We were almost there!
The fifteen
passenger van I was sitting in heaved to the left as we turned into the
amusement park. It was Kingdom Bound time at last! Kingdom Bound was a Christian
music festival that ran for three days inside an amusement park in upstate New
York called Darien Lake. It was the most important event of the year, second
only to Christmas. I’d spent the entire summer saving money for this one trip.
Our church youth group talked about it endlessly. When the flyers came in the
mail we poured over them, noting each band and speaker. We dreamed of that
glorious three days at the end of August when Darien Lake became the property
of Christians.
The
excitement was palpable. The thick humid air clung to my skin. Even the heat
and smell generated by the twenty bodies inside the van did nothing to diminish
my enthusiasm. It was the hottest time of the year in Upstate – absolutely
sweltering. I hated the heat but as I said, Kingdom Bound mania knew no bounds.
Its fires burned bright and could not be diminished by mere weather conditions.
We were finally there.
I knew
exactly what I was going to do. While everyone else was probably going to ride
rides or camp out at the main stage, I was on a mission. My first stop was
going to be the vendor’s tent. Why? Because it was the largest collection of
Christian music I had ever seen. Any artist. Any style. Sometimes they would
even have rare indie stuff that never saw the light of day in my little
hometown Christian bookstore. I had almost two hundred dollars in my pocket to
get me through the weekend. Most of that would be spent on tapes and t-shirts.
I might buy some food too, but only if I was in danger of dying of starvation.
The van looped
around the parking lot as my aunt Missy tried to find a good parking spot. Out
of the van’s smudged window I could see the peaks of the Viper roller coaster
in the distance. The van eased into a spot at last. My sister, Elise, grabbed
my shoulder from behind and shook me excitedly, “We’re here! We’re here! We are
finally here!” I snapped out of my reverie and gave her a big grin.
“Vendor
tent, here I come!” I said excitedly.
“Not me,”
Replied Sylvia, one of the other girls in the youth group. “I’m going to park
my butt in the front row of the main stage and never leave. If I’m lucky, I’ll be
splashed by my sweet Kevy-poo’s sweat!”
“That’s
gross,” I replied. “But good luck, I guess.” Sylvia had a massive crush on one
Kevin “K-Max” Smith of DC Talk – a hip-hop group that was one of the more
popular bands among my fellow teens.
“That’s where
I’ll be too!” said my aunt Missy. “I just want to see Ray Boltz and Al Denson
up close.” They were a couple of adult contemporary performers that I didn’t
really care for. Ray Boltz in particular was a favorite of anyone who sang
“special music” in church. I think I’d heard his song, “Thank You,” at least a
million times by singers of varying ability. That is, varying from “almost
listenable” to “horny cat yowling in the night.” Besides, back then I was all
about heavy metal.
It was then
that my grandfather turned to me and said, “When are the services?”
“What do
you mean?” I asked. My grandfather had been a pastor for over forty years. He’d
been the shepherd of a several churches spanning two denominations. He played
the trumpet. His wife (my Grandma) played the organ. Together they were the
picture perfect ministerial team. However, he was an old school type guy – very
traditional. He rode with us the entire
way in a grey suit and tie. He never even took off his jacket. He also didn’t
say much during the hour and a half long trip to the park. The few words he did
speak were to my aunts only.
“You know,
services? This is a Christian event isn’t it? Aren’t there any services?” he
asked with a slightly annoyed tone.
“I think
there are some in the mornings.” I replied. I unzipped my fanny pack (hey,
don’t judge) which housed my cash stash and pulled out a map of the park. “They’re
over here in the worship tents” I said, pointing to the map. “I think they’re
at eight or nine o’clock. I don’t know if we’ll even be here by then.” We
weren’t camping at the park like many of the festival goers. We were staying at
a comfy little Holiday Inn a mere fifteen minutes away. Also, we were not early
risers.
My grandfather just sighed in
response and rolled his eyes. “Of course not. But thank you for showing me.”
I put my map away and wondered if
it was really a good idea for him to come. He’d heard my sister and I talk endlessly
about it and I guess he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I was sure
he wasn’t going to like it. Like I said, he was old school. It was all about
hymns and Sunday school and meetings and services. He was into “the ministry”
and didn’t have much use for anything that didn’t serve a “spiritual” purpose.
