I stayed up late Wednesday night
When I was twenty-four and just out of graduate school I got my first "real" job as the support and recovery group director at a large church in Indianapolis. I have no idea how I got this job. My counseling training was at an uber-secular college, I'd done my internship under the mentoring of an atheist, and I hadn't much been to church save Christmases and Easters and our wedding for the last six years. I was a bit skeptical about working at a church, but the counseling pastor was so genuine and funny and brilliant that I knew working with him I'd have a blast and learn a ton. Somehow he slipped my obvious deficits in religious knowledge past the elder board and offered me a job. I guess this was God's way to get me back in church, and I'm grateful.
One night after a group I was packing up to head home when a man in a white T-shirt and faded jeans shuffled downstairs to my room in the basement warren. "Is Gary around?" he asked, looking for my boss, the counseling pastor.
"He's still in a meeting." I nodded toward another room. "Can I help you?"
"We can just hang out while we wait," he said. He straddled a chair and considered me. I considered him back, while trying to appear as if I wasn't, trying to appear nonchalant. I was a counselor now, you see, so I thought I was supposed to seem wise and accepting and as if I'd seen it all. But...
He wasn't wearing shoes.
Not like just-kicked-off-my-shoes-at-the-door-because-it's-late-and-I-have-a-blister, but like these-calloused-feet-haven't-seen-shoes-in-years not wearing shoes. This was surburban Indianapolis, a rather well-to-do area and, well, people wore shoes. They just did. We had a clothing closet at the church, to which Gary had a key, so, okay, whatever, none of my business, really. Still.
He stared at me as if he knew what I was thinking but didn't much mind. "What's it like for you, working at a church?" he asked.
I've never been good at small talk, especially small talk about myself. I was usually the one asking the questions. But this didn't seem like small talk. He leaned forward.
"Oh. Well." Somehow, the civil and polite society answer of "fine" didn't seem appropriate. He had a childlike intensity, like a kid desperate to take something apart, to figure out how it worked. I glanced toward the door, wishing Gary would hurry. "There's a lot more to church life and politics than I ever realized," I said.
He wanted to know more. And so we talked for a bit. I don't remember what about, but I do remember that I forgot to care that he wasn't wearing shoes. My concerns that he might be off his medication dissipated. He had a spiritual depth, a way of looking at life through a slightly different lens. I do remember one question he asked. "What is something that scares you?"
I didn't answer. Maybe because the question itself scared me, maybe because Gary arrived. The two greeted each other like brothers. Hmmm, I thought. Odd for a counselor-client relationship. "Oh good, you've met," Gary said.
"Um." I realized we'd overlooked the formalities of names and such. "Kristi Thompson," I said, extending my hand.
"Rich Mullins," he said, shaking it.
I was still new to this church thing, and I hadn't yet familiarized myself with the Christian music scene. That name rang a bell, but I couldn't quite place it. I glanced at Gary. He was laughing at me. Rich seemed oblivious. He reached into his bag and pulled out an instrument I didn't recognize. "Let's hear it," Gary said. Rich settled in, that same childlike intensity on his face, and began to play, masterfully play, what I later learned was a hammered dulcimer. The pieces clicked into place. Rich Mullins, Christian music artist, "Awesome God" and "Sing Your Praises to the Lord" and other songs even I in my ignorance knew and loved.
Gary and Rich had been friends in college, and were still close. Rich blew in and out of the church several times in the years I worked there, sometimes giving concerts, sometimes just stopping by to talk through spiritual revelations. I didn't know him well, but I think everyone who brushed against him felt his love, his genius, his intensity, his brokenness, his exuberance. He was the most famous person I'd ever met, but he didn't want to be a celebrity. He wanted to be like Jesus.
And he didn't care what a first year counselor might think about his lack of footwear.
That wasn't what my Thursday morning devotion was about, though, not really. I veered off topic, into thinking about Rich's question about what scared me. But this devotion got me remembering two men, Gary and Rich, who didn't much care about power or fame or fortune, but rather who knew how to walk with Jesus with abandon, and who are probably just now enjoying a killer jam session with their Lord.
And they probably aren't either one of them wearing shoes.
