Better People

This past weekend, Wilmore, Kentucky saw 18,000 Christians flock to its fields for Ichthus, a tremendous music festival fondly dubbed “Christian Woodstock.” I volunteered to do recruitment for CAP in the Global Village tent, and was really looking forward to being in the thick of the festive atmosphere that’s inherent in any event that celebrates music’s role in our culture.

The night before I set out for the festival, I’d been in a Richmond emergency room all night with a participant who was feeling “sick to her stomach.” Far be it from me to deny care, I hung with her in the hospital for six hours, and didn’t wind up getting back home to Jackson House until 11:30 that night. With a four o’clock wake-up call looming in front of me, I packed my bag full of clothes that, I believed, looked professional, but approachable. After three hours of peaceful slumber in my bed (a commodity which, I’ve since learned, I truly take for granted), I jumped into my CAP minivan and sped off to Ichthus.

I pulled onto the fairgrounds and was blown away by the sheer size of the event. Thousands upon thousands of tents covered the grass, and people straggled along the dusty roads that attempted to lend some sort of order to the overnight shanty town. I hadn’t the faintest idea of where to park so, being that there were no attendants and that no one really seemed to care very much, I pulled up on some empty grass, threw it into park, and left my trusty vehicle behind to explore on foot. I soon came across the rest of the CAP crew, most of which were slowly waking up from underneath an enormous white tent that was to be our shelter for the rest of the week.

I jumped into action fairly quickly. All of those professional-but-approachable outfits were cast aside without circumstance in favor of light blue t-shirts that read “Faith in Action” on the front. I manned the information table with a few different friends throughout the weekend, and I had the opportunity to meet a lot of really wonderful folks. Our fellow Global Villagers were a mix of better people, doing and representing awesome things about which they were truly passionate. Many of the individuals who inquired at our display told stories of mission trips, youth groups, and big plans - all in the name of God. In most instances, it was quite inspiring.

In many other cases, however, I was just plain freaked out. While there were a few bands with which I was familiar (Switchfoot, Relient K, Casting Crowns), on the whole, there were a lot of strange kids at this festival. Up until this past weekend, I hadn’t been acquainted with heavy metal Christian music. Oh, yes. It exists. And it’s loud. And obnoxious. Especially when you’re inside a tent. Furthermore, the individuals who adhere to this particular brand of praise and worship music all fit a fairly specific mold: dyed and heavily gelled hair, shirts with big lettering on them, skinny jeans, and neon plastic sunglasses. Add to this the ubiquitous “Free Hugs” signs and the scarcity of showers, and I was running pretty darn low on patience with the whole lot of them by the end of the week.

On our last day of recruiting, a friend and I were walking through the dust, soaked in sweat and loudly complaining about everything pertaining to the festival. Everybody smelled. We were hot and covered in dirt. The thought of going into that tent for another three hours was absolutely repulsive. More than anything, though, we were tired of having “God” shouted at us. For me, there is no reverence in a shirt that says “High Five If You Love Jesus.” There was little respect or gravity in the numerous “Virginity Rocks” tees. I felt as if, for all of the yelling, preaching, testifying, and singing, an image of this Christianity had been crafted, and everyone at this festival was trying to fit it. None of it felt genuine to me, and I was feeling rather cynical - even skeptical - about all of it.

As my friend and I finished up our rant, a boy came up to us. He was tall - taller than me - but had a young face that, at the moment, looked confused and worried.

“Excuse me. You all look nice. I’ve been goin’ through some tough times lately. I was wonderin’ if y’all could pray over me.”

My friend and I didn’t look at each other, but I knew that she was just as taken aback as I was. There were 17,997 other people on those grounds who would have been more than happy to fulfill this fellow’s request, and he picked the two pessimists in the sea of willful believers. Without much hesitation, though, we nodded our heads and each put a hand on the boy’s shoulders.

And I prayed for strength and courage for him to see his challenges through to the end. For the comfort to know that he is loved beyond all comprehension, and that he is not alone in any of his battles. For the grace to see God’s Hand in his struggles, and to find meaning in his suffering. For the faith that will undoubtedly bring him through to the other side. When I’d said “Amen,” the boy wiped his eyes, gave us a small smile, and walked away.

And I realized, as I walked away a little shakily, that I’d been praying as much for myself as I had been for him.