Tuesday, January 3, 2017

The Breaking Point

I remember my pastor in college, Tommy Nelson of Denton Bible Church, saying something along the lines of “before God can use a man, He must first break him.” I suppose it might have been original, or he might have been paraphrasing AW Tozer, or I might have misrepresented what he really said. It doesn’t matter. I remember the sensation I received when he said whatever he said, and I remember the thoughts I have continued to have since he said it. My basic sensation was of dread; I was afraid of this statement because I was a man who wanted to be used by God, but I didn’t know if I really wanted to be broken by God.

This statement, of being broken by God, comes across piously. We sing about being broken, we talk about being broken – about bring our brokenness to God, and we generally do it with all the warmth and emotion of a Sunday school discussion. But being broken is not just an emotional change or a slight humbling of our spirit, it is destruction. Most people don’t know what it is to be broken, but I do. I was broken in 1995.

1995 was the year I joined the Marine Corps. I had such great dreams about who I would be as a Marine. I dreamed about being one of the take charge guys – a squad leader or the guidon. Then, it got real. The guidon and squad leaders got thrashed for the things other guys did. I was having enough trouble with myself; I didn’t really want to get that kind of notoriety.

On top of that, I had these ideas about esprit de corps and helping the other recruits – encouraging them and driving them on. We had a fat guy that was miserable, and I stayed with him and encouraged him to run during our first Physical Fitness Test. We crossed the finish line of the run and he wrapped his arms around me in gratitude. Awhile later, we were both in the duty hut being chewed out by our DI who wanted to know if we were queer - it was still illegal back then. I don’t remember much about the interchange; other than he asked us what our fathers would have thought and was actually flummoxed when I suggested my dad wouldn’t have a problem with what transpired. I do remember that I gave that recruit a wide birth from then on, and that I put my romanticized ideas of esprit de corps on hold until we actually were Marines – don’t perform low on account of these guys just yet!

The physical break happened at Camp Pendleton during the down time - on a Sunday, I believe. We were being thrashed and our DI had us doing modified push-ups with our butts about a foot higher in the air. This caused intense pain in my back, especially when we would remain still in the up position. I kept shifting and shifting until a DI kicked me out of the formation for not doing the push-ups properly (I was practically doing toe-touches I had scooted my hands so close to my feet). Even now, writing this, my back is hurting from the tension I am feeling. I wasn’t alone in being called out of formation, and so joined the other guys who were already moving a pile of sandbags. It was simple: we relocated this massive pile of sandbags, one at a time, at a run. Back and forth, back and forth. Then, when the pile was moved, we had to bring it back. The rest of the platoon was relieved from the push-ups in about five minutes and back in the squad bay in about ten. We didn’t get back till much later. Funny thing - I preferred that tiresome work of running those sandbags back and forth to even five seconds more of those push-ups.

By the time I graduated boot camp, I really didn’t feel like much of a Marine. We had been broken down, as promised, but I never really felt like I was put back together. I was still scared of doing the wrong thing, popping up when I should duck, and speaking when I shouldn’t or not speaking when I should. There were a lot more failures during that training, many times that I was chewed out, whether I earned it or not. There were times when my true colors shined through, like the time a DI was telling us what was going to happen and I jokingly breathed, “Oh, sh*t.” and he heard it! “That’s right! Just one ‘Oh Sh*t’ ruins the whole bushel.” I don’t think he knew who said it, but I don’t think it matters; it didn’t say anything about him, only about me. I guess my 8th grade Home Room teacher was right, I was a class clown.

So, getting back to God and me, I feel like I know something about being broken, and I had enough fun doing it with DI’s and would rather not discover what games God had in store. This is especially true because I had a hunch that I was stubborn enough to need a lot of breaking. I think I was right. I also think He’s finally done it.

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