Wolf is dead. My good friend is dead. His violent and turbulent life ended peacefully this week.
The first part of Wolf’s story is one of darkness and violence. He was a Hell’s Angel and wielded terrible power over those around him. His life was a kaleidoscope of guns, sex, drugs and the occult. He was a violent and selfish man. It was here that Steven Johnson became “Wolf.” His nickname was appropriate, for all his life he would be aggressive and never well-mannered.
His life of violence made him many enemies. One night, he knew that men were coming to kill him. He turned his home into a fortress, and armed himself for a last stand. He feared death. But he would not die that night. That night he would find True Life. He accidentally turned on the TV. The channel was TBN, and the preacher pointed to him and said he needed Jesus to forgive his sins.
Then he saw a light from heaven and he audibly heard the voice of God. He felt a warmth that started in his belly and radiated thorough his body even to the tips of his fingers. His eyes became as fountains, and he wept so that his long beard was soaked with tears. That moment, he walked out of the house, literally leaving his old life and its problems behind him.
He quickly became a powerful man of God. Upon acquiring a King James Bible, he went to a coffee shop and read through it cover to cover in a few days, barely sleeping. And from that moment on, he would live such a life of adventure as to make any hero seem a coward.
He once had a gun bag that he’d fill with many pounds of tracts and Bibles. He would fast for days on end until he had distributed them all. The police once warned him that the particular neighborhood he was in was extremely dangerous for white people; he said he didn’t care and entered anyways. His entrance attracted the local gangs to come and threaten him. But he preached the Gospel to them, and not a few were convicted of their sins and prayed for forgiveness
There were many other stories of exorcisms, poltergeists, and mighty acts of the Spirit. He took jobs in logging, construction, body-guarding and other equally manly vocations.
Later, he led a home for adolescent boys with problems. To hear of his love for those kids was heart-warming. He really cared for those who were so much like him: aggressive, angry and energetic with no positive outlet. He gave them an outlet. He taught them exercise and martial arts. He directed their anger at their own sin and Satan, and their energy to good works.
But one day, he brought a black boy into the church, and this went against the deepest, darkest racist sentiments of the church leaders. It became such an issue (tact was never one of Wolf’s talents), he was fired from his live-in position and so also evicted. He vowed then that, though his belief in Christ was firm, he would never set foot in a church again. After this, he was hit by a Cadillac Escalade, permanently injuring his back and afflicting him with great pain from which he would not have a reprieve for the rest of his life.
He became homeless. His lost job, his injury, and the depression that ensued kept him on the street. The harsh conditions of the street aggravated his difficulty breathing (COPD), the result of a lifetime of smoking. Soon, the street became his home. Abandoned by his church family, and still estranged from his natural family because of his early life, his family became the homeless of his home town: Westwood. Alienated from the rest of the world, his social circle was limited to others who had (or would have) mental problems. He struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts.
Then something incredible happened. He began praying for a church. And then one opened literally across the street from where he slept every night. Shoreline Community Church, after a series of moves, had settled on the Broxton theater. And Shoreline had a heart to reach West LA. All of it. The poor along with the rich. And so people from the church began to befriend Wolf.
He became a part of our family. He went on our family outings (including our men’s retreat and our church picnics). He slept on our couches on particularly cold and rainy nights. We bought him food, and (embarrassingly) he bought us food. He once insisted (and believe me, it’s hard to dissuade him from a thing once he sets his mind on it) on buying food for a barbeque. I’ll never forget what he said that day, with more than a dozen of us gathered to eat steak the homeless man purchased for us with his EBT (food stamps). Someone asked him what he liked with his steak. He replied heartily, “More steak!” He encouraged us and we encouraged him.
Who was Wolf to me? He was one of my good friends the last two years of college. My first conversations with him were simply out of duty. I ought to lower myself to talk with him; I ought to condescend to the poor sinner (He was a sinner, after all; he had a bad mouth; and he drank alcohol). I did not then consider that he may be closer to God than I was.
I am clean person outwardly; a friend (slightly drunk) once addressed me as, “David Carreon! The F***ing Messiah!” And this foul-mouthed, irreverent, racist homeless man taught me, a test-acing, bright-futured, spotless goodie-two-shoes. Truly, I learned many important lessons through God’s servant Wolf.
He inspired me to courage. I may not risk my life as he had, but I certainly could risk my reputation. I may not have the spiritual strength to cast out demons, but I could contend for my faith. Before I knew Wolf, I considered myself among the bravest of spiritual men. He showed me just how far I have to go.
He challenged me to spiritual discipline. This man prayed for me every night from under a pile of cardboard. He read his Bible every day though he was driven from every table he ever limped to. And what did I do? I didn’t even read my Bible 15 minutes on an oaken table in a warm room. And I didn’t pray for him. And he was the one that was needy. Or was he?
