Peace in the Journey

Once upon a time, I looked my name up for its definition. To my surprise and dare I say, disappointment, Christopher doesn't mean "the Virile and Well-Hung Warrior in Whom Abides Uncompromising Intelligence and Breath-taking Wit". By the same token, I'm terribly grateful that it doesn't mean, "Man Destined to Become a Mute Paraplegic Trapped in a World of Endless Beastiality".

What I have is a fairly normal name with a rather understandable meaning.

"One Who Bears Christ."

Ironically enough for my satisfaction, of all the things I've been known to bear, Christ is among them.

After my folks split up, I became a whore for attention. Shamelessly addicted to having good things said and thought about me, I was always on the make for another fix. That's where I met God.

It isn't as romantic as it sounds. Mammaw had been my rock back then and like any good grandma would, she sought ways to enable me with a sustainable solution to my little problems. Church, she believed, was a good solution.

I started slowly at first, just making it there for the regular service, then hitching rides with her to Sunday School... and then the Sunday evening service... and then Wednesday prayer meetings. Hitting the sauce four times a week and whenever else I could find an affiliated function afforded me with the opportunity to be told by an endless stream of old people that I either gave nice hugs and/or firm handshakes. And I loved them all for that. Plus, they told me how sharp I looked in my Sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes. Indeed, things were grand.

By middle school, I was enrolled in the school our church ran. The first thing to go was my rat tail. Though I dreaded the loss at the time, I must admit it is still one of the things I'm most appreciative of when I look back at my tenure there. After my bad hair exorcism, they got to work on my prayer skills. When I first arrived, I only knew the simple lunch time rhyme given to me in daycare. “In public school,” they reminded us, “prayer isn't important but here it is.” They understood my plight and worked with me until I was capable of delivering the long-winded, King James Bible approved pseudo-sermons that put children to sleep and preachers on notice. As a matter of fact, I'd moved along so rapidly and so well that I was chosen -- and I do mean hand-selected -- to be the very first person to lead a school wide prayer over the brand new speaker system that'd been installed. Make way for the superstar.

As is my norm, I only had the motivation to go as far as my addiction dictated. That is, until I grew tired of being my grandfather's grandson. Jimmy Judd, missionary extraordinaire and the apple of the church of Christ's eye in Middle Georgia. The constant comparisons scratched my ego and I set out to conquer... yea, to make a name for myself. This challenge of his position, I believe, is one of the reasons I'm Mammaw's favorite.

In grand fashion, I set about God's work and made my way up the ladder -- leading prayers in church to serving and eventually presiding over the Lord's Supper, song leading and yes, preaching. At 12 years old, I delivered my first devotional speech and within the year, I was bringing the message before the entire assembly. Soon afterward, I was filling in at other churches when they needed a preacher. And they paid me. So if you don't count the lucrative yard work I did for family, this was my first source of income.

There I was bearing Christ all over the place. At Central High, I was the captain of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes (not a very good one, mind you) and my plans for college included a solid Christian university where I could better dedicate myself to the Most High. However, this wasn't going to be the case long and in Atlanta at the "Lads to Leaders" National Conference, I saw the beginning of the end of the road.

For the third straight year, I was competing in the Speech category and for the third straight year, I walked away a loser. I never claimed to be a great speaker, but I was still resolute in my ambition to win a damn trophy and so this third loss hit me hard. I spent the rest of the weekend down in the mouth, unable to enjoy the other prizes I won or the girls I met. By the time the final ceremony rolled around, I was a bitter old man and it didn't get better when the winner of the Speech competition was announced. That kid, though I'm sure deserving of the prize, clutched his trophy and leapt in the air like it was Toyota Commercial. How crass, I thought, I'd never behave that way.

The ride home gave me time to think and in doing so, I realized I was as big a fake as the dude that won. I may have been able to carry myself in more reserved and humble manner but I was out for the same thing he was. For the relative fame and glory of winning a competition held by one of the more obscure off-shoots of Christianity in America. Bah. And the worst part was that I disrespected a loved one and my family in the process.

My speech centered on the shortest verse in the Bible: "Jesus wept." To illustrate pain and sorrow, I recounted the pain and sorrow of literally watching my Grandma Horne die. The first couple times I tried delivering the sermon, I was in tears and those who are easily empathetic were too. But that last time, I was as calm as could be. I meted out my emotions with precision, specifically to evoke emotion from the audience -- not because I was feeling anything. And all because I wanted to win something. Bah.

The wrong reasons, the wrong reasons. It was a small step from that to the bigger picture, which was my faith as a whole. Though I tried and tried, I couldn't get myself to honestly serve the Lord for the Lord's sake. All I could do was be a nice guy with selfish motives. Granted, I could have been a more intentional phony but it was enough to get me to stop.

And that's part one: the rise and fall, yo. I could go into the rebirth and fall and rebirth and wilderness, but that'd make a long story just plain boring. So to cut to the chase, I'll say this.

I'm not exactly 'one who bears Christ' these days. I'm more 'one who bears WITH Christ' or 'one who puts up with HIS shit'. I'm a closet Christian with a hair trigger on the aggravation I feel with other Christians. Love the sinner, hate the sin... as they say.

What I'm getting at is that I endure the burdens of Jesus. I have a preoccupation with religious material and a predisposition to try being a good person. I've struggled with my faith and more so, my faith traditions settling on nothing but ambiguity.

Still, I think it’s my job to do unto others as I'd have them do to me because God said so. Very simply put, my theology breaks down like this: God is love. To live in God is to live in Love is to make oneself a better person, which might make the world a better place.

And thusly, I do not bear any particular person, creed or dogma, but I live with the scars of those very things. Without accepting or rejecting it all, I must -- seemingly, by my nature -- walk in the light of the core of it all.

Now you know a little more about me. And the more you know, the more you grow.