I remember vividly getting a stern lecture from him about one of my band
t-shirts. I think the band was Vengeance Rising. He said the design couldn’t
have sprung from a Christian mind. No sir, I didn’t think he was going to like
anything he saw here. After all, he would be the only man in the hot August sun
wearing a suit.
There were actually nineteen of us
(not counting Grandpa) this particular year. It was me, my sister Elise, and
Sylvia. Then there was Kim. Elise, Sylvia, and Kim were the, how do I say, de
facto “leaders” of the group – socially speaking. Then there was my aunt Missy
the official “youth group leader” (“youth pastors” hadn’t quite been invented
yet), and my other aunt Helen. They took great pains to remind us kids to be on
our best behavior because, as they said, “This is our vacation too!”
My friends Matt, Jason, and Chris
came along as well. They were friends from the neighborhood. I couldn’t ever
tell if they were really Christians. They came to youth group on and off. We
never really talked about spiritual things much. Mostly we just spent our time
playing Nintendo and goofing off. However, in whatever spiritual state they may
have been in they could not resist the siren call of Kingdom Bound. The rest of
the group was filled out with some of Elise’s friends from school that I didn’t
know very well. They’d only come to youth group sporadically. I did know one of
them, Brooke, because she was absolutely gorgeous and I had a major crush on
her. Unfortunately, I had absolutely no courage back then and didn’t really say
much to her.
We all filed out of the van and clustered
in a big group on the parking lot. The sun had been beating down on the
blacktop all morning so it was nice and hot. The heat radiating from the
asphalt combined with the bright summer sun beating down on our heads made
being outside insufferable. Aunt Missy began her usual speech, “Now here’s the
deal. We will be at the main stage. If you need anything, if there’s an
emergency, come see us. An emergency means someone is missing, bleeding, dying,
or dead. If you need food – go buy it. If you need somebody to carry your
stuff, buy a backpack. We will meet back here at the van after the Carman concert
tonight. Alright?”
We all shouted an affirmative “Yes,
Ma’am.” And off we went.
“We’re headed for the Viper,” Jason
offered. “You coming, Jax?” My friends shortened my name, Jackson, to Jax. I
usually told people it was because I liked to use Jax when we played Mortal
Kombat II. The truth was they called me “Jax” because I had a fondness for Jax
brand cheese puffs.
“Nah, you know where I’m headed.” I
said.
“Okay, dork.” He said laughing.
As our clot of sweaty teenagers
gradually made its way to the front gate my grandfather tapped me on the
shoulder.
“Could you show me where the
worship tents are?” he asked. I was kind of surprised. I don’t think my
grandfather had asked anything of me ever, least of all advice on where to go.
Thankfully, the worship tents weren’t that far from the vendor tent so I wasn’t
losing much time. I was really annoyed at the inconvenience but I tried not to
show it.
“Yeah, I guess. Follow me.”
As we walked I reveled in all the
familiar sights and sounds. The little souvenir shops, the lemonade stands, the
big red barn where they held the silly vaudeville-type shows. The Sea Storm.
Ah, the Sea Storm, my absolute favorite ride. It was my favorite because it
jerked me around just enough to be fun, but not so much that it was scary. Yes,
I was a real wuss. Despite his age and heavy, polyester suit, my grandfather
managed to keep up with me.
“The tents are over there,” I said,
pointing to several white peaks not far from where we were standing.
“Okay. Thank you,” he replied and
stalked off without saying another word. I just didn’t understand it. If he was
going to be so unhappy why even bother coming? It was one of the many questions
I had for my grandfather. Like why wouldn’t he ever talk about anything? Why
was our Christian music so bad but his hymns so good? Why was it so important
to wear a suit all the time? On the off chance I broached the subject he would
just grunt something about it being “just the way things are.”
Furthermore, I didn’t understand
how a man who never wanted to talk to his family and grumble about every new
thing under the sun could call himself a Christian. Weren’t we supposed to be
joyful? Life abundant and all that? How could such a man could claim to serve
the infinite Creator of the universe? My grandfather was so myopic in regards
to how things should be that sometimes I wondered if he was even born again. He
just seemed so angry all the time. Sometimes I would find myself thinking, I really hate having him around. Maybe all
this was all just for show or a social thing. Or a power trip. Only God knew.
