Engaging God’s special forces who have been disqualified, by believing the lie.
I think it would take the dead coming back to life to lure me to spend any time at all in Alabama. And come to think of it, that is exactly what happened. While working in television, I was covering the incredible story of a two-year-old boy who had inadvertently fallen into the swimming pool at a day care. WTF?? A swimming pool at a day care? It was Alabama—no further questions. It so happened that this little boy was the second to fall in the pool that very day. The first was saved. Nobody noticed the second until it was too late.
This incredible little boy was declared dead more than once. The third time, the death certificate was signed and he had been packed on ice for more than five hours while they prepared to harvest his organs to parcel them out to other little children in grave need. The parents, unbelievably faith-filled, loving human beings stood at their lifeless little boy’s side, praying in the face of death—that God would change his mind.
And he did. He sometimes does, you know.
Five hours after this little boy had been declared dead by the powers that be, a greater power that none of us can see—unless you are willing to believe—kicked into overdrive in that E.R. and this little dead boy wiggled his nose and opened his eyes. His purple and black complexion turned instantly to lily white. The mother ran screaming from the hospital room, shouting, “My boy is alive, my boy is alive.” Hospital personnel tried to quiet this hysterical woman, assuring her that this was impossible but a normal mistake for a grieving and distraught mother to make.
Then a nurse witnessed the movement and saw the open eyes and she joined this jubilant mother making loud exuberant cries. The two of them ran down the hall summoning everyone who would come to witness this miracle. A lifeless boy—was now alive. And tears of joy filled his parents eyes.
Even God cries. He really does, you know.
(And strangely enough he, too, had a son who defeated death and returned to life.)
All of this took place while this little boy’s brother had been in the hospital’s chapel praying that God would give him a chance to say goodbye. But God did one even better. He allowed this faith-filled 11-year-old to look his brother in the eye and welcome him back home. After hearing this incredible story first-hand, I would have to say that my faith has grown.
So it was a resurrection that took me to Alabama. And after checking into the beautiful Victorian B&B in the long row of Mobile’s famous homes, I learned that these old painted beauties had a resurrection story of their own. Back when Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis Tennessee, the South went up in flames. Rioting, looting and mayhem ensued. The southern whites knew exactly what they needed to do. They left … in order to survive.
And they left their glorious mansions behind—in order to save their lives. These big old beauties went from being opulent homes filled with warmth of flickering fires, ample love and stories of their own—to being vacuous, lifeless old eyesores that were falling into disrepair.
And no one even cared.
Finally some people with vision, passion and courage decided to push past their fear and breathe life back into this boulevard of broken dreams—where all these behemoths were rotting and dying alongside of the road. One by one, new life has come and Government Street is now even further proof that the dead can come back to life with a little faith and a putty knife.
(And a million hours of grueling labor and a hundred cans of paint.)
I learned all of this from the innkeeper at one of these resurrected Victorian gems, and I must say that although this man was friendly enough—he answered all of my questions and gave me directions to the little bistros and the hot spots for Mobile’s vibrant gay life— something didn’t seem quite right. I generally throw out some spiritual conversation starters to determine if someone is open to those things. This guy ignored all of them flatly and when I looked him in the eyes there was an intangible lifelessness—a hollowness where I expected to find a soul. Something was missing, but I couldn’t quite place it—maybe it was just me that he didn’t like. So I let it go.
The next morning while at breakfast I felt that God wanted me to engage him, even though I was exhausted from a grueling day of shooting and a tumultuous sleepless night. Come on God, give me a break, I would love to just sit quietly and eat in peace. And this guy clearly doesn’t like me so pass the bacon grease.
(And trust me, there was a lot of that in every dish except the fruit.)
So I looked up at our host and told him I wanted to know everything there was to know about his background, about his story … about his life. And for fun, I said:
“And be graphic!”
And then it happened. I don’t know what it was—maybe it was the fact that someone was showing genuine interest in him, in his heart. Perhaps he hadn’t been engaged like that in years. Whatever the case, his eyes lit up and suddenly he came alive. “Oh my God, now I know where I recognize you from! Of course,” he said with genuine excitement and surprise. “Didn’t you host the 700 Club years ago from time to time?”
Now I was shocked. “Yes … but … ?” I stopped myself short while my mind raced. He’d been so difficult to engage in topics of spirituality—how on earth would he have ever seen … ” Before I could finish the thought, he interrupted. “Oh my God, I used to watch that show religiously! And you would be on every once in a while giving reports from around the world. Am I right?”
This dead man walking had suddenly come back to life—his face had a brand new light and real joy registered in his eyes. I almost didn’t recognize him. But his resurrection recharged me and my interest in him was now completely authentic. I wanted to know everything.
