We are Not the Story

Our Story Matters, Still...

I will never forget the evening my father died. I was driving home from Vancouver, Washington back to Seattle. I had not made it to Vancouver before his passing, probably

because I didn't want to—though I couldn't have articulated it that way in the moment.

Suddenly, just beyond Woodland, as the four lane freeway turns a subtle corner it feels pressed in, almost becoming a two lane country road far away from everywhere. It's a combination of the rock ridge climbing high above you on the right with the Columbia river close enough to touch on the left, the misty rain pouring down as if through the ceiling of the car while a fast moving train squeezes into this surreal scene on your left, just between the freeway and the river.

In that moment my heart breaks in loss. Sadness lay over me like the blanket i used to cuddle up into on a cold night as a child. I realize that I will never have what my heart longed for; the fulfillment of just being with my daddy. Our relationship was always complicated by our shared work in his electrical business, our mutually invested ministry in my father's church where he pastored, my deep respect for his gifting and sacrifice in that role, his rare rebuke by way of commenting on a failure's revelation. "Son, what is wrong with you?"

For the first time, it dawned on me that in this life and in the eternal life to come, my dad and I cannot capture what we somehow missed. It's gone. Forever gone.

For three years, since my deep betrayal of Joetta, of Shaun (my son, boss and pastor), of Nikki, of Kristen and Dennis, each of my grand-children and every person whomever came to Christ or grew in Christ as a result of my genuine and sacrificially lived ministry—I have been living in the moment described above. The train is passing on this cold, wet winter's night, it's bright round light blurring the road ahead. "Son, what is wrong with you?" echoes within as does the subtle disappointment or look of anger suddenly imposed upon new situations, far removed. These gather to remind me of the silent, unspoken sense of loss I felt that night driving home. It's gone. Forever gone.

Even a renewed heaven and the healed relationship that will come, cannot fix this. I melt in sorrow.

Still, from within this night another equally important truth emerges. I am not The Story. Nor is my father or you or the Church or my country. We live inside the only Story that ultimately matters, Jesus. It was destined that I have never been as good a minister or a Christ follower as I imagined, though I got to taste the greatest moments of mission anyone can ask for; Each day, each relationship magical, as it was difficult. Nor, given the mental health and spiritual weaknesses of a little boy who grew up in the sage dust of southern Idaho, was perfect faithfulness in the cards. It could have been, certainly. I chose, clearly. Yet, as a son of Adam "what's wrong with me" is apparent and would find expression, likely.

The ultimate truth is I don't really know what God has in mind, having fully embraced in the cross both the genius and darkness of his fragile human son. I suspect that both the very authentic, well lived ministry and the night-marish hypocrisy my sin created within it shall be part of the future-present reality of Love Jesus is creating in and between all of us. Its not hard to imagine that the One who said "Father, forgive them" and "It is finished" is capable of allowing the 'meaning inside all of our relations' to be the final redemptive song of us "saints" (now there's a word) whose transformed stories shape what we will become.

Ann Julien 1 of Norwich wrote that Jesus told her, "All shall be well. All things shall be well. Things both great and small." By that she understood from Jesus that the cost of our chosen sin is so precious to Jesus—being in a sense necessary to our looking beyond ourselves to Him—our sin will in heaven have a reward. Not in themselves but for where they drove us and how our cooperative repentance shaped the life of Jesus in us.

We are not the Story, but humbly invited into the greatest story ever told; the costly restoration of the cosmos back to living comfortably within the sustaining Presence of the Cosmic Christ. Of this narrative the angels will simply fold their wings in honor of the Trinity of God and our participatory part in the redemption of all that is.

Blessings! Terry :)

Playing Jesus by John Roumie

This writing is an emotional response to an incredible video on Jonathan Roumie's coming to grips with the audacity of playing 'Jesus' in "The Chosen." It's entitled, "Jesus Doesn't Exist!!" Link: https://youtu.be/YOHMo-UgRJc?si=fIoT_k9WiEW_eyUB

1 Ann Julien of Norwich is one of hundreds of Anchoresses in the Middle ages who dedicated themselves to living in a small apartment for the rest of their life. The apartment was attached to the Sanctuary of the Church. Two windows were present. One into the Sanctuary for worship and removal of refuge, delivery of food, holy communion and the like. The other was out to the city or village street. Through this window the citizens could come, present their needs for prayer, seek counsel in need and be assured that she would be in a continual state of prayer for each person.

For more read my book: ...sold at Amazon

50 Days of Promise