It was the loudest, most guttural noise I’d ever heard. It came from deep within the belly of a creature that could not have been human, like a lion, but I wasn’t in Africa (not yet at least). I wasn’t at a rock concert either; otherwise it would’ve been normal. I was in the small sanctuary of Watermark church. The first time I heard it I wasn’t sure if it was in my head, or if the roof was caving in, or if the gates of hell were opening up to swallow the Earth, but then it came again. Another roar from a man sitting in the front row, the second just as deafening as the first. A “hallelujah” so loud I had no doubt anyone within a mile of the church could hear. The rest of the congregation and I tried to turn our attention back to worship, but they kept coming, like waves in a storm, each one more powerful and, for me at least, more unwelcome than the last.
They didn’t stop as we transitioned into the next song and a mix of fear, unsteadiness, and anger continued to bubble up inside of me. I could see him throwing up his hands with each thunderous growl in the corner of my eye, and each one had me less focused on God, and more focused on the ungodly noise filling the room. But a second glance revealed that he was seated in a wheelchair, not a pew. Why that mattered to me at the time, I wasn’t sure. But something washed over me, and it wasn’t another scream, it was something peaceful, something not of me, and I relaxed as he screamed again.
The pastor said a quick prayer before we moved into the third song and when I opened my eyes and looked up I glanced back over to where the man had been sitting, but he wasn’t sitting there anymore. He was standing. Tears filled my eyes as I watched him lean on the man next to him, their arms intertwined. The wheelchair sat empty and useless behind him and he continued to yell words of praise at the ceiling. As the song ended, his friend gently lowered him back into his chair, and we moved into the sermon.
The content of the talk that day was 2 Peter 2:17-22. 2 Peter was the second of two letters written by Peter the apostle to the church somewhere around 64-67 A.D. He was imprisoned in Rome at the time, and he would soon be executed. Much of the content of 2 Peter discusses God’s grace, or issues encouragements to the church, but chapter two of this book is chock full of false teachers and the damage they cause. It’s one of the passages of the Bible many skip over because it’s not “social media Christianity”. You wouldn’t caption a pretty photo of a sunset with one of these verses. No, the verses in chapter two better describe a dark alley; it’s an uncomfortable read at the least.
The handful of verses we covered that day opened with 2 Peter 2:17 as Peter writes, “These are waterless springs and mists driven by a storm. For them the gloom of utter darkness has been reserved.” Peter warns that false teachers, although they promise happiness and sustenance, are nothing but empty promises and mere façades. Verse 18 goes on to say, “They entice by sensual natures of the flesh those who are barely escaping…” We are easy targets, those of us who have just clawed our way out of one hardship. We take the bait much too easily and they drag us right back down.
At this point in the sermon, a photo flashed up on the screen, it was a garden. The garden was pretty enough, with bright flowers, soft looking grass, and a path that seemed to stretch beyond the limits of the picture, but then again, it was nothing special. It wasn’t ugly, it was just good enough, we settle for good enough much to often. Then it zoomed out, the bright flowers and soft grass and, what ended up being a very short path, were all surrounded by a chain link fence topped with razor wire. A prison was visible in the distance. 2 Peter 2:19, “They promise freedom but they themselves are slaves of corruption.”
That’s what its like for us, it’s nice enough when we’re smelling the roses of popularity, rolling around in the grass having the time of our lives, laying next to a boy whispering pretty words into our ears, but then we look up. We look up and we realize we’re trapped in our own special hell. The roses of popularity are rooted in a soiled reputation, the grass that was so fun and nice to roll around in has been watered with alcohol, and the boy next to us whispering pretty words into our ear rolls over and whispers pretty words into another girl’s ear. A chain link fence of social norms entraps us and any hope of climbing over it is stopped by you’re-not-good-enoughs that are sharp as knives. We cultivate this garden our whole lives and it feeds on us as we pretend not to notice there’s no way out. But at some point we snap out of it, we take in our surroundings and we’re left there paralyzed, scared, and thirsting for something a waterless spring cannot provide. But there’s hope, there’s a light at the end of a sometimes long, dark, and cold tunnel.
He is there with us in that garden, Jesus. He always has been. He picks us up and dusts us off. He says, “Here hold my tools” and we say, “Thanks Dad” as He begins to tear down the fences that once held us captive. So I realize now that it was not me that was scared of the man’s brave screams, but the false teachers inside of me. Everything they had been working on for my whole life was being shaken to the ground. Although what holds me down isn’t a physical affliction, it is still just as powerful. The echoing words of bullies left gaping wounds in my side that never healed. The fleeting touch of a boy who pretended to care knocked the wind out of me. The disappointment I felt when I stared at my reflection in a mirror left me paralyzed in a wheelchair of insecurity.
Although I can run and that man cannot, he is more free than I am. His wheelchair is visible; his chains are physical, yet he has the strength and faith to break those chains and scream out to the false teachers “Look at me stand! Listen to me scream praises to a God that loves me!” And that’s what I’m working towards, what we’re all working towards.
I look out to endless fields of green and love, yet the small garden with poisonous plants still tempts me. We become so comfortable with being enslaved that we feel uncomfortable with being free. Maybe we take a few steps out, maybe we let the wind of complete acceptance brush our hair back from out dirty, tired faces, but then we run back to that garden. We let society resurrect those fences and we pretend to be happy. He comes back though, He comes back every time and does the same thing He did the time before, He sets us free.
In the end, we must be the ones to stand up and claim our freedom, He gives us a gift of grace and love, but we must be the ones to open it. Augustine of Hippo said “Love God and do what your like” for some of us, with the place we’re at now, that saying looks like complete chaos. Like parties or buildings blowing up or empty bottles or the entire world imploding, but what we don’t realize is that the second command flows from the first. Love God, and once you do, once every step you take is a step taken with Him, then do what you like, because then you won’t be in a wheelchair, you won’t need a crutch, by then you’ll be soaring on His wings wondering why that garden with it’s broken fences ever looked pleasing because by then you’ll have truly known what it is to be saved by His grace and everything you do from then on out will only benefit you. No more waterless springs no more empty promises, only joy and love.
