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You really need to see it: moodymedialab.com

As with most high schools, the lunch hour was an important part of the day.  No one ate in the cafeteria.  Most sat with their cliques in the hallways.  When the weather was good the popular guys ate off campus in a nearby park, sitting on some stone steps.  We talked about music, how lame high school was, or what we would do when we got our own cars.  It was fun every day.  I still remember the names and faces of all those guys.  I wanted to be one of them.

…

Soon, however, a much darker side showed itself.  One day at lunch, as casual as any other conversation,  I listened to the graphic depictions of how drunk she was, who had to hold her down, and who raped her…their tongues forked and twisted, they spit vile, and talked of blood and pain. I listened to their boasting and their laughter.  I knew what I was hearing.  This story wouldn’t be the only one.

They had the whole school ranked and did not hide planning who should be “next.” I was sickened beyond measure and sat stunned in silence.  I distanced myself from these popular kids and took the ostracization that came with it.

I was far from naïve at this age.  Older peers and cousins helped make sure of that. My first female friend confided only in me that she was having sex with an 18-year-old guy and was pregnant with her first child at age 13.  I was also a young romantic and had already spent a lot of time thinking through sex and relationships.

It turns out date rape was at epidemic levels in my new town.

…

Let me take moment to clarify “date rape.” The word “date” was added during efforts to educate people that the majority of rape attempts are committed by someone the woman knows.  However, over time, for some the word “date” has somehow softened the word “rape.” Connoting something else, something more connected to a very unfortunate drunken or high pressure situation.  Rest assured, it is rape in the fullest and darkest meaning of the word.  The worst thing a man can do to a woman.

Back then you never heard the term.  Teen sexuality was handled very differently than it is these days. To put it simply, there was no one to go to in order to talk about what was happening.

…

I began to spend time with a group from a different high school that I met at a church retreat.  There I met my first deep crush.  She was it.  I had no idea what I was doing.  A few group events and movies later I found myself discovering the meaning of “friend zone” and watching her go out with another guy.  I spun all the delusions nice guys do – I’ll just wait, soon she’ll come around, I’m the guy she really likes…

One night on the phone with my inevitable sweetheart small talk turned serious.  Her tone changed and her word choice signaled that something awful was coming.  I was ready for it, I was there for her…being the person people trusted and confided in was already a big part of who I was and wanted to be. I am good at it. I’ve helped absorb a lot of nightmares over the years. I was good at it then…or so I thought.

She began to depict how she too lost her virginity to rape and what that experience has done to her.

I had almost blocked out the stories from before. I almost blacked out this time. I have never felt my chest cave in quite like it did at that moment.

…

Now, I wish I could say my contemptible behavior was how difficult it was for me to not harbor hate for the boys who were doing this. True, I still struggle with them and the men I have met over the years that have committed the same and similar crimes.  I can also confess how ashamed I am of my own thoughts back then.

Yet, I fear that I failed far, far worse than that.

…

I didn’t do anything.

Instead, I grew selfishly cold and distant; perhaps in some desperate attempt of self preservation. I may have tried to rationalize away what I was hearing and experiencing and what I knew to be true…that it was somehow not as bad as it might seem, that somehow it was all blown out of proportion…but I knew better, I knew as well as anyone. This was not a distant wickedness or some cautionary urban ledged – this was my life, the here and now that I was experiencing.

I didn’t do anything.

I pushed it down. I pushed it away.  I eventually transferred schools and tried to put it all behind me.  I didn’t speak up.  I didn’t speak out.  I didn’t fight.  I said no words.  I stood in no gap.  I healed no brokenness. I set no wrongs right.

I didn’t do anything.

…

It is never OK for someone who professes to be a disciple of Christ to distance themselves from the brokenness in this world, to insulate themselves from horror or hurt, to rationalize away their responsibility, or to abandon the places and people that need them to image forth the life of love and justice that God demands from His people.

It is not enough to merely empathize and console the victim while leaving their oppressor unchallenged.

Doing nothing is not an option.

…

I’d like to end this entry with the same contrast as before (1, 2, 3,)…

For me, most of the “don’ts” have been on lock-down my entire life. I’ve never struggled with the usual suspects that we so often associate with “being Christian” – sexual immorality, drunkenness, etc. (Rom 13:13, Gal 5:19-20).  I’ve found those “temptations” to be easily avoided or disciplined away. I’ve been strong at keeping my tongue tamed (James 1:26, James 3:2). No one has ever heard me so much as swear in public (and only one person ever has in private). My relationships have always been on point and by all accounts I’ve been a “good” man.