He taught me humility. How could I complain about anything when I had a bed? I helped him construct his home of cardboard behind the CitiBank in Westwood a few times. I felt the looks of scorn and the people crossing to avoid coming within ten feet of he and I. I shared in a drop of his tribulation.
He taught me faith. Through the cold of the street, the pain of his back, and an illness which left him often gasping for breath, he struggled with depression. But never would he forget his savior; he never lost the hope of glory. His strength to continue living wavered at times, but his faith never did. He was assured of his salvation, and now stands before the One in whom he trusted.
“Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.” I always thought Jesus was talking about me, a spiritually humble person. I thought, “Mine is the Kingdom of Heaven.” But I think this better applies to Wolf than to me. He was poor. He was blessed. And now, his is the Kingdom of Heaven.
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Death
Like a wave, sorrow approaches me. I could clench my jaw and hold back the flow, damming up the emotion. But I keep the floodgates open, and the tears fall and fall.
My brain does not know why I cry. My sorrow is not from thoughts, for they were scattered and confused, like fireworks shooting off brightly in all directions, like a boat tossed on the violent sea of sorrow.
Death reached out and touched my brother in the Spirit this week. The cold like a fell wind penetrates the flesh and the brain to the soul. It puts a weight upon my chest that is not physical.
The spiritual is the deepest darkness of death. Death affects the emotions and the brain: sadness for separation, sorrow for pain suffered. But the blackness, the despair goes deeper than that. It goes to the very essence of my being. This is the fount of these tears.
Why do we find death so difficult? Is not this the way things have always been? Why do we yearn for an exception? Why do we want to escape from this reality of death?
It has not always been this way. And it will not always be this way. There is a memory of eternity. And there is a hope for everlasting life. And this is why we yearn: because we know this truth deeper than we know our own name.
My brain does not know why I cry. My sorrow is not from thoughts, for they were scattered and confused, like fireworks shooting off brightly in all directions, like a boat tossed on the violent sea of sorrow.
Death reached out and touched my brother in the Spirit this week. The cold like a fell wind penetrates the flesh and the brain to the soul. It puts a weight upon my chest that is not physical.
The spiritual is the deepest darkness of death. Death affects the emotions and the brain: sadness for separation, sorrow for pain suffered. But the blackness, the despair goes deeper than that. It goes to the very essence of my being. This is the fount of these tears.
Why do we find death so difficult? Is not this the way things have always been? Why do we yearn for an exception? Why do we want to escape from this reality of death?
It has not always been this way. And it will not always be this way. There is a memory of eternity. And there is a hope for everlasting life. And this is why we yearn: because we know this truth deeper than we know our own name.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Living and Life
We confusing living for life. We attempt to keep on living for its own sake, and do not realize that in so doing, we fail to truly live.
It is prudent to preserve one's life, but not for it's own sake. I wear a helmet to prevent death by unworthy causes. It is not to maximize the number of years my heart beats. I have protected my life for 23 years so that I might have a chance to spend it on something worthwhile.
We should not flee from death. We err gravely When we equate senseless death with sacrificial death. If we look at soldiers who die and those who die in car crashes and say about both, "what a waste of life," we nullify the nobility of sacrificial death. The soldier gave his life for others; his death was meaningful (even if the war isn't). The car crash victim made no such sacrifice; his death was meaningless. We may justly oppose war because of justice or cost; we ought not oppose it simply because of death.
We can never make 'less death' the end of society. Living alone is not a virtue. Courage, honor and love are; we ought never to sacrifice these for the sake of living. In our decisions we must consider the bad and good that we are preventing.
There are certainly some policy decisions which are straightforward. No major virtue is lost by mandating seat belts. But we cannot take the argument developed in a realm without virtue and apply it to one with virtue.
There is often strong opposition to an organizations' members going to dangerous places. There is a fear that their 'lives will be lost'. On the contrary. Their lives will be saved. If they die for a noble cause, they will have experienced some life within their living. If they avoid all danger and risk, they may never see life, though they live.
Life is loving our neighbor, and true life sometimes requires that a person not live as long. Life is not a beating heart. It is a thriving soul. Making life all about prolonging the functioning of a pump is foolish.
Let us never exchange life for living.
Mar 8:35 "For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake and the gospel's will save it."
It is prudent to preserve one's life, but not for it's own sake. I wear a helmet to prevent death by unworthy causes. It is not to maximize the number of years my heart beats. I have protected my life for 23 years so that I might have a chance to spend it on something worthwhile.
