Why Call me Doug?

Speaking of calling me "Doug" . . . maybe this is a good time to let you in on why I prefer to be called Doug. It really is a deeply spiritual thing for me. The following article I wrote about 10 years ago should explain:

YOUR IDENTITY IS NOT IN YOUR UNIFORM

I sat preparing my heart for the worship service just ahead. This had been a wonderful conference on the Power of the Holy Spirit and in many ways God had blessed me. Most everyone was dressed casually- some even wore jeans, but I was very conspicuously dressed to the hilt in my uniform. It was Sunday after all. Some friends from my interdenominational Thursday morning prayer group were sitting next to me and in rows nearby. I was communing with God in the peace of His presence. All was well.

Frank, a pastor who had helped pray for me the last two nights, temporarily sat in the row before me. Turning and hanging his arm over the seat back, he addressed me. "I think God wants you to know that your identity is not in your uniform. Now, if that's not a word for you, then forget I said anything."

He left and waves of turbulence began crashing into my head. Whatever else, his words offended me. That morning, I had been so proud of my uniform! I felt like a Marine putting on his dress blues before an inspection. Every stitch in place. Every line of crease, razor sharp. Every button polished. Yes, this uniform represented my denomination, my doctrine, my calling and I had never honored it so highly. I was never more proud to be a Salvation Army officer. Now my high-flying spirituality was headed at an unearthly angle toward the earth. I braced for the impact, but I had already hit ground.

The destruction of the crash would last through the entire worship service. Time seemed to stop and hover over me as I watched everyone else experience what was obviously a deeply moving service. My rage grew as I wondered how these people could so cruelly ignore my pain. Yet, while I hated hearing those words, in some strange way I knew they were for me. My soul cried out, "What do you want of me Lord?" I wrestled throughout the longest service of my life. I wanted to bolt for the door, but knew that if I left, I might never settle the issue. I needed God and this group around me that in the last four days, had become my family. This was a communion service, so my thoughts turned to what was going on at the front of the chapel.

I'm one of those "throwbacks." I not only understand The Army's position on the sacraments, but I believe and practice it. I have never taken communion. In fact, when observing other Salvationists doing so in some united denominational service, I have become angry. "They just don't understand. How can we expect anyone to understand our doctrine, if we say one thing and do another? If our position is that outward signs are not necessary to salvation and we focus only on the necessary, then we should practice what we preach! All of life is a sacrament. God grants His grace to us in routine, daily living."

I know that's a simplistic explanation and The Army is not against communion. We are allowed to participate if we choose even though we don't offer it in our services. But the gist of my concern is, if I were to practice communion while telling my people that it's not necessary to their salvation, am I not being unfair to them?

Back in the worship service, I realized that I was extremely confused! Since God is not the author of confusion, I prayed against it. As I prayed, I settled down a bit, but I was still far from soaring in the clouds as I had been only moments before. Had God actually lifted me so high during this week only to dash me on the rocks as I was about to return home?

The communion liturgy was especially touching. I began to pray angrily to God and complain about His bringing me up in The Army; making me believe what I did and not letting me participate with this greater body of Christ in something so universal. For the first time in my life, I wanted to be a part of this ceremony. I wanted to blend in and not stand out like a sore thumb. And that's what I felt like. Never had I been so uncomfortable in my uniform. Was everybody watching me? Were they ridiculing me? I was sure they would not embrace me in their family so quickly if they only knew who I really was.

The woman pastor leading the liturgy caught my eye. She seemed to radiate God's love and compassion. Jesus was really using her! I found myself jealous of what she had, all the while being lifted into God's presence by her beatific countenance. How could I get out of here quickly without anyone noticing?

Finally, FINALLY the service was coming to a conclusion. As we stood to pray, I spotted Frank standing in the last row, way in the back. I grabbed my Bible and sped through the crowd that surely was watching my every move. "Can I talk to you about what you said?" I asked. "I'm having trouble sorting it all out, but I know God's in it somewhere."

In a back room, Frank gave his testimony about that same word which God had given him a few years before. He told me how, during a difficult time, God had informed him that his identity was not in his black robe. God wanted to cut through all the stuff that Frank thought defined who he was and strip him down to the basic relationship of Jesus and Frank. "Things" didn't matter to the deep connection Jesus wanted with him. His denomination, his church, his family, his calling for ministry- all of it meant little to the core of who he was in Jesus. The intimacy was not because of these things. Jesus simply loved Frank for who he was; as he was.

