(What follows is a transcript of my speech yesterday. I'm still feeling the after effects today, like a high still, of being called up to speak at church of all places. Who would have thought I'd ever be asked to speak at church. I will use this to undoubtedly fuel me for as long as it will take me.
As my nervousness wore off, I distinctly remember faces and expressions, and it felt as if I weren't reading at all. And I still recall my first ever speech class in college, when I dropped the course after I bombed the basic "introduce your neighbor" speech. God is great)
My name is Reynaldo Cordova. I attended the Reynoldsburg Men’s Walk #59 and sat at the table of Mark. I am honored to stand before you as a brother in Christ to deliver two messages for you today. One, what did the Emmaus walk mean to me and what have I done since then.
My experience with church and Jesus began as a four year old boy in Houston, TX. I am told that on that first visit, I began asking my mother what was church. And after given an explanation that church was a place where a man named Jesus lived, I decided to find out who that man was. In doing so, I shouted upon entering Catholic mass that Sunday, “Where’s Jesus? Where’s Jesus?” Little did I know that it would take me almost 33 years before I listened for an answer.
As a teenager, I surely asked where Jesus was in my life. I longed for that fatherly relationship from my dad I saw on weekends and rebelled against the step-father who was raising my sister and I. I tried drugs in high school, alcohol, questionable friends and unhealthy relationships. I questioned every moment and looked for the unfairness of life. Why would Jesus take my Uncle Richard, just married and handsome, so full of life? Sometimes I would think that Jesus only lived on the walls of that church growing up, a figure so distant and painful like the tears of a viejita at church, like the Jesus oil painting above my grandmother’s kitchen table that watched as I guiltily ate tortillas. My relationship with Jesus mirrored a church statue of the Virgin Mary that sat regal in a glass encased podium, no doubt bullet proofed and free from the oily touch of us parishioners.
But little did I know that all the turns I made in Texas would eventually lead me to Ohio. You see, roads in Texas are flat, straight, narrow. Five lanes of sameness. You make 3 right turns in Texas you end up back where you started. You try that in Ohio, you end up in Chillicothe. The roads here corkscrew and deviate from the norm that I was used to. I remember being frightened of hills that make your stomach churn, fearful for what was ahead. I know that to have stayed in Texas would have meant I was not to grow as a man, as a new husband, as a potential father and later, for my spiritual growth.
Recently, I struggled with one such road. I volunteered to drive my daughter’s softball team after a canoe trip in Hocking Hills. Because I had dropped them off the day before, I didn’t feel I needed the GPS to get back to the camping area. Once there, I realized I needed to be down river, and without any phone service, I raced down and found the girls had found other means of transportation. So here I am, ready to take route 33 out to anywhere but home. How embarrassing. This was just another scab on this summer’s résumé of being late to games, getting lost, the stereotypical man who won’t stop for directions. I began to drive back, ready to crawl into a hole. My phone rang then, and to some of my friends, the next part they will never believe I did unless they were there sitting next to me: I answered it. On the other line, Emmaus. In my worst moment, when my confidence was zero, surely not enough to stand before you today, God wanted me. He called. “Reynaldo, I’m here.”
So as a married man and teacher living here, struggling with selfishness, with pride, with the role of a man, I didn’t even know where to ask, “Where’s Jesus?” I even promised Jesus I would straighten up after fostering our now adopted daughter. Two kids later, he was still waiting for me to make good on that promise. Depression followed, and something a great friend saw in me led him to suggest an Emmaus walk. And when John Hack shows up with paperwork to sign, you sign it.
That Saturday night, the answer I had searched for since childhood filled my bones and soul like a fever. And like all good answers, it made me realize he had been there all the time, and that it was me who moved too fast to realize the answer. It was in the loving advice of my mom, the narrow escapes from troublesome situations, the guiding hand of my wife, the love and acceptance of my in-laws, to college scholarships that just happened to be discussed as I walked into the registrar’s office. “I’m here, Reynaldo, just accept it.”
What have I done since then? Since then, I see parallels to the game of “Perfection.” You know the Milton Bradley game. You take 25 random geometric shapes and place them in corresponding holes on a game board before an arbitrary timer springs the gameboard upward, spilling your hard work all over the floor.
Sometimes, I play the game like my 3 year old daughter. I spend more time fitting shapes into the wrong places. Like my lack of devotions or church attendance this summer. The timer suddenly goes off and I’m picking up the pieces.
Other times I play the game like my six year old son. He’s a little more advanced. Sometimes, he actually gets most of the pieces right, like bible studies, share groups and teaching Sunday school. Other times, just when I think I’ve won the game, the schedule erupts yet again. Softball practices, volleyball, meetings. Some weeks the timer doesn’t shake my world, and other times it does.
And sometimes, I play to win. And like most board games in my house, you realize there are missing pieces. Gifts I don’t have, my fears, my hangups. What I have realized is that the Emmaus community, and to a better extent, my church family, is behind me the entire time, rooting for me. Every hug, every positive facebook post, every phone call when you’re feeling down. That’s Jesus right there. In your face. “I am here, Reynaldo, remember?”
So friends, continue to gather, continue to join a share group. If you aren’t in one, find one. I’m blessed to have my buddies Ted and Doug, and sometimes Matt and Jay, meeting every Saturday mornings at Tim Horton’s. I’m beginning to love that place. As a people watcher, I love the families coming in, the soccer moms, the one guy with 4 boxes of bagels, the men that sit next to us that make the back of the room feel like a barbershop. Donuts and extra large coffees, and the best conversation one could ask for. I’m amazed of our similarities, from our teenage daughters to raising boys into men, from nerdy movies and fantasy football. We’ve come to understand that fooze ball can be considered a call to discipleship. Sometimes we even meet at the Waffle House, which means if you haven’t prayed over the sound of sizzling bacon and Flo calling out something “smothered and covered”, well, you haven’t really prayed at all.
Volunteer too. And when you feel it isn’t for you, try something else. Keep playing because the timer is going to run out eventually. The greatest thing is, you’re not alone. I haven’t been feeling much like a Christian lately, but that’s because my game needs a slight adjustment. Some refocus. Some new game pieces. I know God is going to help me find it, because of that answer I gave him that Saturday night. “Jesus, I love you and accept your grace.”
De Colores