We should not flee from death. We err gravely When we equate senseless death with sacrificial death. If we look at soldiers who die and those who die in car crashes and say about both, "what a waste of life," we nullify the nobility of sacrificial death. The soldier gave his life for others; his death was meaningful (even if the war isn't). The car crash victim made no such sacrifice; his death was meaningless. We may justly oppose war because of justice or cost; we ought not oppose it simply because of death.
We can never make 'less death' the end of society. Living alone is not a virtue. Courage, honor and love are; we ought never to sacrifice these for the sake of living. In our decisions we must consider the bad and good that we are preventing.
There are certainly some policy decisions which are straightforward. No major virtue is lost by mandating seat belts. But we cannot take the argument developed in a realm without virtue and apply it to one with virtue.
There is often strong opposition to an organizations' members going to dangerous places. There is a fear that their 'lives will be lost'. On the contrary. Their lives will be saved. If they die for a noble cause, they will have experienced some life within their living. If they avoid all danger and risk, they may never see life, though they live.
Life is loving our neighbor, and true life sometimes requires that a person not live as long. Life is not a beating heart. It is a thriving soul. Making life all about prolonging the functioning of a pump is foolish.
Let us never exchange life for living.
Mar 8:35 "For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake and the gospel's will save it."
Saturday, January 10, 2009
The Valley of the Shadow of Death
I was Atlas, bearing the weight of the world pressing down on me. Under the emotional exertion, my heart beat faster, also crushed by the heavy responsibility before me.
I walked down creaking pine floorboards to where I would take up my mantle as senior “Médico,” not that 22 years gave me any qualifications for such a title. I took my place in a bare, makeshift examination room. As it seemed with everything in this part of Tijuana, the furniture was being held together by sheer ingenuity that comes with poverty.
The quiet, black fear broke out into an active yellow terror, like a rat out of a cage. I began to think of any means of escape. My mind darted left and right. Could I pass it to another? Could I leave it undone? No and no. All escape was blocked. If I was to be anything but a coward, I had to do this. I clenched my teeth, preparing for what would be an anaesthetized vivisection of my emotions.
Señor G staggered in, leaning on a friend. I greeted him warmly. He was wearing a blue Chargers hat that he had received as a gift. I complimented him on the hat, and he beamed with joy. I yearned for this moment to stretch into eternity.
It did not. The moment came that I had feared, the moment I had run through a hundred times in my mind. I had to tell him he was going to die. Sr. G had been on heroin and cocaine for many years. That together with alcohol had destroyed his liver, and he did not have long to live. He was my patient, and I alone bore the weight of delivering the news. Everyone dies, but woe unto me, for I had to translate a fact into a reality.
I gathered up all the courage within me, but it was only sufficient to produce a euphemism: “You’re not going to live much longer.”
“I know,” he replied. But he didn’t. He talked about plans he had for years ahead. And now I had to crush them.
“You don’t have much longer to live,” I tried again to make the sting of death less sharp. But death’s sting cannot be dulled by soft words.
“I know,” he said again. But still he didn’t. His planning continued.
“You’re going to die soon.” I used the word. I said it. And I saw despair in his eyes. His spirit overflowed with sorrow and his eyes with tears.
Then something happened that I did not understand. I spoke without speaking, and a voice that was not my own asked if I could pray for him. He and I shared a common faith; the request would have been reasonable, but for the alien source. Laying my hand on his shoulder, I prayed, pouring out my heart to our God. I thanked God for his love to us in giving salvation; I prayed that we would have faith in the valley of the shadow of death; I prayed in the hope of eternity. Then his dirge entered a new movement, as if a light new flute melody danced atop the low and mournful chorus: he remembered hope. The blackness of his night was pierced as if by the morning star; black indeed, but not black complete.
My own terrible weight of fear was cast into a sea of sadness. But even in the darkness above the waters, there was a wind of hope that hovered there unseen. As he limped away, I realized it would be the last time I would see him this side of eternity.
What did I fear? I entered medicine to speak Life, and I had to declare Death. I learned that doctors do not only announce hope, wearing white coats and stethoscopes; we must also proclaim doom, taking up the black hood and sickle. We are not saviors, but guides. We may be angels, but sometimes we must be the Angel of Death. Though we always desire to lead our patients out of the valley of the shadow of death, not all leave the valley. For those who must stay, we must be faithful guides even unto the grave. And it was that grim task that I feared.
I walked down creaking pine floorboards to where I would take up my mantle as senior “Médico,” not that 22 years gave me any qualifications for such a title. I took my place in a bare, makeshift examination room. As it seemed with everything in this part of Tijuana, the furniture was being held together by sheer ingenuity that comes with poverty.
