Humanics. It was the right move, and I still consider myself to be self-employed. But I am no longer a sole proprietor. Somehow that aspect of the merger poked a whole in one of my tires, and I’ve let the slow leak persist.

Maybe I didn’t know how to fix it. Probably I was just too lazy. For reasons I have not yet found the time or courage to fully explore, I let the merger distract me from my blog – and from redeeming my purpose. Fortunately, I am surrounded by a small group of friends who regularly challenge my propensity to procrastinate. God is working through them to get me off my lazy butt and back to doing the work He prepared for me to do. Work that I had better be doing.

That work includes writing a memoir of one of my greatest periods of spiritual growth. I have talked about it for years. I have frequently written about writing the memoir in my journal entries. I have even made a few false starts at writing the damned thing. But there was no consistency in my efforts.

Every book I’ve read on writing says that if you want to be a writer you have to write every day.

Oh, bullshit, says the voice inside my head. They’re talking about other people. You ain’t people.

The voice sounds familiar. Could it be that my Impostor has taken on yet another facade? Oh, that Dick Lessman, he’s a crafty one! He thinks he’s protecting me from the deep disappointment I’ll feel if no one appreciates my memoir. It will take months of hard labor to produce, and I have no guarantee of a payoff. So why take the risk?

Because risk is what I am called to do.

No one is calling me to write a best-seller. I’m just called to write, and the pain of not writing has finally surpassed the pain of writing with no guarantee of success. (See, it’s not a question of avoiding pain. It’s a question of direction. Will I let the pain drag me under, or push me to the surface?)

Part of this breakthrough is the result of Steven Pressfield‘s book, The War of Art. In the past year I have seen the book referenced by three other writers: Don Miller, Chris Gillebeau, and Seth Godin. A few months ago I downloaded the audiobook from Mid-Continent Public Library and have listened to it three times since then.

My kids gave me a hard copy for Father’s Day. On the front cover is this endorsement from Esquire magazine: “A vital gem…a kick in the ass.” Just what the doctor ordered. Pressfield says that the most important thing about art (aka “redeeming your purpose“) is to work.

Nothing else matters except sitting down every day and trying.

Why is this so important?

Because when we sit down day after day and keep grinding, something mysterious starts to happen. A process is set into motion by which, inevitably and infallibly, heaven comes to our aid. Unseen forces enlist in our cause; serendipity reinforces our purpose.

From The War of Art, pg 108 (emphasis mine)

Okay. I was beginning to warm up to the idea. But when could I write? What time of day could I set aside, consistently, to devote to my memoir?

For over ten years I have been keeping a journal, making entries more days than not, first thing in the morning. I’m almost always the first one out of bed in my household. It’s quiet and peaceful. The habit was so ingrained, it had become a security blanket. At first I thought, I can’t give that up. Then I thought, what if I did? What if I tried?

Every writer needs a good work space.

On June 9 my alarm went off at 4:30am. I got up, made a pot of coffee, fed the dog, and wrote memoir from 5-7am. I did it again June 13-17, including the day I was in a hotel room on “business.” For the next three weeks I repeated the Monday-through-Friday routine, including the 4th of July holiday. Some days the words threatened to overflow the memory banks; other days they barely trickled. How many words did I write? It doesn’t matter. The point is, I was sitting down every weekday and trying.

But I’ve decided that is not enough. Real writers don’t have weekends. They have strong ones. Am I a real writer, or a weekday wannabe?

Last weekend I wrote this post. This weekend I’m writing this one. On future weekends I might write posts to record the journey of writing memoir; or maybe keep tabs on what’s happening in life as I write the memoir. I might even include an excerpt of memoir from time to time.

Consider it war correspondence in the battle to redeem my purpose. Because that’s what it is – a constant battle. With an attitude of egolessness and service, as Pressfield suggests. Then he calls to mind the chaste and self-effacing Knights of the Round table. Knights who dueled dragons.

We’re facing dragons too. Fire-breathing griffins of the soul, whom we must outfight and outwit to reach the treasure of our self-in-potential and to release the maiden who is God’s plan and destiny for ourselves and the answer to why we were put on this planet.

The War of Art, p. 109, (emphasis mine)

We all face egocentric demons of our own design. Sometimes they scare the crap out of me, and I turn and run away. But as long as I’m still breathing I can turn and reengage. Let me tell you – it feels great to be back in the saddle.