For the next two hours Derek began to recount a most unexpected tale of his former life. He walked me through his powerful salvation story—how he came to know Christ and how that dramatically changed his life. He even told me how he had been filled by the Holy Spirit while “taking a dump” in the second floor bathroom of his college campus (that definitely was T.M.I.).
I guess I did say, “Be graphic.” This certainly wasn’t what I had in mind.
But he was energized and although I didn’t want to picture that Holy Spirit encounter in a public bathroom, I knew that the telling of this story was actually building his faith and bringing him back to life. And what’s more, he was opening up my eyes.
Derek continued to surprise me when he told how he had been given many powerful gifts from God himself. There were occasions where he prayed for the sick and they were healed and a blind girl was given back her sight. He was being used powerfully—and I pictured this big bearish guy as one of God’s very special forces—like a Navy SEAL (complete with whiskers and lots of fur). When he finished telling me all the miracles he’d witnessed and how he’d been enlisted in God’s service for so many years, I couldn’t help but notice his eyes had filled with tears.
Though he had almost forgotten—God hadn’t.
And this was a special son.
I looked up at Derek’s big old teary eyes and I couldn’t help but ask him what happened. What was he doing in Mobile, Alabama, working in this bed and breakfast making bacon and fresh Southern egg pies?
His face darkened as a cloud threatened to extinguish some of his newly found light. “I’m hiding from God.” He looked up sheepishly from the maple syrup tureen. The sweet sticky liquid was dripping down the side and pooling on the glistening table—that Derek had meticulously polished and kept eternally pristine.
“Well, I think he’s found you, my friend.” I could feel God’s love pooling in my eyes—filling my heart with warmth that I hadn’t felt for this man before.
I then asked Derek if it would be okay for me to pray for him—it says that we are to stir up the gift in one another by the laying on of hands. That we are to call the forth the gifts in each other that have gone dormant, those things that have died. And I knew in this moment—this sacred moment—that this son had been disqualified.
And he had done that to himself.
He had been told by so many for so many years that he was a sinner …
… and God couldn’t possibly use queers.
I asked Derek if he was gay when all of these miracles were happening in his life? He smiled uncomfortably and said “Of course,” but no one knew it back in the day. I reminded him that God did— and he still chose to use him—even though he was fully aware of everything that he did, with other men or in the darkened corners of his mind.
I told him, “The closet isn’t dark enough to keep God from knowing your secrets, and yet, the miracles flourished. They only stopped because you thought you were disqualified.”
So this sidelined son, one of God’s special forces, abandoned his powerful guns and decided to hide out in Mobile Alabama in shame.
This once vibrant man was plodding joylessly to his grave.
And lives that he was called to reach—those he was called to touch—those that he should heal—were also bleeding and dying by the side of the road. There could be no greater waste, no greater shame. A spiritual Katrina has devastated much of our world and there is no more time to waste. I stopped my prayer and looked Derek squarely in the eye.
“You know, it’s time. Time that you pick up where you left off— and bring life and healing to those who are bleeding and burdened and dying inside. You hold the keys to freedom, to joy to health and spiritual wealth. Yet you are sharing them with no one—and in the process you are killing yourself.”
And right there in Mobile, Alabama, on the very street where the giant Victorians had come back to life, I believe I was witnessing another resurrection right before my eyes. This disqualified son who had become dead to his faith was now filling back up with joy and light. And maybe even the realization that he was more than qualified.
He was a treasured son of the Most High.
On my flight home I began to think about the tragedy that this self-disqualification has brought upon this earth. Much of it comes from those God-damned signs that tell wicked lies that God hates his kids who are not quite right.
But that is why the first resurrection took place. God’s own son took our own place—so that death would be defeated once and for all—and God’s broken, wounded children would be able to live rich lives shameless, healed, and standing tall.
Not penance, church attendance or even obeying every letter of the law. Nothing we do, nothing we say and no matter how spit polished and pressed we appear to be—would make any difference at all.
That would make his free gift of no effect—and that sublime gift is what saves those foolish enough to believe. If you can believe this—then you ain’t seen nothing yet. (As they say in the South— and Southern Alaska.)
I want to be foolish enough to be used in any way that God sees fit. If it is simply calling out the troops that have fallen in the ditch …
… but even better if he wants to use me to raise the dead.
I know an army exists and could be Mobilized in Alabama and beyond—all in the twinkling of an eye—and all it will take is a seed of faith and the willingness to believe that you are not disqualified.
Let the revolution begin.
There’s a world of hurt and we are running out of time.