I’ve unwaveringly represented myself as a believer to my peers and I’ve been looked to as a “mature” Christian for as long as I can remember.  I’ve stood up for my faith and for others at every turn. When it comes to Bible knowledge and theological expertise I have consistently been top of the class.

Faithfulness in those matters of personal piety – I count them as nothing – they fall as pointless, worthless, and incomparable to the ways I have failed in what it truly looks like to follow Jesus.

I didn’t do anything.

This is how I continue to learn what the Gospel is and what it really means to be a follower of Jesus. This is my confession of a contemptible Christian.

The first transfer took me from the town where I grew up to a town five times that size in the middle of my freshman year – possibly the worst time to transfer schools.

Still, I remember being willing to leave the home I grew up in, the beloved river we lived along side of, my horse, and my dog, everything, to have a fresh start with my peers.

While I was always pretty good at getting along with people I had a hard time making real friends. I had a singular “best friend” since birth who was born 2 days before me to my mother’s close friend.  After he moved away and we lost touch I didn’t really experience any other true friendship.

Coming from a small town and being dropped into a comparatively large high school mid year not knowing anyone was tough.  It was hard to just sort out the day, much less meet people and make friends.  Life looked lonelier than ever.

Then, while visiting a new church with my family, I met one of the pastor’s kids who went to my high school.  He was hilarious, a strong Christian, my size, and into a lot of the same things I was.  We became fast friends.  For the first time in a very long time I felt the sort of brotherhood that makes a man feel far less alone in this world.

He helped me navigate my new school and introduced me to a lot of great people as he was well liked by everyone.  We spent most of our time together – going to parties and church events to meet new people (girls).  He even traveled with my family to go back and finish moving out of our old house.  We shared a genuine friendship.

Quickly freshman year was ending.  As excitement for the first summer in my new lakeside town grew, my only friend came to tell me that he was moving away – and a few days later he was gone, leaving me to fend for myself.  I can remember the dejection I felt.

…

Only, he did not move away.  He was sent away to juvenile detention for molesting the children in the church nursery.

…

Shock, violent disgust, betrayal, vehement anger, confusion.  The thoughts and emotions that tore through my 15-year-old psyche were extreme. The looks, the questions, the assumptions. The conversations I had to have as his closest friend were nightmares.  I had no idea. Not the slightest clue. There was nothing I could have done.  There was nothing I could do.

It was a lot to cope with. I had already begun to grow a bit of a cold heart.  Sometime around here I began to grow numb.

It made me so furious. I had already thrown more than a few punches by this point in life.  No doubt I would have beaten him down on sight.

I never saw him again. I never spoke to him again. I never even prayed for him.

It was simply too much to accept.

…

Christians often shoot their wounded.  The reality is – I abandoned him. I discovered that in my own judgment, there was a line of sin someone could cross which would lead me to wash my hands of them.  I called him friend, he was my Christian brother, and I deserted him. His sin immediately defined who he was in relation to me and I discarded the rest of him with it.  I could not see past it.  What if Christ treated us this way?

I had no right to withhold my presence in his life.  I wouldn’t say I held back forgiveness, I was able to get there, but forgiveness, like all of Christian life and practice is far more than mere mental assertion – it requires action and presence.

The right thing to have done would have been to love him anyway – to write to him, to not let him be exiled and alone with his guilt and punishment, to be there for him if even from a distance, to remind him about the God he fears and the Jesus who loves him, and most importantly to pray for him.

Even if a friendship becomes impossible that does not free us from our Christian duty to one another.  I gave up on him as a person in an instant.

…

I’d like to end this entry with the same contrast as before (here and here)…

For me, most of the “don’ts” have been on lock-down my entire life. I’ve never struggled with the usual suspects that we so often associate with “being Christian” – sexual immorality, drunkenness, etc. (Rom 13:13, Gal 5:19-20).  I’ve found those “temptations” to be easily avoided or disciplined away. I’ve been strong at keeping my tongue tamed (James 1:26, James 3:2). No one has ever heard me so much as swear in public (and only one person ever has in private). My relationships have always been on point and by all accounts I’ve been a “good” man.