The quiet, black fear broke out into an active yellow terror, like a rat out of a cage. I began to think of any means of escape. My mind darted left and right. Could I pass it to another? Could I leave it undone? No and no. All escape was blocked. If I was to be anything but a coward, I had to do this. I clenched my teeth, preparing for what would be an anaesthetized vivisection of my emotions.
Señor G staggered in, leaning on a friend. I greeted him warmly. He was wearing a blue Chargers hat that he had received as a gift. I complimented him on the hat, and he beamed with joy. I yearned for this moment to stretch into eternity.
It did not. The moment came that I had feared, the moment I had run through a hundred times in my mind. I had to tell him he was going to die. Sr. G had been on heroin and cocaine for many years. That together with alcohol had destroyed his liver, and he did not have long to live. He was my patient, and I alone bore the weight of delivering the news. Everyone dies, but woe unto me, for I had to translate a fact into a reality.
I gathered up all the courage within me, but it was only sufficient to produce a euphemism: “You’re not going to live much longer.”
“I know,” he replied. But he didn’t. He talked about plans he had for years ahead. And now I had to crush them.
“You don’t have much longer to live,” I tried again to make the sting of death less sharp. But death’s sting cannot be dulled by soft words.
“I know,” he said again. But still he didn’t. His planning continued.
“You’re going to die soon.” I used the word. I said it. And I saw despair in his eyes. His spirit overflowed with sorrow and his eyes with tears.
Then something happened that I did not understand. I spoke without speaking, and a voice that was not my own asked if I could pray for him. He and I shared a common faith; the request would have been reasonable, but for the alien source. Laying my hand on his shoulder, I prayed, pouring out my heart to our God. I thanked God for his love to us in giving salvation; I prayed that we would have faith in the valley of the shadow of death; I prayed in the hope of eternity. Then his dirge entered a new movement, as if a light new flute melody danced atop the low and mournful chorus: he remembered hope. The blackness of his night was pierced as if by the morning star; black indeed, but not black complete.
My own terrible weight of fear was cast into a sea of sadness. But even in the darkness above the waters, there was a wind of hope that hovered there unseen. As he limped away, I realized it would be the last time I would see him this side of eternity.
What did I fear? I entered medicine to speak Life, and I had to declare Death. I learned that doctors do not only announce hope, wearing white coats and stethoscopes; we must also proclaim doom, taking up the black hood and sickle. We are not saviors, but guides. We may be angels, but sometimes we must be the Angel of Death. Though we always desire to lead our patients out of the valley of the shadow of death, not all leave the valley. For those who must stay, we must be faithful guides even unto the grave. And it was that grim task that I feared.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Life, Death and God's Sovereignty
God is good. He's been teaching me a lot about His sovereignty recently. That's always a scary topic, and a good one if you're ever feeling prideful.
My dad randomly ended up in the hospital. At first, we didn't know what it was or even if he would make it through the night.
He was the first person I've ever known who truly looked Death in the face and smiled. In consoling a family member, he said, "What's the worst that could happen? What? Disneyland. That's the worst that could happen. I die and go to heaven."
He literally was happy. The weirdest part was that I was happy too. It wasn't the illegitimate put-a-smile-on-to-hide-the-pain while reciting Romans 8:28. It was intense and true joy, unlike any joy I've felt; I was almost crying tears of joy. Amidst others weeping and mourning, Dad and I were rejoicing together in the sovereignty of God. It was surreal.
I got to watch God use this to reach so many people in so many ways. It was really incredible. Who thought an Arterial Vascular Maleformation could be such a good thing?
What a great God!
My dad randomly ended up in the hospital. At first, we didn't know what it was or even if he would make it through the night.
He was the first person I've ever known who truly looked Death in the face and smiled. In consoling a family member, he said, "What's the worst that could happen? What? Disneyland. That's the worst that could happen. I die and go to heaven."
He literally was happy. The weirdest part was that I was happy too. It wasn't the illegitimate put-a-smile-on-to-hide-the-pain while reciting Romans 8:28. It was intense and true joy, unlike any joy I've felt; I was almost crying tears of joy. Amidst others weeping and mourning, Dad and I were rejoicing together in the sovereignty of God. It was surreal.
I got to watch God use this to reach so many people in so many ways. It was really incredible. Who thought an Arterial Vascular Maleformation could be such a good thing?
1I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry. 2He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. 3He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God. Many will see and fear, and put their trust in the Lord.
4Blessed is the man who makes the Lord his trust, who does not turn to the proud, to those who go astray after a lie! 5You have multiplied, O Lord my God, your wondrous deeds and your thoughts toward us; none can compare with you! I will proclaim and tell of them, yet they are more than can be told.
Psalm 40
What a great God!
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