My friend, Bob, and I meet every other Thursday for an hour-long Zoom call. It’s a tradition we’ve been doing for three years, ever since I moved to New Hampshire. Our conversations focus mainly on writing and editing (trades in which we are both professionals), Tolkien (of whom we’re both fans), organic gardening (of which we are both enthusiasts, though Bob has much more practice), and our families (of which we both have). But, if there is one subject that permeates every aspect of our conversations, it is faith.
Bob is a lifelong member of the Christian Reformed Church. He is extremely learned in scripture, and is not shy about sharing this knowledge. In our discussions, he will often go into great detail about specific words and how they relate to one another across Hebrew, Greek, and English. His passion runs so deep that he often gets swept away into dynamic monologues that last for several minutes.
I love when these happen.
In public, Bob can come across as rather taciturn. But when he gets excited about a subject, this persona gives way to an infectious enthusiasm. It’s something that I always guessed was bubbling beneath the surface, even when we were just getting to know one another. I could see it in his eyes. They have a brightness that hold a longing to share.
Though he often apologies for his zeal, I enjoy every moment of it. The connections he makes across centuries of language are utterly fascinating. But it’s his passion I admire the most. He talks about faith with his whole heart, instead of just his head.
My contributions to these conversations do not come close to the level of spiritual depth Bob possesses. Still, he is always patient with me. This patience extends from the knowledge that I am still fledgling in my faith.
Though I grew up Catholic, I went through a long period in my life where being a practicing Christian was the very last thing in the world I wanted to be. (Don’t worry, we’ll get to that story). As such, I would skirt around just how much I was committed to living out my faith, making my additions to our talks only ever surface level.
So, it came as a shock to me when, on our most recent Zoom call, Bob didn’t open with his usual: “Hi, Ryan.” Instead, when his kind, thin, bespectacled face materialized on the screen, he said, quite seriously: “I believe you’ve been caught.”
I was confused.
Caught? Caught by what?
Noting the look on my face, Bob elaborated: “I believe you have been caught by Jesus.”
He’d read my Easter Message, and said that it was as if I’d finally stopped aimlessly floating along the surface of the waters of Christianity, and had made the dive for deeper understanding. And, as if I had been scooped up by a fishermen’s net, I was finally aboard with Jesus and able to share the journey in a much more intimate way. I had finally welcomed Christ into my heart, instead of just flirting with the idea of doing so.
He didn’t know how right he was.
As I shared with Bob all of the events that led up to the crushing of our minivan by the sugar maple, I noticed that the ease with which we talked with one another had become far easier. We laughed more, shared more, debated more, and left the conversation buzzing with excitement for our next conversation.
As I ruminated on this, I realized that a barrier between us had been broken. Yes, we were friends, and very good friends at that. But my surface-level Christianity had kept us from going further. Now, with my heart opened to new understanding, we had become brothers in Christ.
It was an amazing revelation, and one that would serve as a primer for what was to occur just a few days hence, when my church brothers and I fueled up our chainsaws and got to work removing the massive tree that was still atop our minivan.
But that’s a story for next week.