I’ve described the beach before. I’ve described how it seems to go on forever, getting lost in a golden haze until it finally meets the sea. The sand rolls out in long, gently sloping banks, clear inlets left by the tide carving their way slowly towards the ever-receding surf. I’ve described the red rocks that line the beach, hemming in the ocean like the wall of a basin. On top of them, you rule the world, all of Australia at your back and nothing but blue out in front. But on the sand these rocks feel much more imposing, that the surf might roll up at any moment and suck you away into the white expanse of the horizon.
And then the sun sets, and the colors are replaced with a deep warm darkness, and you lose yourself in the sound of the surf and the draft of warm night air. The silhouettes of the rocks stand out in shades of blue like a pop-up book, and the stars stretch over you like a tent.
I’ve spent almost every morning on the beach, able to run there from the house with fellow squad-mate and good friend Zach Curtis, the golden expanse of the shore a fitting location for the depth of conversation we’ve explored. Some days we’re running, stamping our imprint in the soft wet sand. Other days the morning revolves around us as we park it in a shallow puddle, talking of the future and the world and the struggles we face and the hope we’ve found with a candidness that only comes from the freedom Christ has blessed us with.
Some days I’m faced with an unusual clarity, able to feel the precision of the moment in a way that reminds me again and again of God’s sovereignty, that He placed me here at this exact moment in time as the best person in the world to face the spiritual battle we wage. Other times I’m overwhelmed by God’s spontaneity, that I can be sitting here in this place on the other side of the world, with a brother I barely know but know everything about.
Zach turned 24 the other day. Happy Birthday Zach. And in what seemed like a fitting end to an incredible year of freedom, for which I’m very proud of him, all 5 of the Darwin teams made it out to this same beach, the dusk fading rapidly to black, a celebratory fire built as one enormous birthday candle. There was something incredibly big about the whole night, the stars seeming impossibly far away yet close enough to reach out and touch. There was freedom in the air, as each of us basked in the warmth of our reunion, guys with blazing palm branches running around in tribal excitement. The music was blasting, and the dancing was fierce. And in a gap that was eventually brought about by our own exhaustion, we began to worship, quietly at first, thankfully, in a circle around the fire, Hannah pounding away on guitar leading the charge.
Zach, there’s no better gift that we can give you, than to worship our Father in freedom and as a family, His majesty smeared across the sky in a breathtaking array of stars. The fire cast a glow on our faces, beaming in reverence. And as we felt led, we worshipped in our own way. In voice, on our own, on our knees, pensively, fully, in sways, in harmonies, in declarations. And as the Spirit has so often prompted me at this point in my life, I felt the push to get up and dance, the affirmations of freedom I’m told I bring when I worship ringing in my ears. I’ve told you how I worship. I dance, and I jump, and I sway, sometimes violently, but always freely. I shout and I close my eyes, and my hands just do what they will.
Some nights it isn’t easy. And it’s a tough line to walk between transparency and obligation, but some nights, as perfect as everything can be, the will and the joy isn’t there. I felt this here, as we were worshipping, the Spirit’s prompting meeting my own stubborn unwillingness.
There’s always junk. Some reason to stop walking and sit, letting it weigh you down. And sometimes it’s really easy to let that junk dictate what you do and how you act. You let it decide your pace, your mood, and your identity. But for whatever reason that night, I chose to leave it behind, and made the conscious decision to stand up and shake it off, dancing my way around the squad, who were still positioned around the fire in introspection. And as I made my way around the circle, the beat I began to dance to wasn’t my own, nor was it the music Hannah was playing, but the beat of the Holy Spirit, somehow, doing it’s thing. And each time around, I left more and more junk where I had started, casting it off with a swift rebuke and a declaration of identity. And I declared, over the squad, words of unity and words of life, whatever He brought to mind.
I don’t know how long this lasted. And I don’t know if it ever got truly easy, to continue worshipping. But as Tommy and I stood out under the night sky a little way down the beach, talking to God against the backdrop of the Southern Hemisphere stars, I asked Him what He had for me tonight. And He said, in the clarity I’ve come to expect with a message I typically dont, “I’m proud of you, and I trust you. I trust you to worship and grow when you feel like it, and I trust you when you don’t.”
I haven’t made it a secret to anyone that God’s been working through a lot of stuff with me this month. Some days it’s really easy to go along with it, and sometimes it meets a resistance that I can’t even pinpoint or identify. But I want to share this freedom with you, and with Zach especially, as he heads into year number 24. Be honest and keep going. When you feel it, when you don’t, when you just don’t want to. It’s worth it.