I shook my head as he walked away
and focused on the task at hand: tape hunting. My tape collection was a thing
of beauty. I can say, with some certainty, that it was one of the largest
collections in upstate New York. I had all the albums from all the great metal bands:
Deliverance, Tourniquet, Vengeance Rising. I’d even gotten to score some cool
demos from bands like Immortal and Thresher. I loved music. It was my life
blood. It brought color to everything I did. School was more bearable because I
looked at my tape inserts during class. I remembered things, not based on date
or time, but by the music I had when it happened. Most of the Scripture I had
memorized was the stuff in Christian metal lyrics.
Needless to say the vendor tent at
Kingdom Bound was my Promised Land. It was a veritable bounty of Christian
music goodness. I walked into the tent and basked in the ambience. The smell of
straw wafting up from the ground along with the cedar shelves containing
thousands of tapes and CDs filled my nostrils. The racks were filled with
colorful album art ranging from simple portraits of the artists to lush
illustrated landscapes that would put Roger Dean to shame. The illustrated
covers usually contained rock or metal. It was one of the few times that you
could judge a book by its cover! Last year I must have spent one hundred
dollars just on tapes alone. This year? The sky was the limit! Well, the money
in my fanny pack was the limit, but still!
The game was on. I strode over to
the tape section and quickly found the “Artists A - D” rack. I examined each
one in turn following with my finger like a child reading a Golden Book,
careful to read the artist and title so as not to miss anything important. I
slowly worked through the alphabet this way.
Once I was satisfied that I had
seen everything I grabbed a few tapes, probably three at most. I didn’t want to
spend all my money in the first hour of the trip, you know. I grabbed the
latest release from Sacred Warrior and some band called Torn Flesh. I was even
able to score The Downward Spiral by the Moshketeers. They were a band
I’d heard a lot about but, since they weren’t on a “major” record label, they
never made it to my local store. There was a lot of buzz about them. They’d
been thanked in a dozen other bands’ liner notes. Word on the street and in the
zines was that they were awesome. Now I
had one. I was happy as a clam.
After perusing the tapes for a good
half hour I ventured out to see the other sites. Festivals like this were
crammed with vendors. You could get some great Christian books for only a few
dollars. I used to load up on Christian t-shirts as well. Sometimes, joy of
joys, you would find another music vendor. Not to mention seeing the artists
themselves selling their merchandise. That was the cool thing about Kingdom
Bound, the artists seemed a lot more accessible than regular musicians. While
walking around I met the guys from Sacred Warrior and even had them sign the
tape I had gotten a few minutes earlier.
I glanced down at my watch, it was
almost two o’clock. I opened my fanny pack and checked the schedule. Ronnie
Hawke was speaking at the worship tents. He was the guitarist to one of my
favorite bands: Holy Knyte. Yeah… the names left something to be desired back
then. I really did want to hear him speak though. I realized that he was
probably going to be at the same tent where my grandfather was.
I made the journey to the worship
tents in the hot sun, not before stopping to grab a soda on the way there. As I
approached the tent I looked around for my grandfather. I found him in the
third row, near the middle. There he was sitting in his full suit. The only one
in the crowd I might add. A young woman was up on stage butchering “How Great
Thou Art.” And I do mean butchering! Like a serial killer hacking up a victim,
not one note of this classic hymn went unmangled. I snickered a little as she
botched the last note in spectacular fashion. I was sure this would be Grandpa’s
favorite part.
I sat down several rows behind Grandpa.
I didn’t really want him to know that I was there. Not that he would have
talked to me anyway. The young lady singing mercifully gave up the stage to the
MC. He was an older guy with a brown mullet, a Christian T-Shirt (which had the
Burger King logo reworked to say “Jesus the King” or something). He also had on
some eye-piercing neon colored tropical shorts because it was the Nineties.
Hey, we were all guilty.
“Thank you, Madeline, for that
song.” He said. “Our God really is great isn’t he?” Several “amens” arose from
the crowd. He continued, “We’ve got a special treat here today folks. He’s
going to be talking about evangelism and how important it is to reach those
people who we wouldn’t normally talk to. Everyone please welcome the guitarist
for Holy Knyte, Ronnie Hawke!”
Everyone clapped, politely. This
wasn’t the place to gush.
“Hey everyone. Thanks for coming.”
He said. Ronnie Hawke was a lanky guy with long black hair and a black goatee.
