Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. -Matthew 11:29
Lakeside, sounds carry unfathomable distances, making things said in private not-so-private. Add the incredibly quieting effect of new-fallen snow, and you can just about be sure everything everybody says will be heard by more than the people who were supposed to hear it.
On just such a night, I stepped out of my cabin to watch a full moon burst over a nearby mountain in northern New Hampshire. Its' eerie orange glow as it peeked over the ridge was camera-worthy in its' own right, but I'd forgotten my camera, as usual. I think it was a blessing, though, because I might have spoiled the moment had I been fumbling to take pictures instead of merely watching as another of God's moveable masterpieces marched across the landscape. I love it when the moon skips its' reflection along the lake to bounce into view shoreside.
For me, moments like this remind me there's something bigger than me; bigger than the problems I face; bigger, even, than the combined problems we all face. They're prayer times without words.
So, I was basking in the majesty of the moment when, two cabins down, two men not so familiar with the traveling distance of voices on lakes broke the mystique: "I sure hope this Kilgore guy is stuck on the road. All I want tonight is some snack time and sack time." His buddy echoed his sentiments, a thought I'm certain just about every man at the retreat was having about then.
I mean, really, who wants to spend Friday night listening to some guy talk about something that's hit or miss at best in most men's lives: their love for God and Jesus Christ.
More than you might think!
Over the next half hour, though, as I listened to the "lake", the sentiment against having that night's kickoff Bible study was about two negatives to every positive, and I was seriously thinking I could score some brownie points by telling the guys to bag it and start fresh in the morning. Though it wasn't only my decision, I felt pretty sure the retreat leaders would go along with what I recommended as best.
Since God was so obviously present in that moon-lit vista, I asked Him.
Standing in the front of the room a short time later, I studied the faces as announcements were made. Experience taught me that men willing to give up a holiday weekend for a spiritual retreat were looking for two things: Comradeship and Kick-starts. Tired as they might be; they'd volunteered to come: or even if they'd been pressured by a spouse or a pastor ("It'll be good for you!"), had put up only token resistance. In return, they wanted-for the most part-either to find that magic bonding all men ache for on a deep level but don't know how to describe; or they wanted to find their way to a place where they had a passion for their faith. Most wanted both.
I wish you could have seen their faces-this mix of white-collar-successful and blue-collar-sturdy male countenances-when I asked them to stand up and sing that childhood classic, "Jesus Loves Me." It was not a pretty picture.
Still, I knew what few of them realize, that most of the time we adults are lemmings, willing to follow along if somebody leads. There's always someone in the room whose passion for Jesus makes them jump at the chance to sing about it.
Then, as happens every single time, the Holy Spirit took that simple song everybody knows, and packed it full of emotion. Weary faces fought back tears; broken hearts didn't even try to fight them off. By the second time through, I'm certain angels stopped to listen. All the barriers between them and God dissipated in the face of the simplicity of that unexpected moment of childlike worship.
Like me that Friday night, each of you carry a message most people aren't sure they want to hear; at least not right now. They're too tired, too broken, too busy, too successful, too skeptical, too disapproving, too-almost-anything to think that now's the time for them to hear what we have to say about God. It's oh-so-tempting to just be quiet.
And yet, beneath their too-almost-anything lies this vast wasteland of fear and fatigue and worry and doubt, desperate for two things: Connection (community, companionship, comradeship, etc.) and eternity (spirituality, faith, belief, etc.)
Hearts are turned, not by the angry voices of the convinced shouting their convictions, but by the surprising sweep of the awe-inspiring, bigger-than-us realization that Jesus loves me.and the heartbreakingly simple message He asks us to pass on that, yes, He loves you, too.
--Randy Kilgore
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