DESERTS & BRIDGES

I started writing this post while sitting out in the cool of the evening on the back deck of a cabin nestled on a wooded Tennessee mountainside. Rain began to fall, bringing with it a deep thunder that echoed throughout the small valley. Looking out into the storm, I used my quiet time to reflect on the winding paths that had brought me to this exact point in my life where important parts of my life now felt foreign to me.

As a young man, I remember my expectations about who and what I would become, a young Christian full of zeal and feeling invincible in my foolhardiness. I viewed my spiritual journey as a straight line from point A to Z, rushing out of the gate and taking the world by storm, never considering that in God’s economy, growth is rarely linear and true growth, the type that brings understanding is often slow and pockmarked with trials. I fully expected God to bless my mapped-out plans of my faith. But if my twenty-nine years as a seasoned believer have taught me anything, it is that He is no respecter of plans.

I thought back to my early days. To follow Him, I was once willing to surrender everything. I let go of the college girlfriend I had planned to marry because she would not follow the path I was to take; I understood our differences and knew I could not choose both. My new faith also cost me an old friend who wanted nothing to do with me now. I was brash at times and green and lacking much wisdom and made many a blind mistake. Still, driven by a deep pull, I was even willing to lay down my art in favor of seminary.

I remember it clearly so long ago, that morning, hearing His voice as unmistakably as water rushing over the stones of a brook:

“What is your last name?”

"Bridges," I replied.

“I have given you this name because you will be a bridge from men to myself.”

Those words still vibrate deep within my soul. I found a church home, threw myself into servanthood, and found a community that I loved and who loved me. In time, the leadership recognized my giftings and confirmed the call. I became important there and in the know at this church that courted Christian celebrities and Hollywood elites who visited or came to perform. I became an intern and knew how the show was to be put on and I enjoyed the "behind the scenes." Slowly, surely my vision which started out pure and honest began to be wrapped up in the influence that I now carried, as one of the “special” ones who God was raising up to do great things in the megachurch world.

Eventually, however, the old dragon of church hurt rose up and took me apart. A deep, agonizing wound inflicted by a close leader I served under and respected spun my life out of control. My identity which was wrapped up in position was now dashed to bits and what I thought I wanted, who I thought I was to be was only paper thin and lacking.

There are moments in life where things happen entirely outside of your control, where you played absolutely no part in the damage. This was one of those times. I was left to pick up the pieces and I was devastated. I blamed the leadership for their brazenness, and I blamed God for allowing me to have been hurt. I lashed out. In my pain, I fell into dark places, living trapped in shame and yet chained to an ugly addiction I fed just to numb the loss I felt so deep within me. I became bitter. Yet, even in my anger and self-imposed exile, I still longed for His temple. Despite my rebellion, I still longed for God, not the god of the stage and cheap grace this church offered but the God I originally fell in love with.

I lived as exile for a long time until the girl who would become my wife found me. Through her fierce compassion and willingness to fight for me, I finally found my way back to where I once started. Still, I was shaky and untrusting. The hurt remained deep, like a splinter wedged just beneath the skin. Learning to trust again was agonizing work for me. Though I returned, I carried a heaviness of regret and shame over who I used to be, how much I had lost, and the failure I was now. My trust in any spiritual leadership was entirely broken; the wound was still deep.

Through my wife we eventually found a rooted church home and slowly, hesitantly, I began to get involved. During a question-and-answer session at a men’s retreat, I submitted an anonymous question to the pastor: Could someone who had lived a life like mine, who had been called but fell, ever enter the pastorate? The pastor replied, "No."

Honestly, I remember nothing else from that conversation, none of his justifications, no theology, or explanations as to why. I only remembered his solemn shaking of his head and the word, “No.”

This disappointment triggered every failure and hurt and reminded me of everything I had forfeited. It was there that I decided to resign myself to the fringes, I decided I would simply occupy a seat in the pews. I would live my life, make my art, and accept things as they were. I would let what I felt in my heart die. I would be just a beggar within the temple.

Inevitably though, life brought my small family to Kentucky. We had no ties, no friends, and no history here. The isolation made me deeply doubt our decision to leave our old home. Working remotely, I spent long days alone with my thoughts. And in the nights, in the silence of that isolation, the dreams began.

They arrived in waves, vivid, always prophetic, and always centered on ministry. They were as real as waking life. Through them, His voice whispered, nudged, and prodded me continuously calling my name. Still, I ran from them. My hurts and my failures brought about a stubborn deafness to His calls, blocking out the call to something greater. I lived my life limping: one foot attempting to walk with Him, the other firmly rooted in my doubt and self-loathing.

Eighteen years passed in the desert before the bush caught flame.

