On My Worst Day

by John Lynch

  He received the email and his agent communicated he’d be honored to see us. So, several of us flew out to his home in Beverly Hills. He was so touched that several months later he boarded a plane to join us for our tenth annual event!

  We each included a song on a compilation CD we made for him, sharing why his unbridled joy and self-effacing ease made him the perfect fit for our yearly shindigs. One of us created artwork on the CD and on the matching t-shirts, bearing his smiling mug. He danced, laughed and sang to the music. I read a story of his life I had prepared. We listened to his stories about Lee Marvin and Betty Grable. He let us call our parents and he talked to them! It was a rare and marvelous weekend.

  Late the first evening, he stunned us with these words: “Gentlemen, I’ve been honored all my life for what I’ve done. How incredible, at this stage of my life, for the very first time, among men half my age, I would be honored for who I am.” He shook his head from side to side and then down. None of us spoke for a long while.

  Awakening: Affirmation heals and humbles and makes me want to do more of what I’m being affirmed for.

  On Sunday morning, after we each prayed for him, in front of him, he cried, and said, “If church was anything like this, I think I’d come all the time.”

  2009

  I’m driving in my car with Joel Try. Though twenty years younger than me, he has become one of my closest friends. He is funny, incredibly insightful, and understands beer like I understand burying clothing.

  I used to try to mentor younger people. I’m lousy at it. As soon as I call it that, it gets strange and I start trying to say profound things all the time. Everything becomes a spiritual metaphor: “You know, that bowl of baked beans reminds me how we can stay stuck in unforgiveness. Perfectly good beans mired in the muck of their own bitterness.”

  It’s too much pressure for me, and a lot of work for the person I’m trying to mentor. Joel is the first younger friend I get to be John around. I’m trying to believe if I’m Christ in John, and I love Joel, then eventually something meaningful will happen. Even if we’re drinking coffee together, telling each other the stuff of our lives. I’m sure this revelation won’t make the feature article in Discipleship Journal but it’s the only way I can do it.

  Joel is going on and on about some young, hip, famous preacher and some hilarious, insightful story he told, from some best-selling book, in some amazing message, at some world-changing conference. For the sake of the story, let’s call this guy Rob. After awhile, I begin feeling insecure. I snap out something about “not trusting the guy.” “At some point Joel, you’re going to have to decide if the stuff I’m telling you is opinion or counsel. You can’t listen to everything and not own responsibility for where it’s all going. Maybe it’s time we stopped meeting.”

  It’s crazy talk. I know it as soon as it’s out of my mouth. I am being inflamed by the reality I am not that hip, famous preacher. Now it spills out, all over Joel.

  Now what to do. I’ve blown it. We will never again be the same. I’ve sabotaged my influence with my fear. The mentor is the immature one.

  It gets very quiet in the car for several minutes. When we get back to my office, neither of us gets out. We sit there, each unwilling to unsnap our seat belts.

  “John, so, I don’t know what that was all about. But you need to know I don’t have anyone in my life I trust like I trust you. You’ve taught me a way of seeing life I never knew. So you kind of made a fool of yourself back there. I get that. But I swear to God, if you think you can leave me because you sometimes get weird, think again. Because I will make your life miserable. You’re not walking away from me, Lynch. Do you hear me?”

  His dad had checked out on him. For so long he’d been guarded against allowing anyone in. He’s saying, “Don’t you understand? I let you in! I don’t need you to be right all the time, or even always more mature than me. I need you to stay. You don’t get to run away from me. You taught me that. Love stays. It doesn’t walk away because things get strained. I’m not going back to the hidden, untrusting guy again. Get over comparing yourself to that preacher. He’s much cooler than you. He’s smarter and he knows history better. It’s not going to change.”

  Awakening: Once another trusts you to influence them, you lose your permission to run—even when you don’t feel worthy of their trust.”

