On My Worst Day

by John Lynch

  I will never fail you or play you. Come under my assessment, even when you don’t understand or like it. You’ll become wise. You have been hurt in these last few years. It has left you disillusioned and self-protective. This guardedness of your heart will leave you dry. If you don’t let me in, the wounded man will face his pain without wisdom and insight. This will create an even deeper pain.

  John, allow your daughter to teach you tonight. This is no longer a preacher’s gimmick. This is supernatural life, my dear friend.

  I will become convinced that wisdom is the inevitable response to this:

  Trusting who Christ says I am, even when I don’t feel worthy of it

  Trusting who Christ says he is, even when he doesn’t appear to be active in my experience

  Trusting others with me, to protect me from my self-referencing madness

  Trusting his Word, even when it doesn’t portray the way I think God should be

  1997

  It’s so crowded at Squaw Peak Park this Saturday morning, I have to drive all the way to the top of the loop to find a parking spot. The peak itself is a steep, switch-backed hike, embedded with jagged rocks for me to trip over—to become the lead story on the five o’clock news.

  “Hello, this is Kent Dana with Channel 10 News. Today, an elderly, dehydrated hiker plunged down the western slope of Squaw Peak. In what took several hours, because of his fragile condition, paramedics eventually airlifted him out. Witnesses at the scene said he looked nearly incoherent before hurling headlong down the steep, cactus-strewn slope. We’ll update you on his condition in a special report at ten.”

  I hate this hike. It offends me on so many levels. It shouts at me, “Hey, old timer! I’m going to make you so miserable. I’m going to make you question your manhood. …You’re out of shape. You shouldn’t be here. In the first quarter mile we’re going almost straight up. You’ll be gulping for oxygen like you’re on the moon. Little children will be passing you. You’ll slug down your entire bottle of water before midpoint. And you’ll create a rash from wearing Levis. Did you think you were going to hike a furniture store?”

  But Stacey wants to hike it, so we are here. I am now walking down from the parking lot above. I dropped her off at the trail head, nearly half a mile down the same hill I will have to retrace later—after I am left dehydrated, rubbery-legged, and belittled by nature. I am in a bad mood as I wander around in my head. At such times my head is a rough neighborhood.

  I am complaining a steady internal whine. My whine is interrupted by this random thought: My golf game is so bad I’ll bet I could shank my drive from the Biltmore golf course into this park.

  The course is over a mile from where I’m walking. But self-pity knows no distances.

  Maybe fifteen steps after that thought, I look down. There, directly in front of me, mostly buried in the clay dirt … is a golf ball!

  And I am suddenly overcome.

  There it is again. That Presence. That overwhelming sense of him. That invading and overarching experience of being gratefully swallowed in awe.

  I kneel down to pick up the ball. It is covered in the mud of last week’s storm. I clean it off the best I can. It is suddenly an iconic, visible, tangible expression of God’s ability to meet me at any single moment. This ball is from him, saying,

  John, I am here. Last month, a boy grabbed one of his father’s golf balls from the backseat of his family’s car, from the same parking lot where your car sits. He rolled it down the hill and lost interest in it as it rolled across the road into this culvert, where you now stand. I not only let him decide to lose interest, I formed that random thought for you and directed your eyes down at the exact moment. Pretty cool, huh?

  I am undone and lost in whatever worship is. In this moment there is no pretense or overreaching words. I can’t speak. I am standing for several minutes, holding this ball, not willing to leave this moment with my God.

  I find Stacey and tell her about what just happened. She gives me that slight head tilt that says, My husband is a bit of a kook. But I drive directly home after this walk, wash the ball off, write the date on it, and place it on my office shelf. For the rest of my life it will stay with me and remind me, draw me, hold me. I am yet not aware much is heading towards me that will bring nearly everything into question. But today, I am given this. I have this ball. Others have the Shroud of Turin, or nails from an ark. But I’ve got this golf ball from God himself.

  Awakening: God is not only out there, watching me. He is in here, fully identifying himself with me.

  He is doing this life with me; completely and uniquely living my experience. Love has gone this far.

  1997

  The first thirteen years on staff at Open Door, it almost felt like I was stealing money, receiving a paycheck. It was that fun, that incredibly life giving, that fulfilling. I read and hear of those who say no local churches can be trusted once they gain any significant size. That the Spirit of God will always get squelched by a system’s power, agenda, and program. They are mostly correct. I know I would be on their team if I hadn’t experienced those years at Open Door Fellowship. But I lived in it.

  Early on, the life-giving safety and power and beauty of this community got me dreaming. I wanted this environment to be perpetuated all over the world. I could imagine a campus that would draw others to come and live in this clumsy but authentic community of grace. I could see it in full color. A center of art and drama, teaching, and interaction. A place to experience grace and life and learn how to read the Scriptures without a filter of moralism. A place to learn vulnerability, affirmation, and authentic friendships. A place to fail. A place to be released into dreams, destiny, and need. We would have a tape ministry, sending these truths of identity and grace all over the world. This message, this way of life, this life in God is that important. It simply must share the marketplace of ideas with the prevailing luminaries who peddle systems of earned spiritual maturity.

