My father taught music and theatre at Lipscomb University for over thirty years, plus he was the worship leader for the chapel services. During my period as a prodigal, the strain on the father/son relationship was heavy. But in time we were reconciled and took joy in one another. That was a miracle I attribute to divine Providence; I needed the miracle of repentance while Dad needed the miracle of patience.
Back in the 1980s I created three one-man shows. The most popular was “The Word Made Flesh,” the story of Jesus compiled from the four Gospels. Dad invited me to perform a portion of this show for a chapel service. Not long afterwards I received an invitation from the higher-ups at the University to do a full show for their annual “High School Day.” Kids came from all over the country and spent a weekend on the campus and I was to be the closing night entertainment. Dad had brought a guest to the show, a recovering alcoholic, someone he was mentoring. So like Dad.
I’d played for a few high school audiences and hated it, but this was a paying gig, so I girded up my loins and prepared for the worst. While pacing backstage and listening to the hubbub of 1,500 rowdy kids on the opposite side of the curtain, I kept wondering how in the world did I get here and how I might pull off a vanishing act at the last second.
Then a mysterious heaviness came over me, a feeling that I was to give a personal testimony to these kids. Whoa! Not part of the deal. I knew it wasn’t the butterflies working overtime, and the feeling only got stronger, like God squeezing my heart. So I made a bargain. Big mistake. Never negotiate a deal with God using terms you lay out. I said, “If these kids give me a standing ovation, I will give a testimony of my past life and new faith.” Kids never give a standing ovation, so I was confident of my advantage.
For over an hour, those kids were respectful, listening with intent, laughing when appropriate and quiet when the story turned somber. At the end of the show during the blackout, I kept repeating, “Don’t stand. Don’t stand.” But when the lights came up for my curtain call, the kids were on their feet. So much for the effectiveness of my incantation.
I testified that in the not-so-long-ago I had embraced a waywardness I regretted. Then I pointed to my father up in the balcony and said that he was the reason I was here tonight; that my earthly and heavenly fathers had rescued me, enabled me to be forgiven, to be justified, and to be loved. The kids weren’t really sure what to make of this, but the moment wasn’t really for them. And when I reflect on that occasion, I really did get the better end of the bargain.