  Such a community gives you a chance to take off the idealized mask of the shaman. There, in all your rawness and unpolished compromise you are revealed as someone much more enjoyed, loved and trusted.

  2010

  Stacey and I awaken this morning in Santorini, Greece. A deeply generous couple has sent us on a once-in-a-lifetime trip for our twenty-fifth anniversary. How much we spend is of little issue to them. We’ve been gallivanting around the globe like wealthy retired people—from Paris, to Bordeaux, Venice, Tuscany, and now Greece. We took the hour-and-a-half gondola ride in Venice—just because we could.

  This morning, we find ourselves sitting next to a Jewish couple in our elegant restaurant at our elegant hotel. The food is so good, I want to stuff cheese Danishes into my pockets. Over the next hour this couple is becoming our friends. We are invited to join them on a tall-sail dinner ship, which will drift from one white-bleached-building-covered island, to another, as the sun slowly paints the sky deep red. On the ship, we meet another Jewish couple. Within minutes we are all laughing and yakking, like we’ve known each other all our lives.

  They want to know our story. I don’t want to tell them. I don’t want to ruin the evening and our friendship by telling them I’m a Christian speaker and writer. I’ve seen how this plays out. I usually sense it is my responsibility to make sure they hear the Gospel. I almost always feel like I’m selling soap to people who were moments before risking to trust me. They feel betrayed and confused. And I’m left with a bad taste in my mouth.

  The couples persist. They must know all about us. After Stacey and I briefly explain our lives, they are full of questions. Not defensive questions. Honest and vulnerable ones.

  In a moment, I decide to see where God takes this evening. I am a Christian. They know who I am. Tonight, I will not proselytize. I will love and be loved. I catch Stacey’s eyes and realize she is good with taking a similar tack.

  The next several hours are filled with life. We are having marvelous talks about everything: parenting, marriage, love, failure, regret, periodontics, books, my book, the Cleveland Indians. We are enjoying each other with such honest freedom.

  The man from the couple we met at breakfast takes me aside.

  “I almost always feel disrespected and devalued by Christians. Like I have no faith, or my faith is all wrong. I want to tell them, ‘You know your guy is from our team, right?’… Anyway, you aren’t doing that to me. Thank you. I know you’re probably struggling with this, thinking you should be saying more. But I already know what you would say. I’ve heard the message from Christians so often. Here’s something you may not know I see. Most of us see it; I know you Christians have something. I really do. I’m incredibly intrigued. You’re giving me tonight a chance to test out what I’m seeing without being clubbed like a baby seal. Thank you.”

  Stacey and I had earlier decided when the ship docked we’d walk up the steep, ancient donkey path leading up from the sea to this cliff-carved town. The two couples had already decided to take a gondola to their hotel. We are half way up the path, pausing to watch the Mediterranean Sea reflect the moon. Then we hear voices. They are calling our names. It’s our Jewish friends! They’ve run up the steep path to catch up with us. They are fully out of breath.

  “Hey, we couldn’t do it. We didn’t want the night to end. We didn’t want to stop seeing you. Would you guys let us buy you drinks? There’s an outstanding bar at the top, overlooking an incredible view below. They serve the best Mojitos on this continent.”

  Within minutes we are sitting together in the bar, leaning back on comfortable cushions, overlooking lit pools and patios bel
ow us and the moon above us on this open-air pavilion. It is all majestic, serene, and otherworldly. The climb and the humidity have made us all desperately thirsty. I’m slurping down Mojitos like they were ice teas. I’ve never been in a moment where people with such radically differently faith are so honest about their doubts, wonders, and dreams of how we hope life turns out. In trying not to force the gospel, I’ve unwittingly given the gospel in a much more loving and comprehensive way than maybe I ever have.

  It is now 2:45 a.m. I am officially drunk. I didn’t mean to be. But I am. We all hug and make promises about vacations we will take together. Then my loopy chick and I maneuver our way through the streets and alleys of ancient Santorini, feeling very much like savvy locals.

