On Being Young

I got a message today from an old friend that brought back a lot of memories for me.

Memories of being 16 and thin and full of energy and unwavering belief and limitless confidence. We were all a pretty tight-knit group at our church, and we were sincere about Jesus. Really. And Summer church camp was the pinnacle of our year as young believers. There was nothing like it.

We would go up on the mountain, leaving the cares of a teenage life behind and become close and strong and excited. We sang and studied and played and swam together and became fiercely dedicated to Christ and to each other.

I met my first love there. Dozens of friends. Got tapped out (that’s another story), thawed warm fuzzies, washed each others’ feet, made rain in the dining hall, cried around the campfire and battled scorpions in our sleeping bags. I learned to start my devotions before sunrise, to really read my Bible and Jesus became an intimate friend to me, not just “the Holy guy”.

By the time we all left, it was with a new sense, knowing that we had truly been on our mountain and now were headed back down, like Moses, bound to deliver God’s plan to the people. We were ready to literally change the world for Jesus.

The point of all this lengthy recollecting is to set the scene for my general frame of mind at the time and to tell you about a trip we took as a group one year over to the area nursing home. You can imagine, a hundred teenage Jesus freaks, descending from camp on this place.

I remember one particular lady…she was out of her head. But we were there, Bibles in-hand, to show compassion and love to the residents, to share Jesus with them. But she was having none of it. She cussed and cursed and yelled and said the most awful things I’d ever heard anyone say about Jesus.

I was devastated.

I remember crying and telling everyone “I can’t believe she said those things.” I know she didn’t know what she was saying, but at the time…whew! I was so tenderhearted about Christ and so green about…well, everything. And for years now, I’ve looked back on that day with embarrassment. I always wished I could go back and not be such a baby.

Today though, I don’t feel exactly like that.

I’m still embarrassed, but not for crying in front of my friends, but for spending so much of my life after that, not coming even remotely close again to feeling the same pain over His suffering. It’s a shame, really. That I’ve gotten so calloused. That I’ve gotten so used to it. That it doesn’t break my heart anymore.

I can almost imagine Christ, watching and feeling like crying, Himself, saying “Ricky, I thought surely you would defend me.”

So my prayer today comes from those thoughts and reading a passage of scripture just last night (imagine that).

I John 2:14: …I write to you, young men, because you are strong, and the word of God lives in you, and you have overcome the evil one.

Father, help me to remember what it was like to be young and strong and new and passionate about everything that had to do with You. Attune me to You. Speak to me and break my heart. And please don’t let me grow dull and unfeeling when I see this world treat You badly. Please use my emotions and feelings to help me better understand the things that You need me to see.