(Note: references for the footnotes are found in the final chapter)
Prologue
It was a nasty day for the middle of May. I shut the door against the chilly drizzle and the gray sky, but it didn’t stay outside where it belonged. It wrapped around me like a wet coat and followed me inside like a lost puppy. I supposed that was just the way “alone” felt.
Dumping the stack of condolence cards on the table, I carefully placed the azalea plant in the windowsill, believing it deserved better attention. My friend Carrie thought I should have a living plant instead of cut flowers. I agreed with the sentiment and decided to leave all the flower arrangements behind. Cut flowers died, and I didn’t need to watch them turn dry and lifeless. I’d seen enough of that.
Closure was important. I knew this. I’d taken “Death & Dying” class in seminary. While I knew in my head I needed to go through this day, nothing would ever shake the image of Josh – pale and thin, eyes permanently closed – as they shut the lid on the casket and lowered him into the ground.
That was my last picture of him and it was a lie. Josh was an animated storyteller and a joyful friend with a ready laugh. Josh was a well-mannered gentleman and a clown. Josh was sometimes dignified and sometimes ridiculous. Josh was a lover and a fighter. Yet the cancer made him cry “uncle” and give up. The cancer took his dignity and silenced his laughter.
Tears welled up again. I didn’t know how I could have more tears, but there they were. “God, it’s so unfair,” I cried out, head raised to the ceiling. “Josh loved being a pastor! I’m no spiritual leader. You should have taken me instead of him.”
I realized arguing with God wouldn’t bring Josh back but I was angry. I hated the image stuck in my head of Josh in a casket. I needed to see him again, vibrant and alive and in his element. I pulled my treasured videotape out of the cabinet in the entertainment center and popped it in, curling up on the brown leather sofa in the living room to watch Josh address his congregation that cloudy February day.
I caught my breath as I looked at him there on the television set, confident and strangely peaceful – concluding his sermon and preparing to deliver the devastating news: “I only have a few months to live,” I heard him tell his congregation all over again. He went on to cushion the blow the best he could for the people, always more concerned about them than about himself. He was the best shepherd I’d ever seen.
I paused the tape as he reached out his hand to point toward me. I’d been in the second row, holding the video camera to catch the moment. I didn’t have to hear what he said at this point. I had it memorized: “Vannie will preach for me when I can no longer do it,” he’d informed the shocked congregation. “I hope you’ll support her, not only as she fills in, but also when I’m gone. Give her a chance as your pastor. You all know she’s an awesome teacher but she’s also a compassionate and caring person with great ideas about being the Church for future generations.”
Josh had believed in me vigorously. I didn’t have the same confidence. I shook my head as I remembered those “ideas” he was referring to. They weren’t mine - they were the result of soul-searching that had begun on one particular day last fall. It was the day I realized the church was doing it wrong, but I didn’t know what doing it right looked like. At least not yet.
***
I’d been restless working in our church here in Flagstaff last fall, helping Josh solve mostly petty problems for people who, it seemed to me, didn’t know how blessed they were. Our general lack of thankfulness became glaring after Josh and I went on a summer mission trip into Mexico. We’d gotten to know people who were not so blessed, people who lived in places we’d never consider homes and who ate things we’d never consider food – and these were happy people, thankful people. They didn’t complain about the lives they had.
The day God shook me out of my comfortable routine, Josh had been dealing with yet another problem I thought was ridiculous. I’d advised him to “just tell them to grow up!” He’d laughed and said, “Maybe you should finish reading that book you’ve been bragging on. It might help you unwind.”
That turned out to be good advice. I’d been reading Blue Like Jazz, by Donald Miller and by the time I reached the chapter called “Confession,” I was riveted. He’d written about being a student at Reed College in Portland, Oregon, calling it the most “pagan” college in America. Of all the pagan activity, the biggest of them was an annual Renaissance festival called Ren Fayre. It was mainly an excuse for students to get drunk, high, and naked.