In the winter of 2019, I found myself on a family trip, I was at a museum exhibit studying a collection of antique Bibles when a faint singing caught my attention. Suddenly, soft at first to ever louder I began to hear a rising tide of voices around me. The room was full of people, yet there was no one tied to these voices that reverberated as if in some great hall. They spoke in English and in countless familiar and unfamiliar languages I couldn't understand. I realized, that these bodiless voices were those who came before me, from every nation, every continent, stretching across human history, all preaching His Word. What should have been a chaotic din of sound flowed seamlessly into one single, unified voice. All separate but one. Then came the beautiful singing, choirs of countless languages all singing of His love, yet blending flawlessly into one breathtaking harmony.

Oh, the sheer weight and beauty of that moment still causes my heart to ache even now. And there, my defenses finally broke. I recognized my own stubborn pride and the foolishness I had carried for nearly two decades. Through tears I fought to hold back within the unknowing crowd, I whispered, “I am sorry. I am so sorry…”

I was sorry for so much wasted time. I was sorry for slapping a hand away that only wanted my good. I was sorry for my blindness.

Then, I saw it. Whether with my physical eyes or within the spirit, I watched a vast, warm, golden-orange thing like a tunic or mantle, looking as though it were spun from heavy wool, slowly descend from the ceiling and settle over my shoulders. My head, I bowed trying to swallow back my tears and then I felt a warm, firm hand rest upon my shoulder. Peace settled on me, a calm warmth, and forgiveness brought me rest.

And just as quickly as it had arrived, the physical weight of that unseen hand left. When I raised my head, the music, the preaching, the singing, and the mantle were all gone. It was just me, standing among a crowd of bustling people who had seen none of this. That night, in a darkened room, I radically recommitted my life, not as a man ruined and broken, but as a man filled with hope, made entirely new by a reminder that God had not changed His mind about me.

My walk has been bright and strong for about six years now. Yet, from the very first days of this turning point, I carried a distinct, sobering awareness that returning would come at a cost. A thought within warned: “If you come back, it will come at a cost to you, but even so, come.”

Over the last few years, and to my own surprise, prophetic giftings within me grew, but they have brought with them deep burden. In Hebrew, there is a word for this: Masa. At its scriptural root, it translates to "the burden of the Lord." It is the weight that Jeremiah carried, the weight Isaiah bore, and the weight that guided those men and women of old.

To be honest, it feels foolish and stupidly self-important to even type those words. Some time ago, someone I trusted, in confidence told me that I was wrong. It stung, and it hurt, a small tear in the old wound opened up then and there.

Yet, I find comfort in the words of the prophet Amos. When he was challenged, scolded and admonished about his credentials, Amos simply replied that he was 'no prophet, nor the son of a prophet' (Amos 7:14). By this, he meant that he held no special theological pedigree, no inside track with the elite nor any elevated religious accreditation. Amos, an unlearned farmer, made no claim to any special standing in any high office nor any desire to gain high standing. There was no degree from a college or backing by any denomination. Amos was simply an unassuming, common working man from an unassuming small town, whom God just happened to call to speak truth.

The Hard Things as I call them are the developing things within that are about forth-telling into the present moment. Every biblical prophetic had difficult things to say, and often those who heard did not listen.

I love the church both local and universal, too much to confuse comfort with unity, or silence with peace. I struggle with the knowledge that the easiest path would be to stay quiet, but love demands that we speak the hard things God places on the heart, even when obedience looks like divisiveness to those around us. My intent is not to disrupt, but to be faithful to it, because a church that cannot bear the weight of hard truths cannot fully carry the weight of the gospel. And there is far too much to account for.

Yet, the old dragon of that old hurt still bares its fangs quite regularly, threatening to send me back to the fringes, back to becoming the beggar in the temple. It knows exactly where to hit the bruise of my deepest insecurities, the part of me that still feels foolish and small. The part of me distrustful of those who could hurt me again. The part that whispers, why do you bother to give? You are ignored. Why don’t you just leave it all behind, the church will never change.

Possibly, but a deeper truth echoes from within my unrooted self. Man did not weave that golden-orange cloak. Man did not orchestrate those breathtaking harmonies inside that exhibit, nor did man extend that warm, forgiving hand that broke the chains off of me some six years back. Man did not validate me nor has man called me. Man cannot take this away because it was never his to give. The priest who scorned Amos told him to go back to his fields and earn his bread elsewhere. But Amos knew that when the word was given, the servant has no choice but to speak. I am formed uniquely just as you are and my sending is unique and does not fit the norm of what is expected. No hunger for self-glory exists here; that was in my Egypt, burned painfully out of me a lifetime ago through my own years of wandering in the desert.

I cannot please everyone, nor should I expect everyone to understand. Maybe this unrootedness will continue for awhile longer. But I do know that despite this I should not be fearful of what others might think or say.

The memories of my failures will always be there, but hiding behind them is no option. Nor will I wait for any validation other than the One who asked of me, 'What is your last name?' Anything of great value will always come at a great cost. But even so, I am learning to walk forward, confident that my steps are guided and that my name bears the call of my life.

And so, it is time to build.