  I naively thought we were impervious to the divisiveness and broken relationships so many other communities seemed to live as normal.

  … Then the dream unraveled. Almost overnight.

  I honestly still don’t know what happened. To this day I’m still not sure how much my immaturity or inflexible kingdom building played into it. I’m still not sure why it had to happen. But it did.

  In the course of the next year, our outreach to the neighborhood formed a church in a different location. Much of it was so good. But some of it carried wounding from some hurtful decisions of our leaders. I became estranged from one of my very best friends with whom I thought I’d do ministry for the rest of my life. Open Door moved into a temporary rented facility we could only use on Sundays. Friends began to leave. There was a growing spirit of mistrust over our community.

  I tried everything I could do to keep it patched together. I couldn’t believe others would be so willing to sacrifice this dream over what I considered lesser issues.

  My heart got broken. And I fought against the loss with all my heart. But I couldn’t help much anymore because I was losing objectivity. I was making myself the issue. And I was hurting others in the embarrassment of my immaturity.

  I got revealed in all my stuff. I hid myself away.

  And the fun completely stopped.

  I was fighting so hard for a vision I was certain God was part of. That period of time taught me a life-giving truth:

  Awakening: God is infinitely less interested in my vision than he is with my person.

  Until authenticity and maturity and dependency are realized, my vision will be crippled.

  Years went by with me learning nearly nothing. I was gritting it out. I still preached well-prepared and sincere messages, but my heart was frozen. I found it almost impossible to forgive the ones I was certain wronged me so grievously. The person key to my pain didn’t even seem to be fazed by it all. He was thriving. Until he was willing to own his part, I was unwilling to even consider my part in all of this. I was
trying so hard to hold on to my rightness, my vindication.

  I began to blame God. Didn’t he care? Couldn’t he see this accurately? Did he have the power to defend me and rectify this dream that seemed to be quickly slipping away?

  After a year or two, I gave up hope of it ever getting better. All I wanted now was to move on and be freed from this pain. To leave the rotting, embarrassing corpse of my dream. I received a preaching pastor offer from a church in Ohio. A few of their leaders heard me preach and offered me the job without having me candidate. It would give me an out. I was in so much pain, I called them back. Stacey told me I could take the job, but she would not be joining me. Our kids were vitally tied into our youth ministry. They had lifelong friends already. I couldn’t leave. I was stuck. I was embarrassed. And I was miserable.

  John, this is the saddest time in our relationship. To have to sit on my hands while I watch you lose hope in my ability to make wrong things right. I must watch you suffer in your pride.

  I am not ignoring you. I am standing over you in the arena, so you cannot destroy yourself. Light is coming. You are tiring. I am here. If I thought there was a better way to bring your heart home, I would do it immediately.

  John, here’s what you don’t know. You are going to stay. Twelve years from now you will still be an elder when the truths and environment you longed to see lived out will begin to thrive again. You also don’t yet know I will spread it to places you’ve never even heard of. The ministry Bill and Bruce are developing will spread this message all over. You will do much of the writing for it. You’ll speak in places you never imagined. I did it, John. I didn’t do it in the way you thought I would. But I did it, I’m doing it and will continue to do it, until time runs out.

  In these twelve years you’re maturing into the man you always hoped you’d be. I’ve been doing that also.

  Awakening: God protects the humble but has to sit on his hands until the proud get weary enough of defending themselves.

  2001

  I never wanted kids. They would get in the way of my dreams, my impact on the world. I wanted to be married to someone. Stacey only wanted kids. Apparently, I looked like I might be able to help provide her with kids. So she taught me how to love our children. Nothing since has been more important to me.

  I know the absolute love of all three of my kids. They know only my accepting love and full commitment. I have given them each the best of me. They each play with me, make fun of me and listen to how I see life. They affirm my life like I could have never possibly imagined—in notes, in public, in birthday letters of overwhelming affirmation.

  My friend Norm Wakefield says he loves each of his kids most. “Dad, do you love me most?” “Oh, yes. Absolutely. By far.” He says the same to each of them. They get it.

  Writing this, I love my youngest daughter Carly most. Amy and Caleb have fought with each other plenty growing up. But neither of them ever fought, argued, or got sideways with Carly. Who argues with someone kind, loving, and without much guile?

  She will one day become our resident philosopher and biblical studies savant. She will already understand more theology, have read more books, and probably understand how to exegete a text better than me by the time she’s twenty.

  I fear her best days will have already been behind her. She peaked in this year. For she and I, over a nine-month period of time driving around in the car, have created songs filled with free association. I will never forget a single lyric of them. God has been gracious to give me a child who enjoys the bizarre non sequiter nearly as much as I.

  Here’s a sampling of the songs coming out of this season with my eight-year-old.

  “The River Goat”

  Hey, Hey, the River Goat, the River Goat’s on our team.

  The River Goat, The River Goat,

  The River Goat’s on our team.

  “A Bucket of Squirrels”

  A bucket of squirrels my friend is now.