His hair was pulled back in a pony tail. He was wearing black denim shorts and
a white Vengeance Rising T-shirt - specifically the one where Satan was bound
in chains and being thrown into the abyss. I had one too. It was one of my
favorites. Black Nike high top shoes completed the ensemble.
“I know I probably look a lot
different from some of the other people you’ve seen up here today,” he said. He
was kind of a soft spoken dude. He didn’t really project a “rock star” persona
either. He gave off a vibe that he was just a regular person.
“But rest assured. I am 100%
completely sold out for Jesus.” He went on to give his testimony. He’d come
from a broken home with an abusive dad. He hung around a bad crowd. Got into
some drugs and trouble with the law. Then more drugs. Then more trouble
with the law.
“I hit rock bottom, man.” He said
of his second visit to jail. “My friends had all left me, my mom wouldn’t even
talk to me anymore. I didn’t have any money to get drugs. Then one day I was
sitting in my cell thinking about killing myself. I was looking around my cell
looking for something I could do it with, you know? Then a little voice popped
into my head. It was the weirdest thing. I’m not gonna lie, I’ve had a lot of
voices in my head, but this one was different.”
He described the voice as “quiet,
but strong.” Not like any other voice he had ever heard. He told us that the
voice suggested he go to the weekly church service. I knew what he was talking
about because I’d heard that voice too, not a lot though. I could count the
times on half of one hand, but enough to know what he meant.
“So I did,” he said. “I walked in
there and saw this dude in the front. He had a suit on. Kinda looked like that
dude right there,” he said pointing to my grandfather. People looked him.
Grandpa looked around at the people looking at him.
“Sorry, mister.” Ronnie said. “No
offense or anything. It’s just that, when I saw that guy I thought there was no
way anything he could have said to me would have mattered. I was wrong. He told
me about God and about his Son, Jesus. He told me that there was more to life
that just breathing. He said that God had provided a way for me to be forgiven
and be a better person.”
It was hard not to be affected by
Ronnie’s testimony. He was so sincere. He wasn’t crying (never trusted criers)
but you could tell, just by the way he talked and the look in his eyes that
this was a real thing to him.
“I accepted Jesus that day.” Ronnie
said. “Now I said all that to say this. I would have never known the love of
Jesus if that man hadn’t done his prison ministry. This dude had a vision to
reach people that most people didn’t think about talking to. It’s because of
him that I’m in the Kingdom of God.”
Several “amens” rose up from the
crowd. He went on, “That’s why the guys and I started Holy Knyte. There’s kids
out there that won’t come to church. They won’t come to a church event. But
they will come to a club. They’ll come to a heavy metal concert. They’ll listen
to me when I talk because I look like a rock star. I’ve got a chance to get
kids into the Kingdom of God!”
He shared a
story of a time after one of his concerts. A kid, a lot like he was pre-conversion,
had challenged their beliefs after a show. Ronnie said the band didn’t argue
with him or debate him. They just tried talking to him about his life, asked
questions, and listened. Eventually they were able to share the gospel with him
and he got saved right then and there.
“I still
get letters from this kid,” Ronnie said. “He says God is calling him to be a
missionary! Can you believe that?” Ronnie was getting a little more animated.
“He’s gonna go off to some third world country and help build the Kingdom all
because of this silly music we play! I tell you what, guys, even if I never
play another note I am so grateful and humbled by the work God has done through
the band.”
Ronnie
wrapped up his talk shortly after that. He shared one of his favorite
Scriptures and prayed. He blessed everyone and walked off the stage. I was
impressed. He hadn’t really said anything that I didn’t already know or didn’t
already agree with, but it was cool hearing it from the man himself. I had to
restrain myself from running over to him and vomiting affirmation all over him.
As I got up
I briefly wondered what my grandfather was thinking. He’d never respected my
music or the people who made it. When he found my sister and I listening to it
he’d always say, “Sounds like they’re getting ready to cook the missionary!” I
saw my grandfather get up and turn around. He’d spotted me and made a beeline.
There was no escape. I was bracing for a diatribe of some sort. I was
pleasantly surprised.
“I’m
hungry.” He said matter-of-factly. “Is there anywhere good to eat around here?”
This was the second time my grandfather actually asked me for something. Two in
one day! The devil must have been shivering.
“Um, yeah.”
I replied. “I was going to go get a burger. You can come with me, if you want.”
