Hard Reset

      The seminary offered me halftime employment, which I eagerly accepted. I was a popular teacher and the academic environment was stimulating. It quickly became a full-time position. I told myself that maybe I just needed a break. Deep down, though, I knew it wasn’t true. I felt like a fraud training men and women to go down a path I knew was a dead end. 

      Our kids were out of the nest, away at college. There was nothing tying us to Yuba City except our house, which was beginning to feel more like an anchor than a dream come true. I preferred my backpack tent. I wanted mountains for walls and skies for a ceiling. Despite Julie’s fears that I would be eaten by a bear or fall off a cliff, I took solo trips into the Sierras. It was the only place I felt alive.

      One afternoon, while hacking my way through the brushy side of a remote lake, I found myself eyeball to eyeball with a gopher-sized creature I could not identify.  It sat on a big rock, just inches from my face. It studied me without fear, as if it had never seen one of me before either. I felt like Adam in the garden. The moment was so intensely intimate that I ruined it with laughter. The creature slowly crawled off the rock and slunk into the bushes.

      I emerged at the far end of the lake, far from my campsite. Dark clouds had gathered around the mountain peak above where my tent was pitched. Lightning began to strike. Thunder echoed off granite walls and rolled on forever. I stood frozen, not just afraid of the lightning; it was a deeper, existential fear, a feeling of alienation, as if the universe was giving an emphatic “NO” to my existence.  

      I walked briskly back to my tent and crawled into my sleeping bag, pulling the soft down around my face. I tried to process this trip around the lake. Nature had embraced me like a mother, then slapped me in the face. I couldn’t make any sense of it. Still, it felt real. I loved to touch it in any form.

      I needed a big change, that was obvious. I floated a series of wild ideas past Julie which she swatted like flies. I was shocked one day when her eyes lit up.

      “We could sell everything, and live on the road. Imagine all the adventures we would have!”

      We started to follow people on YouTube who had cut the cord with the status quo and embraced a life of adventure,  becoming more excited by the day. We sold the house and used the equity to buy a small travel trailer and pay down our kids’ college debt. We hit the road and joined a group called the RV Entrepreneurs. We met the YouTube celebrities we had followed. These were mainly young people, full of dreams and adventures. They made us feel young too.  

      I tried to hide my former life from them because the moment people found out I had been a pastor things got weird. Christianity is part of our cultural heritage but people don’t know what to do with it. Religion is like a crazy aunt who lives in the basement. We bring her up for weddings and funerals but mainly try not to think about her. As a pastor, I had been too cozy with the crazy aunt, which was weird. As a former pastor I disrespected her, which was worse.

      I hadn’t given up on God, but if my faith was to be salvaged, it needed a complete overhaul. I started a podcast called “Curb Your Dogma.” Hell was my first subject. When I looked at the Scriptures with with fresh eyes, I saw that the way I had been taught to think of heaven and hell was a product of the middle ages, a tool to keep the peasants in line. Warnings of fire and judgment could more naturally be taken as metaphors for God’s refining work in our lives. God’s plan was to save everyone. I packaged this into a podcast called “Why I love Hell” and published it. 

      We were boondocking in Quartzite, Arizona, a winter haven for RVers, when my phone buzzed. It was my old friend Tim, who had taken my place as the Pastor of River Valley. “Hey brother. We need to talk.” 

      Tim had heard to my podcast and was concerned that my departure from the Christian faith had placed me on a path to hell. Even worse, I was still in contact with members of my old flock, inviting them down the road to perdition with me. He told me what I already knew: If I kept going this way, it would be the end of our friendship. 

      I was sad to lose this cherished friendship but it did not surprise me. I was used to religion destroying my friendships. A few weeks later, someone called to tell me that Tim devoted an entire sermon to warning  people about me. I didn’t listen to it. I could have preached it myself. And I couldn’t blame him. Ten years ago I would have done the same thing. 

      In Louisiana, we camped in a Bayou. We had a blowup kayak that wasn’t much more than a pool toy. The Ranger assured us we didn’t need to worry about alligators so we inflated it and went for a paddle. A central pond led to a labyrinth of waterways between trees. We picked a path and headed toward it. As we approached, a huge alligator slunk from the bank and spun in the water.

      “That’s the death spiral,” Julie said. “It’s how they kill their prey.” We gulped and paddled faster. The waterway was narrow and shallow. A malevolent pair of eyes lay dead ahead. As we approached, they slunk silently beneath the surface. Just then, the kayak snagged on a tangle of underwater vines. We paddled for all we were worth, finally breaking free. Eventually, we arrived at a second large pond with a dock and gazebo. Stepping from the kayak with relief, we made our way to the gazebo. A weathered Cajun man was leaning on the rail, smoking a cigarette. He gave us a friendly wave and said something in a thick accent. We waved back.

      “You look like you’re from around here,” I said. “Do you think it’s OK to paddle around out there like that?”

      “I wouldn’t, “he said, shaking his head. “Watch.” He took a final draw on his cigarette and gave it an expert flick into the water. A pair of jaws emerged and devoured it. We gulped.

      “You guys hungry?” he asked. “My nephew just went to the store for some baloney. We’re gonna make sandwiches and have a picnic. Wanna join us?”

      This man was as nice as the alligators were mean. Maybe he thought we should enjoy one last supper before we paddled to our death. The sun was beginning to sink so we declined. 

      “We’d better get back.”

      “Good luck,” he said, pulling a fresh cigarette from the pack.

      We paddled home in sweaty silence, wondering whether to trust the Ranger or the Cajun. We didn’t see another gator but when we got back, we deflated the kayak and put it away.

      What struck me about this man, and nearly everyone we met in our travels, was how warm and welcoming they were. This was true in every state. As long as politics or religion didn’t come up, there was a natural bond. I loved a piece of art on the sidewalk in Key West. It read, “One Human Family.” I wanted my Christianity to be inclusive like that.

       Two years later, after two laps around the country, we found ourselves back at Julie’s home in Novato. Hard Reset had become a book, along with another called The Seven Habits of Wholeness. An online community called Anchor Point was coming together and I had a few financial supporters. I considered my revised version of the faith to be as least as faithful to the Scriptures as the jumble of traditions I inherited as a Southern Baptist. 

      I was creating a video, trying to explain my new and improved Jesus, when a tidal wave of despair crashed into me. I realized that as much as I might try to avoid it, any new version of the faith would just generate more debate. I had created another version of Christianity. Weren’t there enough already? Plus, there was no evidence that God was behind my efforts. We were barely surviving financially and saving nothing for retirement. Again, I had taken a leap of faith, trusting God to be there. Again, I was falling and falling.   

      The hard reset had failed. I deleted my website and erased my Facebook page.