For Andrew

A few months ago, I heard that a childhood friend of mine passed away. His name was Andrew.

I met Andrew through his dad, who was one of my leaders in Stockade at my church. For those of you who don’t know, Stockade was the 3rd-6th grade program from Boys’ Brigade, something like a Christian Boy Scouts. It was great time: singing loud songs, camping, playing in the gym, woodworking projects, a pinewood derby, and of course Bible verses, lessons in Christian character, etc. Perhaps I’ll reflect more on that another day. Andrew was half a year younger than me, and because of where his birthday fell, he had been in a lower grade than me. Now he was moving up to my grade, and so his dad introduced us.

Andrew began by trying to demonstrate his judo moves on me. I took pleasure in the fact that he couldn’t take me down, but he persisted. Eventually he learned that he could attack me on other ways that were more effective. He was strange and fun. We started bonding over drawing, which was my big obsession at that age. From then on, we hung out regularly at church events. It turned out he was homeschooled, too, so that also brought us together at times.

As I moved into my tween years, I found myself gravitating from the usual playground friends to more creative types. And it turned out that Andrew was incredibly creative. As such, he ended up changing my life in significant ways.

He was the first person to introduce me to QBASIC, the computer programming language that came standard on our Windows 3.1 desktops. Once the world wide web came around, he would introduce me to HTML as well. We were building websites and getting them listed on Yahoo back in the 90s, before everyone was in on the game. The skills I learned in technology and in thinking logically were formative professionally and personally. It would make me a better writer and thinker when I finally discovered philosophy. My dabbling in programming ended up inspiring my sister, who has gone on to an impressive career in computers.

Andrew also introduced me to some of my favorite Christian bands. Our Jr. High youth group played dc Talk and Jars of Clay, and I fell in love with those bands instantly. I was already a fan of alternative music, but so much was inaccessible because of the content. Here were bands making good music and talking about things that mattered. But Andrew pushed me further.

And how it happened was also crucial. My family moved from suburban Detroit to Mt. Pleasant, and I definitely felt the culture shock. I was lonely and discouraged and didn’t really know how to process it. At first I had a couple friends I reached out to by mail, but only one of them stuck: Andrew. And by his second or third letter, he mailed me an audio cassette with songs he liked and some personal bits in between. I had already been making tapes for fun back in Detroit, and I did the mail thing with another friend once, too. At this point, I can’t remember which of us started it. But I sent a tape back with my own kind of radio show with songs and talk. And he would get more creative with handmade artwork for the tape, and I would respond in kind. We ended up sending maybe half a dozen tapes to each other, along with a letter and artwork. I still have most of them in storage.

Andrew more than anyone else made those first lonely years bearable.

And so it was through those tapes that I discovered bands like Newsboys, Guardian, Five Iron Frenzy, and Grammatrain. He introduced me to more, but I mention these bands in particular because they inspired me most. I would practice for hours and hours trying to play the bass lines in Five Iron and Grammatrain in particular. They not only got me through some difficult times, but they were formative for me as a musician.

But there was one more way Andrew would make a lasting impact on my life. By the time we made it to college, our paths were drifting apart. He was exploring edgier music, different religions, pushing taboos, and hinting at darker things that I refused to acknowledge. In time, he would be one of the first of a number of my friends to walk away from the church. And because I cared about him, I started looking for answers in theology. As more and more friends questioned and left the faith, I dove deeper into Scripture and doctrine. Eventually it was this passion to help them that would lead me to seminary, philosophy, and church history.

And so to find out Andrew is gone means I will never get a chance to let him know how much he meant to me. I hope he knew at the time how much I appreciated him. But even in the years since we grew apart, my life has been deeply marked by that strange kid who once tried to judo me in Boys’ Brigade. Without him, my life would be dramatically different. He inspired me creatively and intellectually, and his friendship helped see me through. My life is better because he was in it, even for just a few years. And I’m so sad I missed the chance to say so.

His death also made me take a step back and wonder: did I lose my way? I started this journey into doctrine to try and help my doubting friends, and after a seminary degree and years of teaching, I don’t feel like I’m any closer to winning those lost friends back. I’ll never get a chance to show Andrew what I found, to invite him to look at how much more there is to the Christian faith. I had always hoped he would come back. Many of those other friends have drifted out of my life over the years, too. It’s hard to stay in touch sometimes when you don’t have those most foundational things in common.

I know the years have not been wasted, but losing him has challenged me to remember the point of ministry. A ministry of ideas, like any other, is motivated by a love for people. I hope to continue finding answers worth sharing, but I can’t lose sight of the need to actually share them.

Ending this post feels a bit like saying goodbye. But I don’t know how to do that. I’ve already lost my friend. And yet he’s been there embedded in my life for almost 30 years, and I know he will stay there forever. So in both ways, goodbye is not an option. But I hope, somehow, it’s not too late to say thank you.