I said. I was really hungry because I didn’t really eat anything all day,
chosing to subsist off Kingdom Bound excitement. I was hoping he would turn
down my invitation. I didn’t want to sit there in awkward silence or, worse,
hear some lecture.
“That
sounds good.” He said much to my chagrin, “Lead the way.”
I led him
over to a burger joint by the Sea Storm. We waited in line and got our food. We
both got burgers. I guess we have something in common, I joked to myself.
We sat down and started to eat. Well… I started to eat. Grandpa bowed his head
for a second and whispered a quick prayer of thanks. I felt a little ashamed
that I didn’t think to do that.
We sat and
ate in silence for a while. The whir-whir-whir of the Sea Storm and the cacophony
of ambient noise provided the only accompaniment to our meal. Finally, against
my better judgement I decided I would ask him about what the thought of Ronnie
Hawke’s testimony. I’m nothing if not a glutton for punishment.
“Looks like
a hippie,” he said. “Probably doesn’t have a real job.”
I wasn’t
surprised, but I was hurt. Why did it always have to be like that? I wanted to
argue, to defend my “hero.” I wanted to point out all the good he’d done. How
God had saved him from a horrible life and gave him a new purpose. I wanted to
ask why that wasn’t good enough. But after so many years of Grandpa ridiculing
my music I just didn’t have the energy to fight another losing battle. I stared
down at the few remaining pieces of my burger and pushed some ketchup around
with a fry. I wished he would just go away.
“I’m
sorry.”
I looked
up. Did my grandfather just say sorry? He’s never said sorry! Thoughts poured
into my mind – Did I hear him right? Is
this real? Is this really happening? Am I going crazy? No, I’m dead. I died at
the tent and this is my near death experience. This can’t be real.
“This must
mean a lot to you,” he said. It was real.
“Well,
yeah.” I said. “It means more than you know.” Since we never talked, he
couldn’t know the half of it. The time I’d spent alone in my room worshiping to
Sacred Warrior’s “Holy, Holy, Holy” or the time I was really depressed and The
Lead’s “Suicide Is a Lie” gave me hope or how excited I got about Jesus’
resurrection while listening to Vengeance Rising’s “From the Dead.” He truly
had no idea.
My
grandfather sighed.
“I’m
sorry,” he said, again. He had a tired look in his eyes. It was like, in this
particular moment, all his years weighed heavier on him than normal. I realized
something serious must be going on. First, my grandfather apologized to me and
I cannot overstate how momentous that was. Second, it felt like he’d let down
his guard for a minute. He wasn’t “Pastor” or “Elder” or even “Grandpa” – he
was just a tired old man.
“I must be
getting old,” he said after a minute.
“What do
you mean?” I asked.
“I bet
you’re wondering why I came with you guys this year.”
I laughed.
“That is an understatement.”
Surprisingly,
he smiled and chuckled too. “No doubt it is. The short answer is that God told
me to.”
“Really?” I
said, genuinely interested.
“Yes. I do
listen to you guys, you know. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I do. It
seems like all you guys talk about is this music and concerts and this
festival.” He was right about that. An inordinate amount of our time was spent
discussing all of those things.
He sighed
again. “But you talk about God too. You talk about Jesus. And you do it a lot
more than I ever did when I was that age. I can’t stand some of that racket you
guys listen to but if God is talking to you through it, well, then maybe
there’s something to it.”
I just
listened in stunned silence.
He went on,
“I was talking to the Lord one day about you guys. I asked Him all about this
stuff. Do you know what He said?”
I just
shook my head no.
“He said, Man
looks upon the outward appearance but I look upon the heart. I had a vision of this festival. I got the
distinct impression God wanted me to go with you guys this year.
So here I am.”
He popped
the last big of burger into his mouth and chewed. I polished off mine as well.
“I have an
idea,” he said after he finished. “What say I go to one of your concerts if you
go to something I want to go to.”
I couldn’t
believe my ears! Did my own grandfather just agree to go to a Christian metal
concert? I shuddered to think about what he might subject me to, but I was excited
that he was actually taking an interest in me.
“Okay.
Sounds good.”
“Tomorrow
there’s a service around eleven in the morning. Will you go to that with me?”
“Yes.” I
said. I meant it.
“And what
concert shall we go to?”
I thought
about it for a minute. I could take him to see Holy Knyte but I knew the
vocalist’s helium high falsetto vocals would really irritate him.
