The Pursuit of a Sinner

02/19/2021

When I was little, tears were always a sign of distress. I can’t remember ever seeing my mom cry or crying myself without associating it with harsh words or physical abuse. That is, until one Sunday evening church service when I was maybe six years old, but I’ll get to that in just a minute.

I was raised in church, but the church didn’t raise me. I imagined church to be a block of time in my week when we dressed up–including our smiles–and we put on one heck of a performance for those we encountered inside. Arguing, fighting, and yelling were the soundtrack to my life growing up and the drive to and from church were no different. But once we hit those doors, we were the “perfect” family. Looking back, I can remember how it seemed normal to me and, in my naivete, I figured this was the way it was for all families. Now, I am not so sure it was. I’m sure we didn’t hold the corner market on “Sunday morning Christianity”, but these days I tend to think that more families lived their christian lives throughout the week, too. Perfectly imperfect, of course. That just wasn’t us. 

I read a lot as a youngster and I imagined myself into the “perfect” lives of the characters in my books. I yearned for that kind of happiness and contentment and books made me believe that it was possible. Over the years, though, I began to start believing it just wasn’t possible for me. 

So back to that Sunday evening service. This is one of the very few memories I have from before I was ten years old so I hold very tightly to this.

Tears. There were tears in church. But in my small, six year old mind, I knew they were not of sadness or distress. I knew these were different than those I had always experienced. I remember looking up into tear stained faces of men and women with outstretched hands praising and thanking this man named Jesus. 

I knew of this Guy from Sunday School and children’s church but I had always felt a disconnect. Surely the things I had been taught by my teachers weren’t for me. If they were, then why did I suffer so? Why didn’t this Jesus change my family and make us happy and fix what was broken? I couldn’t understand it. But in this moment, I wanted it. I wanted this kind of happiness and I desperately went to seek it out. 

I remember leaving the pew and searching out my Sunday school teacher. I found her a few rows back and told her I wanted Jesus to come into MY heart and I wanted it right now. She was all too eager to oblige, and if I remember correctly her eyes began to glisten a little more at my request. She escorted me to our Sunday school room and there she knelt down and helped me pray the sinner’s prayer. It was that simple. 

I remember nothing else about that night except that the climax of that moment fell completely flat when I walked out the doors of this church. Nothing changed. My parents still fought and yelled a lot. I was still abused–maybe even more so. I still experienced tears of suffering and anguish. My family was still broken. I deduced that we were unable to be fixed. That, somehow we were so far gone, it was impossible to make us better in any way. 

I am confident that this was when my “running” career began. I ran from anything challenging and into doing things that were easy. During my childhood, it was easier to run to books and academics than face the realities of my home life. As I got older and became aware of my sexuality I realized that healthy relationships required hard work. Illicit sexual encounters and toxic relationships were easy and required nothing more than my body. Facing the reality of my brokenness was hard. Turning to drugs and alcohol to escape became the answer to every problem, big or small. For 32 years I ran, and I ran hard. 

But I believe there comes a point in every addicts life–whether that is death or true surrender–when we just can’t run anymore. 

In July 2019, I entered a year long rehab program. Let me just be honest: I did not go into this program for the benefit of my own sobriety. This was just another attempt at manipulation to get my family off my back. However, on August 11, 2019, barely a month into this program, I attended a church service at Potter’s House Worship Center in my hometown. It was an evening service much like the one I attended as a child. Pastor Matt Cross preached from Romans 8:34. I can’t tell you much of what he said. I can only tell you that the Holy Spirit, through him, got hold of my heart that night.

Out of pure exhaustion from the relentless running through life, I finally surrendered and crumpled at the feet of Jesus. I could not run anymore. I had no strength to take another step away from Him. I simply fell into Him. The best part is that, in my weakness and what felt like total defeat, God didn’t expect me to chase after Him in my initial surrender. For this, I’ll always be grateful because not only could I not muster the fortitude to run from Him, but I certainly couldn’t muster enough strength to run toward Him. That’s when He met me where I was and loved me in the very depths of my pit. 

“He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked along.He has given me a new song to sing, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see what he has done and be amazed. They will put their trust in the Lord.” Psalm 40:2-3

Looking back on my (almost) forty years of life, I can see how God has relentlessly pursued me. Maybe I didn’t “get it” at six years old, but the seed was planted. The Holy Spirit drew me in then and throughout the years of my mess God protected me when He wasn’t obligated to do so. Many times I should’ve died or at the very least, should’ve gone to jail. But here I am, alive to tell whoever will listen about the saving grace, the renewing power, and the unconditional love of a Man who gave me a brand new life. He loves me more than I could ever try to articulate in words. And the best part? If He can save my life and make me new as He’s done, He can do it for anyone! There IS hope!