  The next morning I ask Stacey, “What happened last evening? Did you feel all right about our conversations? Even when they asked me directly, I didn’t want to give them the formula. I wanted to let Christ love them through me. To allow myself to be loved by them. Part of me feels like I let God down for not closing some deal. But a much larger part of me feels good. We all need God. They don’t need him more than me. Every day I need the redemption and healing of Jesus. I wanted them to know that. I guess I’m counting on this conversation continuing. But last night was so beautiful to me. I don’t know when I’ve ever loved people who don’t believe our faith, the way I get to love people who do.”

  The old order of John Lynch—pious, religious man—has been changing for a long time. But what happened last evening revealed it to me. People are not unwitting candidates for my speeches about God. They have profound dignity. They carry the image of God. God is sovereign. I know there may a time to explain more, but last night was not it. I think he likes it when I’m not manipulating conversations to get to the bonus question.

  I’m three continents over, being taught by Jews how to be a Christian. Shalom.

  2012

  I remember holding Caleb as a baby thinking,

  God, I’m counting on this way of life in grace to work for him. This feels like a huge risk. Am I right to raise him this way? I want him to grow up in such safety, freedom, and life that he will never have to rebel. I want him to know who he is in Jesus so strongly that his new nature will guide him to obedience, rather than religious compliance. I want him to never have to fake it, or pretend an expected life. I want him to know the power of God to mature him from the inside out. I want it all to be so real to him. I want him to be closer to God than I am.

  Then came Amy … and Carly. We were a family, trying out this way of life in grace. I was falling in love with being a dad. I watched Jesus make our faith real in front of our kids. Each of them were gradually coming to trust him on their own. It was hard to believe that this man who had run from God for so long was having the privilege to help raise a family in such health and love.

  I remember one particular vacation, all together in Laguna Beach. One afternoon, I was videotaping my children playing in beautiful Shaw’s Cove. And it all suddenly flooded back to me, right while I was filming:

  That Laguna Beach chapter … my last ditch effort at fighting off God’s pursuit.

  I could actually feel the pain of how hard I tried to prove I was someone worth loving. And now, transposed over those scenes, were my own children, occupying the exact same space. With the camera running, I started crying, and could not stop. … In a box in our attic, is a five-minute clip of two-year-old Carly being knocked over by waves, laughing with her big brother, sister, and mom, while her dad is blubbering into the movie camera about God’s redemption.

  It all gradually caused me to want to offer this way of life to others. Most of my friends didn’t grow up in families like this. I didn’t grow up in a family like this.

  As they got older and I watched them choose behaviors from trusting this life in Christ, I began to realize, “It works. This way of life in grace, it works!”

  I wanted my family, our community of families, to be able to counter the prevailing theology that children brought up in grace would take advantage it, to live a double life.

  I was watching a theory of grace become tested experience. It was astonishingly beautiful.

  … And then it all seemed to unravel in a single phone call.

  Almost from the start, Amy’s marriage had been hard. But I didn’t know how hard. None of us did. Now, less than two years in, she was losing hope. We knew she was withdrawing. We just didn’t know how to help. Her husband didn’t want our counsel or help. So, we tried to give them room to work things out.

  Amy is one of the finest humans I know. She is our kin-keeper. She is beautiful, thoughtful, and playful. She is funny and plays with people on their terms. Nobody has written more astoundingly undoing letters of affirmation to me.

  That’s partly why I was so devastated by the phone call.

  Caleb calls, having just talked to Amy’s husband. Stacey blurts out the “f” word. My wife has never used the word before. I think in that moment, I go into a form of shock. I innately know, whatever was just said, would change our family forever. Something precious has just fallen from my hands and shattered onto the floor.

  Stacey gets hold of Amy. She tells her she’s been hiding from us her involvement in a wrong relationship with another man. For some time.