“Um… Sacred
Warrior might be good.” I said. I picked them because they did actually sing,
and while there was the occasional high pitched wail it was mostly melodic.
“It’s a
date.” He said.
“Cool.”
We took our
trays to the trash bin and went our separate ways. He was off to see some
speaker at the tents and I was off to ride the Sea Storm a few times before
Novella performed. As I waited in line for the ride I could only think of
tomorrow. It’s going to be an interesting day.
The next
day we got to the park a little early. I think Grandpa had talked with my aunts
the previous night. The ride from the hotel was a bit different. Everyone
noticed it. Grandpa was listening to all of our stories. He was asking
questions.
“So who’s this
Carman now?” he asked my sister. Naturally she launched into a dissertation on
the man and his music. It even included an impromptu acapella sing-along of “I
Got the Joy” with Sylvia and Kim. I could tell he still wasn’t quite sure about
everything but he kept at it. I started to feel something for my grandfather
I’d never felt before: admiration.
Before long
we arrived at the park and filed out of the busted old church van. “Old
Faithful” we called it. It was a dark navy color and was on its last legs, but
we all felt a certain affection for it.
“You ready
for today?” Grandpa asked me.
I smiled,
“Are you?”
“Ready as
I’ll ever be,” he replied.
Our walk to
the tents was a stark contrast to the day before. We didn’t stalk in silence.
We were a bit more leisurely. Grandpa was still wearing a suit – a blue one
this time. But he’d seemed to lighten up a bit.
“Do you
like Carman?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I
said. “He’s kind of cheesy sometimes. But his songs are fun to sing.”
“He sounds
cheesy.” Grandpa said. We walked for a minute or two in silence and I thought
we were going back to business as usual. Then he asked, “Hey you know what song
I used to like when I was younger?”
“What
song?” I asked. I thought he was going to say some hymn or classical piece of
music.
“It was
called ‘Let a Man Come In And Do the Popcorn’ by the one and only James Brown.”
“What?!” I
laughed hysterically. He laughed too. It was a good feeling.
“I guess
what I’m saying is that I get cheesy. But don’t tell anyone I told you that.
It’s our little secret.” He mimed zipping his lips and locking them. I did the
same back, indicating I would take the secret to my grave if necessary.
We walked
and talked some more. He’d ask me what who my favorite band was and why they
were my favorite. Then he’d talk about some silly song from his childhood he
liked. I couldn’t believe it. We were… bonding.
We finally
reached the worship tents and took our seats just in time for the service to
start. It was pretty standard. You’d never guess that we were even at a
Christian music festival. There were announcements, offerings, testimonies,
even special music. Crappy, awful special music. The same woman that had sung
yesterday was going to sing again! And she was going to sing “How Great Thou
Art”… again! I sighed and rolled my eyes. I braced myself for the grotesque
vocal mutilation this song would once again suffer. My grandfather must have
seen me.
“Look, I
know she’s not the best singer,” he whispered. “But just try to listen to the
words, okay?”
I agreed.
After all he was going to Sacred Warrior later and I’d no doubt be
telling him the same thing. She began singing and it was just as awful as
before. No, it was worse. It was like she just wasn’t happy with her previous
performance. Not only did she miss every note, she garbled and shrieked them in
ways I didn’t think was possible by human beings. I was sure that every dog in
upstate New York was going bonkers right now. However, I made an effort to
listen to the words because I promised Grandpa I would. What I heard surprised
me:
O Lord
my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider
all the worlds Thy hands have made
I see
the stars, the rolling thunder
Thy
power throughout the universe displayed
Then
sings my soul, my saviour God to Thee
How
great Thou art, how great Thou art…
I didn’t expect to be moved by what
I heard. After all, I couldn’t count how many times we’d sang this song in
church. I never paid it any heed thinking it was just a “boring old hymn.”
However, when I focused on the lyrics I found that I barely noticed the woman’s
singing. I was taken up with those powerful and humbling words. At some point I
closed my eyes and sang along. I started to feel like God had arrived and was
right here listening to us sing to Him. I felt bad that I had written off
church hymns because they didn’t fit my style. I could definitely see why
people had so much love for them.
“I like that song,” I whispered to
Grandpa.
“I’m glad,” he said. “Thank you for
listening.”