  A bucket of squirrels my friend is now.

  A bucket of squirrels my friend is now,

  He’s not one to bake a cow.

  A bucket of squirrels my friend is now.

  “A Water Buffalo”

  I wish I was a water buffalo,

  I wish I was a water buffalo.

  For if I was a water buffa,

  I would be so very tougha,

  I wish I was a water buffalo.

  And this potential Broadway tune:

  “Keplinger”

  Keplinger, Keplinger, he’s a mouse.

  Keplinger, Keplinger, where’s your house?

  Keplinger, Keplinger, don’t be a louse.

  Oh, find your way in the—

  Find you way in the—

  Find your way in the world.

  … Cholesterol plaque may now take me at any time. My work here is largely done.

  2002

  There are moments when God shows his hand. When they happen, I find myself apologizing for every moment I’ve doubted his character, plan, and love.

  Tonight, my family is in Tucson, at the University of Arizona, watching Caleb run in the 800 meters in the Arizona high school state finals.

  He has been a distance runner since seventh grade. But something changed late in this sophomore year. He started running the anchor on Washington High’s 4x800 relays. The last four races, he’s been running down some very good runners in the last lap. He actually qualifies at regionals to go to the state meet.

  It’s now an hour before race time. I am more nervous than when I ran at Camp Oaks. Caleb is not. He knows why he’s running. He’s not owned by what drove me. When I grow up, I want to be like my son Caleb. There is something so overwhelming and humbling to be a father who starts a line of faith in a family. I’m still stuck in a bunch of generational patterns my family line passed on. But now I’m watching my children, healthier than me, thriving because of the faith I’ve passed on to them.

  I’m now bent over, behind the stadium bleachers, with a growing sense I may be momentarily throwing up my concession-stand nachos.

  There’s something about tonight that feels disproportionately important. It shouldn’t. Caleb is a sophomore. He’ll be running against some of his great heroes—legends of Arizona middle distance running. Matt Burton has already won State in this race before. It would be notable for Caleb not to finish last.

  I start begging God. This is not prayer. It’s a father’s full-on, selfish begging.

  Father, protect my son. I know he can’t win, or even place, but let this be a heroic night for him, where he gets to see your hand.

  Forget that! Do something supernatural. Let him find a way to stand on that podium. There I said it. I think I’m going to vomit.

  Wait. One more thing. My dad’s here. He’s starting to drift away with dementia. I would love for him to see Caleb run the race of his life. So, there. I’m begging. Don’t let tonight hurt him. … Being a father is so hard. I find myself caring more than I ever have and now absolutely unable to help.

  … Okay. I really am going to vomit now.

  At the starting line he looks like a boy lined up against full-grown men who’ve already financed their own homes. He’s terribly thin. He fills out his uniform like a lizard wearing a suit coat.

  … The race begins. Caleb’s on the inside lane, and immediately gets boxed out. He looks passive, like he’s frightened to be in such a field. He tries to make a move, but is quickly trapped inside. As he runs by us on the first lap he breaks free and rushes up on the pack. I’ve seen this before. He’s started sprinting too early. His heart is bigger than his endurance. He’s very fast, but can fade at the end if he gives too much too early. Predictably, on the backstretch, Matt Burton steps into another gear and bursts out to a twenty-yard lead.

  … Then, on the backstretch, Caleb makes a decision to go after him. He gasps out:

  “Okay, God, I think this is going to hurt—a lot. Thanks for getting me to this moment. Cover me. I’m going to make a move
with all I’ve got. Here we go.”

  In moments, Caleb works his way through the pack and is actually making a move on this modern day centaur. No matter what happens now, even if he fades to the back of the pack, Caleb has broken a family-line pattern of fear. He has risked greatness and not pulled back into less painful safety.

  By the final turn, he sprints up even with Burton. The stands erupt at this unexpected turn of events.

  What was a coronation has now become a race.

  It’s hard to comprehend what I am seeing from my son! “What is he doing?”

  I realize Caleb is not just trying to make the podium. He actually thinks he can win this!

  This last stretch is where Burton has buried the hopes of dozens of very good runners. They’re lulled into thinking they’re in the race, and then he steadily pulls away, with his refined form and strong, long strides.

  Caleb’s form is starting to break down as he reaches deep for his final seventy yards. Accumulated lactic acid is surging through his body. He’s visibly contorted and locking up.

  …I’ve suffered this scene before. Caleb will fall short. We will all congratulate him afterwards on a great effort. But he will fall short. That’s how life plays out for most of us.

  But now, shockingly, with fifty yards to go, Caleb is still hanging on to him … like a shredded flag in a hurricane.

  Nearly everyone in the stadium is now standing. It’s like they know the outcome, but want to honor the courage of both runners. It is thunderously loud around me. With twenty yards to go, this is no longer about who is the better, stronger runner. This is about something entirely other.

  The last ten yards will be forever etched in my mind. He looks behind by at least a step. He’s lunging more than running.

  Caleb then displays what he has recently discovered, but has yet to risk in such competition: He has another gear.