A young and often embittered gas station attendant sat, reading Crime & Punishment. He'd been wrestling with this whole Jesus thing arguably all his life, but especially in the year-plus since his 21st birthday, when he'd received a letter from his father, saying, among other things, “You’re old enough to make your own decisions now, so if you don’t want to get to know me at this point I guess there’s nothing more that I can do.” (It's a long story, but you can put some of the pieces together just from that.)
At this point, I had been living in an apartment above my grandmother for the last three years, having escaped an abusive stepfather (actually a few months before my mother, who was already living with him, was stupid enough to go ahead and marry him anyway — he'd only been verbally abusively to me, but apparently physically to my mother as I’d found out some years later, after he’d left her for wife #4). Astute long-time readers will also have noticed that I had been quite chemically and romantically self-abusive for quite some time already, so after a few weeks, I finally thought (whether appropriately or not, I still remember it verbatim), “All right — I’ll give him the chance nobody’s given me,” and hopped a bus to Michigan.
I didn’t know what to expect, let alone what to do with all the Christian stuff once I got there (try hanging out in a basement full of very demonstrative Pentecostals), but I knew that he believed it. Which led me to start thinking about it for myself. Either there really wasn’t a God or there was one and I needed to figure out what to do with that. So the next 15 months was spent trying to figure that out, although truthfully the last several months were more about me wrestling with my inability to believe what I had by then realized had to be true.
And so anyway, while reading the aforementioned Crime & Punishment between breaks pumping gas at a Citgo station in Haskell, New Jersey on Sunday, October 23, 1983, it finally hit me…. He’s real. He’s REAL. That’s when it all began. I couldn’t tell you which part of the book triggered it, or if it was something in the book at all. I know I was maybe halfway in when all this start welling up uncontrollably within me. And it’s worth noting that the final page of the book (which I did NOT know the ending to) tells us this about Raskolnikov: "He knew he was born again."
And so did I. (And needless to say, I finished the book and came across those words later that evening.)
There's a question in my next group lesson tomorrow, which also kinda happens to be my "a-ha" question for any new employees, Christians, pastors, etc., I come across: "What's the one thing God has shown you that you wish everyone else knew?" And I stopped to reflect on that for myself tonight.
And tonight, anyway, it's this seeming no-brainer, that I keep having to learn over and over: My relationship with Jesus has to always come first. Not my plans. Not people. Jesus. Because if I try to put those other good things first, I will invariably f*** them up.
But there's the thing. God doesn't want to screw up my plans or my relationships -- he's not the damn enemy -- he wants to transform those flesh-and-blood things into something better than what they already are. And I just have to trust him yet again. And again. And again. "Dying daily" is, frankly, a pain in the ass. And an incredible joy. ONCE I do it.
Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. For a quarter-century and counting.