The rest of the service came and
went without much fanfare. The sermon was your standard “Great Commission” type
sermon wherein we were exhorted to “go out into the world and preach the
gospel.” The speaker was really boring. He’d told a couple lame “pastor jokes”
that got big laughs for some reason. He also threw in some “hip” slang on
occasion and it was all I could do not to laugh out loud. Worse, he had a very
laid back, soothing voice which made me drowsy. Even though I was trying hard
to listen to what he was saying I found my mind wandering. I thought about the
vendor tent and which tapes I might buy next. That one with the hurricane on the cover looked cool. Then I
thought about maybe possibly talking to Brooke. Doesn’t she like Carman? Maybe I can ask what her favorite song is?
Er…maybe not. After that I daydreamed about being a starship captain. Make it so! I think I heard maybe forty
percent of the total sermon. I guess the
best thing I could say about it was that it wasn’t heresy.
The benediction couldn’t come soon
enough.
“Well?” Grandpa asked.
“It was good.” I said. “I really
like that song.” I left out the fact that I thought the sermon was as exciting
as watching grass grow.
“Yes. That’s one of my favorites.”
He said.
“Along with, what was that? ‘Let’s
Do the Popcorn?’” I joked.
“It’s ‘Let a Man Come in and Do the
Popcorn’” he replied laughing. “I’m never going to hear the end of that am I?”
“Probably not.”
The Sacred Warrior concert was at
one o’clock which gave us enough time to eat and get to the park stage in time
to get a decent “seat.” Once we arrived we saw people grouped at the front of
the stage.
“I don’t suppose we could sit back
a bit?” Grandpa asked. “This is probably going to get pretty loud.”
I agreed. To tell you the truth I
thought they were too loud as well. We picked a picnic table a little ways
back. That way we could sit down but still see the stage. While we waited I
informed my grandfather all about Sacred Warrior and what he could expect.
“Just try to listen to the words,
okay?” I asked, mirroring his question to me.
“I promise I will do my best.” I
knew he meant it.
Sacred Warrior took the stage
promptly at one fifteen – late, like true rock stars, They also had a few
delays with malfunctioning guitar monitors. I looked at Grandpa. He looked at
me with a sort of well, here goes nothin’ look.
“Hey everyone out there!” Vocalist
Rey Parra shouted from the stage. He was met with maelstrom of screams and
shouts.
“All right!” he shouted, “Kingdom
Bound! Let’s rock!” And with that they launched into the song “Master’s
Command” They were kicking major butt! The sound was loud but mixed well so you
could hear everything clearly. The band had energy. Even Rey, who was kind of a
big guy, was all over the stage. Occasionally he would stick the microphone out
to the crowd who would sing a line or two. I was in heaven. Well… as close to…
you know what I mean.
Then something odd happened while
they played. The band was cranking it out and Rey sang in his clear, clean,
soaring vocal style:
How can you say you love me
Yet have so much hate for your
brother?
Don’t you know that the law says
we’re murderers
If we hate one another?
I looked over at Grandpa to see his
reaction and I noticed he was crying. Real tears. I had never seen my
grandfather cry ever. He put his head in his hands and sobbed. I heard him
talking but I didn’t know what he was saying. I strained to hear his words but
the music drowned out his supplication. I put my hand on his back and asked him if
everything was alright.
“It’s okay.” He shouted. I just
barely heard him over the din. “Really. I’ll tell you later. Just enjoy your
show.”
I did as he asked and left him
alone. The band was well into their fourth song when he finally looked back up.
His face was red, his eyes bloodshot but he was smiling.
Then he cried again. It was when the band played “Many Will
Come,”
We will
see Him standing
When the
rest are gone
He’ll be
dressed in white
And He
will shine!
While it wasn’t the heaving sobs
from before it was very noticeable. He got some weird looks from some of the
metal kids that were hanging around us. Several asked him if he was okay and if
they could help him. It was amazing. I kept telling them he was okay. One guy in
particular, he had a Mohawk, ripped black jeans, a t-shirt with the devil being
hit over the head with a guitar, and to top it all off tattoos. Lots of them.
“Does he need some food or water or
something?” he asked. “I’ll go get it. Does he need any help?”
“It’s okay.” I shouted.
“I’m okay.” Grandpa said. “Really.
Please, kids, enjoy your show.”
When Roger Martinez, vocalist for
Vengeance Rising, took the stage to do some guest vocals for one of the band’s
songs I thought maybe my grandfather had finally gotten himself together.
