An Emmaus Reflection

First off, thanks to everyone who gave insight and guidance to my spiritual dilemma (OMG those actually exist) I wrote about in my last entry.

I have chosen to stay in the Sunday evening Bible study group and not attend the YL training. Like so many of you said, it wasn't worth it if I was not receiving fulfillment anywhere. However, since I feel strongly about the ministry of YoungLife, I have also chosen to serve on the local YL committee. This way, I can still have a hand in the ministry as a local professional, which, I think, better suits me where I am.

So thanks. :D

Now here's something I hope you'll really like!

Two weeks ago, I had the opportunity to go on a Walk to Emmaus retreat. For those who don’t know, this is a Methodist-born retreat that allows for a spiritual reawakening over the course of three days. Not an issue. Each retreat is gender-specific, so I attended with 30 other men. Not an issue. Upon arrival, I see that I am clearly the youngest participant by at least 20 years. A slight issue.

Now, thanks to camp-taught schmoozing skillz, I am rather comfortable talking to adults I don’t know. The problem is that a lot of older men don’t really know how to respond to me…especially East Texas men who were most likely brought up shootin’ deer and bleedin’ blood and twangin’ words.

Suffice it to say, I’m not the standard Texan idea of a man. And I’m totally fine with that. And it’s not that these older guys weren’t fine with it, but that they didn’t know how to respond to me. So, for the first day and a half, I was rather subdued and quiet. Which was…different, to say the least.

As the weekend tread on, I slowly became more comfortable with my assigned group, and they with me. But along with that air of comfort came some more challenges.

Challenge #1: Like I said, I was the youngest there. By a lot. So that was the first thing people saw when they looked at me.

Fortunately, the other men saw this as a positive- that I was so young and so willing to dive deeper into my faith. The first few times this happened, I accepted the compliments with an aw-shucks smile and a “thank you.”

Unfortunately, this happened all the time…to the point where I was beginning to feel undeserving and uncomfortable. I wanted praise to go to other people, or better yet, God. Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I’m amazing (no matter what we tell our parents).

Challenge #2: The Walk to Emmaus retreats are rather... notorious for rekindling one’s faith. Before I left, I was told by members of my church, friends, and family to expect to be reduced to a blubbering puddle of God-fearing tears by the week’s end. Going in, I honestly did not think that was what I needed.

Let me explain: I have never really felt separate from God. Sure, there have been times in my life when I have asked myself those questions:

• · “Why would God let this happen?”
• · “Does God really know me?”
• · “Who or what is God?”

But I’ve always known the truth in my heart: God loves me and has a plan for me. As a kid, growing in faith was not an option. Church was on Sunday mornings and daily devotions or Bible studies were expected. I was baptized as a baby and confirmed as a teenager. I have always been active in whatever church my family was attending. It apparently had such an impact that I chose to go into the ministry professionally. So throughout college I was also surrounded by faith-building people and events, whether it was Camp Chrysalis, TLU chapel, or a particularly challenging Ruge-Jones class. And of course, I now work at a church, where faith and study is front-n-center.

I don’t make a habit of claiming to know what I don’t, but I felt like I knew I didn’t need to rethink my entire faith identity because a few charismatic men told me to.

To put it simply, I spent a great amount of time wondering what someone like me could get out of the retreat.

The retreat started on Thursday evening with a vow of silence. We were told not to speak until the next morning after worship, so as to get in tune with the Holy Spirit. Thankfully, I had a roommate who, like me, did not fare well with rules against talking. He was a guy with two kids and a heart of gold, and talking to him was a welcome respite from the uncomfortable larger group.

The next morning, after we were allowed to speak again, we dove into sessions, or “talks” on different aspects of a healthy Christian life. Each talk was about 20 minutes in length, and after each one we were told to discuss the content with our table groups, come up with a summary, and plan a creative expression of the topic.

