Grace and Truth: A word from pastors

It’s September as I write this. School is back in session. Fall is just around the corner. Summer is on its way toward being a memory.

When I was a child, it was the habit of my teachers to begin the school year by having students report on what they had done during their summer vacations. For those who’d been to some exotic place, like the beach or the mountains, it was a chance to boast. For those of us who’d spent our summers playing in our backyards, it was a chance to try our hands at fiction. We’d work to make our backyards sound as exciting as any old trip to the beach. More exciting even. In short, we’d lie.

In fond memory of those long-ago reports, I’d like to tell you what I did on my summer vacation. Trust me, it’s all true. The true parts anyway.

Most of my summer was a continuation of the seasons before it. I went to the office, wrote and read a million emails, had coffee with folks, read The Mennonite and other things, wrote sermons, preached sermons. The usual.

But about half-way through the summer, I spent a week at Camp Menno Haven. I was pastor for the senior high camp, which mostly meant offering a daily chapel presentation.

I’d never spent a week at summer camp before, at least that I can remember. I did not know what to expect. I am about as unrustic as a human being can be. I don’t do well when deprived of the amenities of Western civilization, things like hot showers and comfortable beds. Don’t bother emailing me. I know I am a wimp.

What a relief to discover that my digs at camp were more than comfortable. I was treated well. The food was good, the staff was friendly and welcoming, and the accommodations were lovely. I even had my own bathroom.

The theme for chapel that week was “Encountering Jesus.” We looked at the story of Jesus healing the bleeding woman, Jesus and Zaccheus, Jesus and the Samaritan woman. We reflected together on what those stories tell us about our own encounters with Jesus.

Before I tell you what happened, I need to tell you this. I’ve been a Christian so long that I take a lot for granted—like the fact that I am a Christian. It has been years since I’ve thought about my conversion experience, years since I’ve remembered the wonder of it. It all seemed old hat to me.

One of the stories we used at camp was that of Paul on the road to Damascus. Paul believed he was already righteous but out of the blue got knocked silly by Jesus. It’s a story of an unexpected encounter with Jesus.

During the meditation, I shared my conversion story. My encounter was also unexpected. It happened at a Christian rock concert by Andre Crouch and the Disciples. I was in high school. I didn’t want to go to the concert or to be a Christian or to have anything to do with Jesus. My parents made me go.

Wouldn’t you know it? The concert was over. Andre gave an altar call. And out of the blue I got sideswiped by the Holy Spirit. Next thing I knew, I was sobbing and offering myself to Jesus.

What I want to tell you is this: As I was telling that story to the campers, I teared up.

My heart skipped a beat. What I intended as a simple illustration became something alive inside me. I remembered what it felt like to come to Jesus for the first time. My body remembered, too. In that moment it was 1972 again. I was giving in to the Spirit of Christ. All teary and shaking and alive for the first time.

I left that chapel service stunned by that suddenly alive memory. Who’d have believed it? I was a Christian. I’m still a Christian. What a wonder!

So that’s what happened to me on my summer vacation. I felt a spark. I remembered a miracle. I gave my heart to Jesus all over again.

It was maybe the best summer ever.

Ron Adams is the pastor at Madison (Wis.) Mennonite Church.