“I can’t understand a word that man
is saying,” he said as Roger growled out the lyrics to “The Flood.”
I laughed. “It’s okay, neither can
I.”
I thought
it was over. The crying, I mean. I was wrong. The band played “Holy, Holy,
Holy.” It was one of my favorite songs. I sang my heart out. I raised my hands
and sang. I did sneak a peek at what Grandpa was doing and to my utter shock he
was standing on the picnic table, hands raised, tears streaming down his face, singing
along with everyone else.
Holy,
holy, holy Lord
God of
power and might
Heaven
and earth
Are
filled with Your glory!
I felt that
presence again. The same feeling I had singing “How Great Thou Art” at the
service earlier. It was that wonderful, beautiful feeling God Himself had
arrived to dwell among His people. I stopped what I was doing and just watched
Grandpa. I realized that everything I had ever thought about him and his faith
was wrong. I always thought he was just some fossil - some fossil that loved
his own way of doing things more than he loved God. I was wrong. Then I heard
that voice – Ronnie’s “voice.” That small, strong voice in the back of my head
said, You’ve hated him. It wasn’t
condemning me. I didn’t feel shame from it. It was just stating a fact. The
lyrics to “Master’s Command” floated into my head. I realized I hated my
grandfather and in the eyes of God that was a serious problem! I was ashamed of
what I’d thought about him. I saw the evil that was in my heart and I asked God
to forgive me. I made a mental note to ask Grandpa to forgive me too. I wanted
to make it right.
The concert
ended and the crowd was began to scatter. The next concert wasn’t for another
hour or so. Grandpa and I just sat on the picnic table in silence. I wanted to
tell him how sorry I was for what I’d thought about him, but it just didn’t
seem to be the right time. It seemed like an eternity. Just us two sitting
there, peacefully. Finally, Grandpa broke the silence.
“Thank you
for bringing me here!” he said. “Thank you!” His face was beaming through his tears.
I had no idea what was going on.
“You’re
welcome.” I said.
“You’re
probably wondering why I’ve been blubbering like an old maid this whole time.”
I was wondering but he spoke before I
could ask.
“I know why
God wanted me to come here. I’ve held hatred in my heart for a long time.
Hatred of change. I loved the way things used to be. The old hymns, dressing up
your best for God. A reliable service you could count on. Ministry was a
certain way. It was comforting. I always felt God’s presence in it. But things
were changing, they are changing, and I hated it. Then you and your sister
started listening to this,” he chuckled “racket and calling it Christian. I
hated that too. I even started to hate you guys.”
This was a
revelation to me. Not that he hated me, I was always pretty sure of that, but
that he would open up like this.
“But that
song,” he continued, pointing an old gnarled finger at the stage. “That song…
how can I say I love God if I hate my brother? My grandchildren? How can I
continue to act like everything is okay? Even these kids with their ripped-up
clothes and their chicken hairstyles couldn’t do anything but make sure I was
okay. Everyone here was worshipping God! I’m so sorry. Sorry for judging you
and your sister. For hating you when you were just trying to get close to God
in your own way. I thought I was preserving some sort of holiness by being
distant and judgmental. I’ve wasted so many years. Years I could have spent
with you guys. I’m so sorry.”
Grandpa
looked into my eyes and I could tell he meant every word he said.
“Will you
forgive me?” he asked.
“Yes.” I
said, unreservedly. “I’m sorry too.” I said.
“I hated
you as much as you hated me, maybe more. I hated that you would never listen to
us ort that you would never give us a chance to be ourselves. I thought
Christianity was just some sort of power trip for you. I never thought that you
might love God just as much as me. I never thought you might have struggles
too. I don’t want to be a bitter person. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”
“Of
course.”
Then he
hugged me. I don’t ever remember previously getting hugs from him. It felt
nice.
“You know,”
he said sniffling, “I think we’re going to be okay.”
And we
were. To my recollection he actually enjoyed the rest of the trip. Though later
on he admitted that, while he liked the lyrics of my metal bands, he still
thought it was racket. I thought that was fair enough. This was truly the best
Kingdom Bound I had ever or would ever experience. My grandfather had truly
changed and so had I. Everyone knew that a new day was dawning when, on the
last day of the festival, Grandpa took off his jacket and left it in the van!