The talks themselves were fine. Many of them inspirationally incorporated the speaker’s personal life, usually a sweeping tale of falling away from God and finding God again in the lowest of places. Seriously, people got REAL. But as I said before, I have never been in such a situation, so I had a hard time identifying with the stories… I didn’t know what I was supposed to gain from these testimonies.

Fast forward to Saturday night. After another full day of talks, discussions, summaries, and creative expressions (and you had better make sure it was in that order), we were taken to a small cabin-like building for a worship service. By the time the service was over, late evening had fallen. The in-charges told us to line up by group, with our hand on the shoulder of the gentleman before us.

As we were led outside, the path we were walking was revealed to us, bordered on either side with lit candles within white paper bags. The path wound around the camp, going up small hills, crossing bridgeways, and looping around the pond in the center of the grounds. It was truly a beautiful sight. I marveled at the candlelight until we reached the dining hall, where we were met with calm singing. I was yanked forward by my own hand on the guy in front of me and was pulled into a crowd of people, each holding a single lit candle. What light wasn’t given by the candles was beaming from the smiling faces of all these strangers.

The crowd sang to us as we walked through them. Once we reached the other side of the room, we were told to sing back to the crowd. The candle-holders were silenced as the group of men began to sing- some voices shaky with emotion, some with nerves.

We sang the chant three times through. On the first breath of the fourth go-round, every single candle was lifted into the air and the volume in the room swelled with every single voice joyfully singing, the face of Jesus clearly lit up on each one of them.

In that instance, I knew God had led me here for a reason.

It didn’t matter what it was. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t figure it out. At that moment, I knew God would let me know his purpose in his own sweet, sweet time.

The next morning, I started looking at the retreat in a new light. I saw all these men around me.

• · Men who were old enough to be my father.
• · Men who were old enough to be my grandfather.
• · Men who had seen Hell and made it through.
• · Men who had met God on the path farthest from the right one.
• · Men who had raised children.
• · Men who had seen marriage fail and succeed.
• · Men who were on this retreat because they recognized the need for it in their life.

And these men were men I could only hope to be like someday.

After lunch on Sunday, we were taken into the same cabin-like building from the night before and each handed a thick yellow envelope. The group leaders told us to open the package and read in silence as they each placed an ominous box of tissues in the center of each group circle.

The first letter I opened was from my Aunt Hope, who I haven’t seen in much too long. She wrote of the times years ago when she would read to me each book I brought her. She wrote of how proud she was of me and my life’s choices. She wrote of how her sister (my deceased grandmother) would light up when she used to see me coming when I was a toddler. I finished the letter and wiped my wet eyes with the sleeve of my jacket.

Other letters I got were from the rest of my family, members of my Longview church, and even friends from Camp. Each one brought with it a surge of emotion and primal, instinctual agape love for each and every person.

You often wonder how people really feel about you. You worry if you are being the Christian God called you to be. When you get 30 letters not only telling you that you are being that person, but that all these people love you even more for it…man, it hits you like a ton of bricks.

As I was being driven away from the campsite by my Emmaus sponsors, I reflected on what I had gained from the weekend. No, it wasn’t a rededication of my life. No, it wasn’t a sweeping epic tale. But what I got was inspiration. Inspiration to take back home to Longview. I had been inspired by the events of the weekend. Inspired to be a man of God through the good times and bad. Inspired to bring creativity back to First Lutheran. Inspired to be the person everyone who wrote me letters said I was.

My Walk to Emmaus wasn’t a usual one. But it wasn’t unlike the walk the Gospel of Luke describes to us.

A couple of Jesus’ disciples were walking along to Emmaus when a stranger comes up to them. He begins walking and talking with them about many things. When they make it to Emmaus, they offer to feed the stranger. It is then that Jesus reveals himself to his disciples.

I went on this retreat not really looking for anything. I was introduced to 30 older men with who I had nothing in common. I went through the first few days almost ignorant to the Holy Spirit’s work. All of a sudden, Jesus slapped me in the face, as if to say, “WAKE UP.”

He had been there the whole time.

I just had to stop looking.

-Danul