I’ve unwaveringly represented myself as a believer to my peers and I’ve been looked to as a “mature” Christian for as long as I can remember.  I’ve stood up for my faith and for others at every turn. When it comes to Bible knowledge and theological expertise I have consistently been top of the class.

Faithfulness in those matters of personal piety – I count them as nothing – they fall as pointless, worthless, and incomparable to the ways I have failed in what it truly looks like to follow Jesus.

It was simply too much to accept.

This is how I continue to learn what the Gospel is and what it really means to be a follower of Jesus. This is my confession of a contemptible Christian.

Climbing is a unique sport – with its intense physical demands, required technical expertise, elements of putting your life on the line, and so much more. Ask any climber about their love for the discipline and before long you will begin to hear how spiritual of an activity it really is for each one.  There is something about focusing all of your strength, all of your mind, all of your fear and doubts into a tiny edge of unforgiving rock that makes the world drop away.  It changes you by changing the way you see the world and redefining how you think about what you can or can’t do.

I began working as a professional outfitter at mountaineering stores to help supply my habits and keep me connected to the climbing lifestyle/community no matter what else life brought my way.  Eventually life brought me to seminary at Trinity International University and I took at job at the local mountaineering store.  Here is where I met Bill.

Bill was a local climbing prodigy who worked part time at the gear shop. He was easily one of the best I’ve ever met.  While I was never very talented at the sport, getting by mainly on discipline, Bill was simply at another level.  Our talks about climbing quickly grew into climbing trips. It was impressive to see him climb and an honor to be his climbing partner.

A climbing partner is a unique relationship among all types.  Again, ask any climber.  A bond unlike any other is formed from with the person you spend long hours in demanding situations, trusting one another with your lives, and sharing a love for something hard to describe to those who don’t understand – the camaraderie runs deep.

Bill knew I was in seminary and fully invested in my Christian faith.  He, on the other hand, while raised Christian, had his doubts and was going through a rebellious phase in his life.  Our conversations centered on the spiritual.  I came to think it was why I was in his life and why he liked having me around even through I couldn’t match his climbing ability.

At the time I thought more about “lifestyle evangelism.” No hard talks, no pressure, simply life on life.  I just “knew” that he would eventually come around to a decision about Jesus with me in his life.  He’d ask me hard questions and I would give him straight answers.  He would ask if I have ever doubted my faith and I would honestly say that I have not.  We phased in and out of serious discussions with ease.

…

One weekend it was on once again – time for a late summer climbing trip to the local mecca, Devil’s Lake, Wisconsin.

We planned for what was a common practice among the climbing community: to get to Devil’s Lake in the pre-dawn hours, sleep for while, and then climb at dawn in the cool of the morning – before the heat, bugs, posers, and tourists complicated the day.

Bill and I drove separately this time around.  I was there first and went right to the cliffs for a quick preview before heading back to the car to pack my gear.  Bill pulled up as I was on my way back and he too headed right for the cliffs, pack already shouldered – we passed in the night, headlamps lighting our feet and our faces. We welcomed each other but were focused on getting set for some sleep at the top of the cliffs.  Both ready to pass out, “see you at sunrise” were our final words.

The excitement for the dawn and the day’s climbs was high. I breathed deep the night air and fell asleep under the stars at peace.

…

I awoke that morning to find Bill’s body at the bottom of the cliff; mangled on the forest floor. Sometime in the night Bill fell to his death. No one really knows why, there was no reason, no risk in our situation.  He was only 17.

…

I had spent hours in the car and on the cliffs with Bill talking about “things that matter.” But I never pressed him about his decision, never asked him where he was with Jesus, never told him it was all that really mattered.  It would not have changed our relationship one iota if I had.  I just never did.

I was willing to live life with him, share a deep bond, and speak of spiritual things – but I never said the words.  It does not matter that he knew what I believed and why. The Gospel is not just lifestyle and reputation – you have to share the words.

I now spent hours there at the bottom of the cliff with Bill’s battered body waiting for help to arrive…an eternity to face the reality that I had no idea about the fate of his soul. I have never grieved so heavily.

I remembered the night before and the sound that startled me awake in the middle of the night – I knew then it was the crashing of Bill’s death.  I am still woken up in the night by that haunting sound from time to time.

