Godspeed

 

https://www.livegodspeed.org/home

When I was twenty-five I felt lonely. I felt perhaps that the visions of the world that had once driven me to find my purpose, to find that great mission, had failed me. I was less convinced that I mattered. I was not entirely sure that my path would lead me to a place that I wanted to be. And one night, I lay in bed and listened. I listened to a crowd of voices in my head. But these were not the voices of anxiety or obsession. Instead, I listened carefully to the people of my life. I heard each of them, as they, in turn, said my name. I could hear the intonation of each one. In some it was serious, in some teasing, in some compassionate, in some challenging. There were dozens of them at least and many more that surely spoke that name in my dreams as my conscious mind faded into the darkness of the night. It is then that I think I caught a glimpse of what it means to be known. I realized that the longings that I had were not longings for propositions of truth, for eternal, faceless and voiceless Realities by which a life could be rightly guided. Instead, the longings that I had were for those who understood me and wanted me around.

That I was able to grasp this when I did is surely a testament to many groups of people. It is a testament to the ways that my family nurtured a sense of belonging in the midst of complexity. I felt at home with those ten other people – even when I felt disjointed, afraid, or angry. My home church, likewise, was a place where I had dozens of people who knew my name, dozens of families to whom I felt intimately connected. And surely in many ways, I was not. I did not know the life lived in their offices and their homes every day. But I knew their smile, I knew their warm handshake or hug. I knew the smile and bright eyes of Mickey. I knew the warmth and the humility of Ernie. I knew the trembling, dedicated voice of Jean. I knew the cheerful exhortations of Candy. I knew the caring, gentle way of Mrs. C., my first-grade Sunday school teacher. It was a good family. It always has been, even in its worst times, to those who have known that those voices and faces are greater than any theological, financial, or church programming disagreement. I have loved them. I belonged with them.

Many of the voices that I heard that evening were ones that I had known in numerous late-night conversations after watching movies like “West Side Story” projected on a bed sheet hanging down from the ceiling of my youth pastor’s home. We laughed as Maria did a strange, undulating dance because of the breeze of the oscillating fan. We army crawled to the kitchen for more monkey bread. We heard their young boys call for their parents from their beds. There were a handful of us who were more truly a community than any I have probably still yet experienced. Some, like my Christian friends at Auburn and my Bible study group in Wheaton, came close. But none were as ever-present as this, and none quite as central to who I came to be. None were quite so influential in shaping my faith journey. It is no question to me that it was these things that allowed me to persevere, even when there was so much less than a mustard seed of faith. Indeed, without them, the paths I walk today would have been distant imaginings. The joys I know today would be winding lanes an ocean away.

To all of you who have been a part of my spiritual journey, when I watched this short film, Godspeed, I was overwhelmed by thoughts of you. I began these lessons in days gone by many years ago thanks to your presence in my life. I hope you will watch it and remember. I hope that you will, like me, take the deep-seated hunger for truly meaningful living and turn it into a new chapter of becoming known to others and, in the process, disclosing your heart to God. Thank you for saying my name.