Don and a small group of his friends wanted to make a difference for Christ in that world and came up with the idea of what I’d call a “reverse-confessional.” They set up a booth in the middle of the activity, and when people came in, the Christians confessed to the pagans. People were both confused and touched as the Christians confessed that they hadn’t been loving like Jesus, they’d misrepresented him, they’d betrayed him by being hateful and judgmental, and that many of his followers over the years had committed atrocities in Jesus’ name. Then the Christians had humbly asked for forgiveness from those pagans. Forgiveness had been freely given in return and gratefully received – starting a process of reconciliation with people who had previously disregarded the claims of Christ and looked at His followers as a joke. ( 1 )
This account of humble love and self-sacrifice had moved me in ways that were hard to describe. Deeply touched. Ashamed. Stabbed in the gut. That would be closer. And one more thing, one incredible thing: hopeful. Maybe there were people out there who did know how to do it right. Perhaps I could learn.
After that, I’d started a “bar outreach,” wanting so badly to be with unchurched people for a change, to get their insights and opinions, to treat them as people who mattered. I’d also consumed all I could find on the future of the church, on the postmodern generation and the differences in thinking between younger people and the older folks who had always done church the same old way. I’d immersed myself in emergent thought, in authors who said we had to rethink it all. Church as we knew it was conditioned toward traditions and interpretations that were not necessarily biblical. A “tweek” wasn’t going to do it. A new, exciting program wasn’t going to fix it. Imitating the world of business or the entertainment industry wasn’t going to solve our problems.
I became convinced we had to change from “the gospel of sin management” to the “gospel of good news for mankind.” The good news was God’s great love for the world and His desire to restore fellowship. The essence of the Gospel was love, and the essence of walking with God was obedience – doing what He says to do. I could see that the church had made “obedience” to mean “don’t do that” instead of “do this.” (2)
Of course, it was much easier to follow a list of rules (different for every denomination and sect!) than it was to actually love our enemies, feed the poor, visit the prisoner, heal the sick, minister to the outcast, give away our riches, and fight for justice. It had hit me hard: I could go through the motions and keep the rules, hang out with the safe church people and not rock any boats. Or I could actually go out and do what Jesus did and be guaranteed to make enemies like Jesus did, too.
I’ve always needed to process things before being ready to talk about them, but when I’d finally approached Josh about it all, he was open to my ways of thinking. Kind of relieved, actually. “I’ve always thought there had to be more than this.” I remember him making a sweeping motion at the church auditorium then, encompassing rows of padded pews and stained glass windows, wooden crosses and paintings of Jesus looking remarkably like a long-haired white man.
While we’d both been seminary trained, Josh had always concerned himself more with pastoral duties than digging in to questions of theology and application. “I can’t handle a lot more on my plate right now,” he’d confided. “But if you’d start putting together what you’re discovering as you study this, maybe we could look at it together and discuss the implications?”
“I’d really like that,” I’d responded with a hug. Josh had been so open-minded. It was one of my favorite Josh-qualities. He didn’t like to be set in his ways, but he didn’t have a lot of time to think about other ways.
As he’d headed back toward his office in the back of the church, I’d caught his arm and pulled him back toward me. Stretching my arms way up and tousling his mass of curly hair, I’d finally pulled him down for a leisurely kiss, snuggling into his lean body. It was strange how perfectly we fit, he a Josh Groban lookalike and myself more Amy Winehouse (without the beehive hairdo). We’d always said we were as unlikely a pair as Josh and Amy would be unlikely duet-ers. I can still remember the feel of his fingers combing through my long black hair, remember the way he kissed me back gently. “Don’t ever change,” he’d whispered to me. “Your infinite curiosity was the first thing to attract me to you.” His hands had moved down my back and stopped at my hips, and he’d pulled me in tighter, his tall frame enveloping my tiny one. He’d kissed my ear, murmured, “Well, maybe second,” and left me giggling.
****
Memories like these were precious now that he was gone. I looked at him there, frozen on the television screen pointing toward me that somber day. It was even sadder now, when I realized we’d never gotten to do the study together. At the time we’d decided to wait until after Christmas. We’d barely started hitting the books in January when, one frigid February day, we’d fought through a fresh layer of snow to sit in a doctor’s office and hear the word “cancer” that changed our lives. Study had quickly fallen by the wayside. Other things were suddenly higher priority.
Now I needed some fresh direction and purpose. Josh was sure I was on the right track. Perhaps it was time, here at the changing point of my life, to pick it up again. Josh’s second favorite thing about me – my curiosity – might carry me into the future when it was a challenge to look beyond this one crushing moment in time. I was sure Josh would have wanted that, no matter where it ended up taking me.