I count it as no coincidence that this tragedy is bonded to something I valued so deeply; seared deep into my consciousness through experiences that mean the most to me. I cannot escape the images. I am not a climber anymore.

It changed me.  Changed how I saw the world. This was one of those moments when a person is simply different the next day and no longer the person from the day before.

To be good is not the Good News. Lifestyle is not proclamation. I could not save Bill. I did not save Bill.

…

Let me end this entry with the same contrast as in Part 1…

For me, most of the “don’ts” have been on lock-down my entire life. I’ve never struggled with the usual suspects that we so often associate with “being Christian” – sexual immorality, drunkenness, etc. (Rom 13:13, Gal 5:19-20).  I’ve found those “temptations” to be easily avoided or disciplined away. I’ve been strong at keeping my tongue tamed (James 1:26, James 3:2). No one has ever heard me so much as swear in public (and only one person ever has in private). My relationships have always been on point and by all accounts I’ve been a “good” man.

I’ve unwaveringly represented myself as a believer to my peers and I’ve been looked to as a “mature” Christian for as long as I can remember.  I’ve stood up for my faith and for others at every turn. When it comes to Bible knowledge and theological expertise I have consistently been top of the class.

Faithfulness in those matters of personal piety – I count them as nothing – they fall as pointless, worthless, and incomparable to the ways I have failed in what it truly looks like to follow Jesus.

I never said the words.

This is how I continue to learn what the Gospel is and what it really means to be a follower of Jesus. This is my confession of a contemptible Christian.

For me the answer was always, the bus. I can even remember drawing a picture of the school bus as my mission field in crayon on that kindergarten ruled paper with the weird smell. I remember everything about that big yellow bus.

We lived a ways outside of the small town of my youth and this required an hour bus ride to and from school every day. As anyone who has shared that experience can tell you, you learn a lot about life from your bus cohorts in that environment.  I spent more time with this same small group of people in that captive space than anywhere else.  The bus really was and would be my “mission field” with all the meaning that phrase held to me.

…

We lived at the very end of the route so my siblings and I were always on first each morning. Slowly the bus would begin to fill and everyone would take their seats in the appropriate age or social strata that bus culture demanded and strictly enforced.

A few stops down, at the end of Norwegian Rd, those big doors of the bus would swing open and more often than not on would step, Jesse.  Everyone hated Jesse.  He was by far one of the most obnoxious people I have ever met.  Everything he did, the sound of his voice, the things he chose to say, somehow sparked even the most docile spirit to fits of rage. You could say he earned it – he was so abrasive you couldn’t help but think he deserved it.  No one would sit with him, and when he wasn’t being ignored or antagonized he knew only mental and physical retaliation from the other kids.  He took more than a few beatings.

Jesse deeply bothered me too.  I’ll admit he got to me and made my blood boil as much as anyone.  “What is that kid’s problem!?” would ring through my head. So, naturally, I thought, “Hey, he needs Jesus.” Thinking as I had been taught that if he knew Jesus then maybe he wouldn’t be such mess. “That’s it! I’ll witness to him!”

…

I was 12 years old.  At this point I was long steeped in formative Christian education, had a spiritual awareness/maturity at a very young age, was constantly challenging my teachers, and took my responsibility to share the Gospel in my mission field very seriously.  I knew the words through and through. I remember always looking, waiting for that opening.  Sharing the Gospel with Jesse would be my first chance to witness to someone.  To make good on all I held to be true.

…

One day I left my meager social stratum a few seats back from Jesse.  I talked with him and asked him about what he believed.  I began to share the story of Jesus with him (even invited a peer from my class to sit in as I believed there should be a second witness when possible) and told him with precision what he needed to do to be “saved.”  I talked about what a prayer to God would look like and asked him if he wanted to pray with me.  He said he did.

We pressed our heads into the back of those green vinyl bus seats and stared at the rubbery bus floor as I prayed a “first prayer” with and for Jesse.  He then prayed his own short prayer of acceptance at the end.  I can still remember the smell of the seats and the floor; I can remember everything about that bus.

I said something along the lines of “How do you feel?” He replied to the effect of “good, thanks.”

Ok then. There it is. Dunzo. Back to my seat. This stuff works. One for one in Gospel sharing. Go Jesus.

The bus ride was far from over.  At some point I went back to my place and rejoined life in my social stratum.  Suddenly, it was time for Jesse’s stop.