  “What! What does that mean? Who, when, uh, let me talk to her.”

  “She has hung up. She doesn’t walk to talk right now. She wants to be alone.”

  “But, but, I’m her dad. I have to talk to her.”

  I dial her phone number twenty times in five minutes.

  That night I lie in bed, churning and playing over and over questions that have no answers:

  What do I do now? God, help me. What do I say to her? How did this happen? Oh God. I feel like I can’t breathe. How do I protect Amy? How do I let her know I love her while I’m still trying to figure out how she got to this place? Should I call her husband? He doesn’t want to hear from me. But I should call him. Help me God. Why wouldn’t she want to talk to me? I’ve been through everything with her. Should I get in the car and drive out to California?

  The damage is too devastating. Their marriage ends months later.

  Amy comes back home from California. Our community swings into action to love her. She begins to face what happened. She is incredibly heroic. She went to college full of innocence and hope. Now she is trying to unravel what happened so quickly. She is bravely asking all the hard questions. She is facing what went wrong, especially her part in it. She is staying in the arena when it would be very easy to leave all who know her and land somewhere else where she could start over.

  Amy is not a rebellious, immoral woman, acting out an immoral life. She is a godly woman, left vulnerable and ignoring the protection of those who love her, making frightened and exceedingly wrong choices.

  Awakening: All of us, left vulnerable by choosing to ignore protection, are fully capable of shocking and uncharacteristic wrong.

  I was convinced of this about my daughter from the moment I received the news. It has never wavered.

  …… But still, I remained in shock.

  Over the next months, I am emotionally and spiritually stuck.

  How could this happen? I’m her father and her pastor. And somehow my own precious daughter chose to hide from us. Why did I not ask the right questions? Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I force my way in when I could see things weren’t going well? How could I not know my own daughter was in distress, in a dark place? …

  If our family has three values, one of them would be that we wouldn’t need to hide. I think almost every day of their growing up I spoke these words to at least one of my kids:

  “Did anything happen today that hurt your heart? Is anything scaring you. Is there anything you’re not sure how to tell us? The only thing we can’t protect you from is what we don’t know.”

  Both Stacey and I have been pretty transparent about our failures, individually and together. If we had a fight, we mad
e sure afterwards to assure the children of our love and deep commitment. We told them what the argument was about and prayed God’s protection for all of us. Because I lived the destruction of playing a double life with my own parents, I asked God that such would never exist in my home.

  Why did this way of life I preach not work for my own daughter when she most needed it?

  On top of that, I’m devastated in believing that my family would no longer be able to represent this life in the way I thought we would.

  How ridiculous! I was teaching grace everywhere, but I could not give the same grace now to myself. I did not yet understand the test of grace is not in keeping from failure, but in redeeming failure. Everyone will fail, under any view of God. How we treat each other when we do and how we find our lives again—this is where grace shines most brightly.

  … It will take me quite awhile to understand those words.

  Awakening: I cannot protect my children in the subjectivity of my shame but only in the objectivity of trusting my God with me … and them.

  I begin to experience the physiological symptoms of someone in shock. I develop this shaky, shuddering sensation in my shoulders and back. A chronic, anxious weakness, which leaves me sometimes unable to draw a full breath. My words come out clumsily, with too much effort. This condition will stay with me, undiagnosed, for the next two years.

  I am still on the road in the following months, speaking often. But my shame is hissing at me that I’m not fit to carry this message. Suddenly, I feel very much my age, and fifteen years more. I’ve lost confidence. I wonder if I’ll ever return to full strength.

  I’m still trapped, months and months after that phone call. God will slowly have to untangle the lie I carry. It says this should never have happened in a family that has believed these truths of grace so intentionally.

  But he will show me that my understanding of grace does not make me or my children impervious to failure. No matter what I believe, each of my children have their own relationship with God, finding their own way, in their own choices. I do not have control over that.