The Imprints of Grease

Imagine if you will, a boy helping his father in the garage on a Sunday afternoon.  A boy young enough to be interested in the wonderment of a car engine, the bulkiness of the chrome and how the alien wheels and fans merge into one seamless system.  A tool box sits beside dad, the grease prints of work dull the metal shine.  The boy watches as the tools twist and tighten.  He doesn't know the name of them but he understands the general idea.  Sometimes the tools jump from his father’s hand which elicits curses while the metallic shout reverberates in the garage.

Years later, the boy is now a young man.  He still doesn't know the names of all the tools in the box, but he knows their function.  He knows which ones are for electrical purposes, which ones loosen bolts.  The engine itself still remains a mystery.  Liquids are topped off but the squeals and murmurs of the engine provide little clues of the diagnosis.  To replace engine parts are like organ transplants.  There’s a distrust once something new enters the body.

Now as an adult, the man has grown and sought his own knowledge.  There’s a class providing the man is taking where he learns the intricacies of the engine.  There are names for every tool in the instruction manual.  The squeals and murmurs are listed in alphabetical order in the troubleshooting index guide.  The imprints of grease that his father passed down to him are no longer a mystery.  Now the man can share his knowledge with his son.  The passing of chrome tools from one palm to another.

This story, in various forms and details, has been like my Emmaus walk.  While you may find out about the walk here, and my initial feelings when I was a pilgrim, I've been thankful to have been called back to serve as an assistant table leader, table leader and assistant lay director. 

Christmas mornings mean so much more to me as a father.  There’s a preparation involved.  The shopping, the late night wrapping sessions that my back doesn't always agree with.  As a child we awoke to the mystery and build-up of seeing presents under the tree.  Later as a young man, the gifts became more meaningful, the amount of gifts lessened.  There’s a preparation involved before each walk—8 meetings on Thursdays where a group of men pray, preview talks and hash out the logistics of the weekend.  There’s a similar energy to being this kind of parent.  Through all the missed keys of Amazing Grace (despite the joy of God in our hearts, on this particular walk the Holy Spirit had not yet quite gifted us with a singing voice) and meetings that ran late, the gift of grace was being tucked away, wrapped, only to be unveiled on a specific time.

Serving is also a humbling experience.  I remember thinking there was no way I was going to be able to not have the attention focused on myself.  I’m the loud guy in the room.  God had something else in mind, however.  I was grouped with a table leader who was my opposite, a man of few words.  I've been a table leader twice, which upon the responsibilities of being an unspoken leader, also comes with speaking in front of the group.  The jitters and nervousness were reminders that I could not do this on my own strength.  Each talk, “The Priesthood of all Believers” and “Changing Our World,” was a learning experience.  Each book I was reading at the time—God’s Politics by Jim Wallis (a little bit more progressive than I had realized at the time) and Bonhoeffer by Eric Metaxas—provided a framework for the message I was to deliver.  More importantly, God placed specific pilgrims at my table to challenge my judgments, perceptions and hang-ups. 

I didn't understand why God had placed THAT particular guy at my table.  The introvert, the young kid who loved to eat his lasagna between two pieces of garlic toast, the piano player who struggled with sexual sin so much that it seemed like his Bible kept flipping open to every specific verse that pierced his heart. 

And while I’m serving, God is continually pruning my life.  I leave burdens each time I serve, and my yoke feels a little bit lighter.  While on my first walk I asked the Lord to enter my heart, each walk since then gives me a chance to chisel away the doubt and fear that creeps in and tries to destroy.  Sometimes as Christians we look upon our hearts and see the imprints of grease we've leveled upon ourselves.  We fish for the same sins or a familiar phrase from our family—our biggest wounds always involve the family ion one way or another, don’t they?—unravels our spirit. 

But God is faithful.  This last walk I gave the “Christian Action” talk—helped by books “The Art of Neighboring,” “Fight,” and “The Sleeping Giant”—and again I was blessed with the nervousness that comes with public speaking.  I never feel comfortable in a suit, but on days such as these it becomes a moot point.  I once wore someone else’s shoes on accident my very first time speaking, and it’s true that I’m stepping into the shoes of other great Christian men before me.  Ones who held on to that small wooden cross and stood at the same podium, driven by the words of the Holy Spirit.  The symbolic baton passing has no fingerprints but those of the maker.  They are His words anyway, His pilgrims and His presence.  Every time someone says “yes” to Him is like Christmas morning on steroids.  He gets to see us open that gift of grace, wide eyed and childlike.  Welcome home.  Welcome home.  

De Colores.