It’s 1999. I’m twelve years old and sitting in the audience of a Christian Youth in Action retreat. The room smells like puberty and discount hairspray. The chair I’m sitting in is of the stacking variety—not a folding chair, but metal-framed with a cushioned bottom and back. The kind that makes you feel like you’re contributing something when you lift yours onto a dolly after the event.
I’m sitting in this Kool-Aid-stained chair, my eyes wide while a permed and bespectacled Bible-clutching youth leader talks excitedly about God’s plans to use us for his mission. She says he wants us to be in the world but not of it, because when you’re of the world, you forget about God, and when you forget about God, you’re more likely to go to Hell when you die.
I’ve grown up with messages like this, and don’t think twice about questioning them. It’s the only way of life I know. I am, as they say in this world, on fire for the Lord. When I grow up, I want to inspire others to discover their own God-g…