“Hey, Brian!”  He yelled.  “Remember all that stuff we talked about?” “I had my fingers crossed the whole time; I didn’t mean any of it!” “Ha-Ha, loser!” And off he went.

“Aggh!” “What is that kid’s problem!?” “How dare him.” I was so angry. I should have been more disappointed.  Mostly, I was disgusted with him. I just shrugged him off and returned to whatever I was doing.

…

Jesse didn’t always ride the bus, getting a ride from his Dad when he could.  Some time had passed before I saw him again.  Then one day he was back.  I ignored him.

“Hey, Brian!” Came the yell of that obnoxious voice again. “Remember that talk we had?” “I’d like to have it again, sorry about before, I am ready now.”  I just knew he was being insincere, that he just wanted to dupe me again for the attention. It was obvious. My pride was triggered. I would not be played.

Now, I may not remember every detail of what happened perfectly, but I will never forget what happened next.  I can still see the scene vividly – already standing, I looked up from my seat, looking through the rows, past our peers and into his eyes, then I yelled back these words…

“Nope, you had your chance, you blew it, it’s too late now, tough.” I sat back down.

…

Those were the last words I ever said to Jesse.  I never saw him again.  He didn’t always ride the bus.  We all heard a few weeks later that Jesse had committed suicide in his home. Jesse was just a lost kid who was enduring more pain and rejection than he could handle alone. He killed himself and wasn’t even 12 years old.

I spent a lot of years staring out that bus window; switching back and forth from focusing on the countryside and my own reflection.  Each day the bus halted at the stop sign at the end of Norwegian Rd. and there, with Jesse’s house as the backdrop, my own reflection in that bus window became hauntingly clear. Every day.

My innocence was gone.  I was not innocent.

(It should have been a story like this, but wasn’t)

…

I told him it was too late. I was just a kid myself, but I knew what I said. I knew how wrong it was then. I was not willing to let him reject the Gospel and love him anyway.

I was willing to say the words I was taught, yet, I was not willing to be his friend. I was not willing to be his brother. I was not willing to stand in the breach for his sake, to stand by his side, to sit in his seat, to take his beatings, to bear his burdens. Because I was so unwilling to follow Jesus, I had no right to sharing any words with him, and whatever I did share was no Gospel.  The Good News is words chased by action representative of a new reality. The “witness” Jesse needed was not words but acceptance. It does not matter if Jesse only planned to fool me again – I did not enter into his life or welcome him into mine.  I wanted to “get” Jesse saved, but I did nothing to save him.

Of course, it is never too late.  God has not and will not give up on any of us! Not on you, or on me, and we have no right to give up on anyone or give up in any way.

…

My first step out, my big beginning…is there a more dreadful way to fail Jesus, betray the Gospel, and deny what it means to be a Christian? I can not think of one.

You see, for me, most of the “don’ts” have been on lock-down my entire life. I’ve never struggled with the usual suspects that we so often associate with “being Christian” – sexual immorality, drunkenness, etc. (Rom 13:13, Gal 5:19-20).  I’ve found those “temptations” to be easily avoided or disciplined away. I’ve been strong at keeping my tongue tamed (James 1:26, James 3:2). No one has ever heard me so much as swear in public (and only one person ever has in private). My relationships have always been on point and by all accounts I’ve been a “good” man.

I’ve unwaveringly represented myself as a believer to my peers and I’ve been looked to as a “mature” Christian for as long as I can remember.  I’ve stood up for my faith and for others at every turn. When it comes to Bible knowledge and theological expertise I have consistently been top of the class.

Faithfulness in those matters of personal piety – I count them as nothing – they fall as pointless, worthless, and incomparable to the ways I have failed in what it truly looks like to follow Jesus and the atrocity I committed against His Kingdom.

“Nope, you had your chance, you blew it, it’s too late now, tough.”

This is how I learned what the Gospel is and what it really means to be a follower of Jesus. This is my confession of a contemptible Christian.

A few things I’ve learned on these last two: The dawn before a brutally hot and humid day by far brings the most color.  The light levels-out for a mere 3 minutes a day to make these shots possible.  A $100 lens is still just as useful as a $2,000 one. Staying up till 4 is a lot easier than getting up at 4. You will be alone with the city at that time (except for the million bugs that will swarm you on the breakwater).