This made profound sense in my inner being and suddenly, I knew what God meant about my identity. Then the Holy Spirit dropped the real bomb: "I want you to take communion." I could not believe my spiritual ears! Yet, there was no doubt God had spoken to me. "Frank will lead you through this. I have chosen him for you. He will represent me."

Frank was still trying to explain things and I let him finish though I still have no clue what his final words were. I wasn't listening. I was desperately trying to understand why God was doing this to me. Finally I blurted out, "I know that God wants me to take communion. Will you lead me through this?"

"Let's go!" he said and started out the door to the front of the chapel. "If your friends are still here, they should be a part of this." The service was over, but still a few people were left praying and ministering to each other around the room. I was extremely shaky and nervous, but I knew my friends' participation would help. I also knew they would understand the impact my decision to follow this leading would make on me. Fortunately, they were still up front near our seats.

I had earlier explained my beliefs about communion to Frank. Though he had a hard time understanding why I had never taken communion, it was clear he understood me and my feelings about it all. I sensed an anointing on him for this moment and was drawn to him for support.

All the communion items had been cleared up and for a moment, my heart fell. Frank went to the same pastor who had led the earlier service and asked if she could get everything in place again. No problem. I felt relieved- if that were possible in my current state of mind! He asked her to start at the very beginning and include everything. I stood in full uniform, at the front of the chapel, shivering.

Everyone scurried about getting everything ready, including gathering my friends and a group of about eight people who would join me. I clenched my Bible tightly for comfort. I could not imagine what God was doing to me. Or why.

We gathered in a small circle with Frank on my left. I listened carefully, as if I had never heard those words. In fact, I must not have really heard them before, because somewhere in the middle, I heard words accredited to Jesus to the effect of: "you will not understand this, but I ask you to do this anyway." The concept clicked right into place for me. I sure didn't understand this!

When she was finished speaking, Frank went first. I watched him carefully, but when it came to me, my mind went blank. I looked at the bread she offered me, then looked at Frank for assistance.

"Just break off a piece," he said. I had trouble holding my Bible and breaking the bread, so Frank offered to hold my Bible for me. "No, this is my teddy bear," I stammered. I soon managed to get the bread free and placed it in my mouth with Frank's prompting. Earlier, they had dipped the bread in the juice, but at that moment, I vividly remembered the words of Christ: "unless you drink of this cup . . ." Somehow, I knew it was important for me to actually sip from this chalice and I was permitted to do so.

With my assignment completed, I stepped up to the communion altar. Kneeling, I placed my Bible on it and bowed my head to pray. I then spent the next few moments trying to make sure God recognized what I had just gone through. I could never again say I had never taken communion. I had lost something about myself and I wasn't sure I was too happy about it. In the middle of my diatribe, I remember saying to God: "I hope you realize what I've just done for you."

With those words, God stopped me dead in my tracks. "No," He said gently, "I did this for you!" In an instant, the full understanding of what communion is all about, came flooding into my soul. I was so embarrassed at my sentiments, yet so full of Jesus' gracious revelation. I began sobbing uncontrollably. During those moments I was swept up in God's tender embrace. I was totally loved and instantly intimate with the creator of the entire universe.

Naturally, it took some time for me to settle down. When I stopped, Frank knelt beside me and began to pray a blessing upon me. His words uplifted, but did not prepare me for the moment he started weeping as intensely as I had just done. His profound emotion was as contagious as a yawn and I rejoined the great chorus of release! As we wept together, God allowed me to realize that I needed someone to understand what had just happened to me. Frank was again the man God had chosen for me. We shared a deep bond of realization of what communion is all about; what Jesus wanted it to be for His followers. I realized that if I had done this all my life, I would never have been able to experience what had just happened to me. I would have "done communion" as part of the religious routine; nothing special.

I could never again say I had never taken communion. I had lost something about myself, but now it didn't matter. I was not defined by my uniform. I was not defined by my doctrine or calling. In fact, I was not defined by my family name. With Jesus, it was just "Doug."

God then had me tell this small group of my conversation with Him and how I knew deep in my heart He had done it all for me. Led by God in a prophetic act, I then laid my uniform tunic on the altar and placed my Bible on its folds. Finally, I was calm and at peace with my identity as a Salvationist; with all my identities. No longer would I allow a mere facade to direct the path of my relationship with my Lord.

Great celebration took place, as with joy, I embraced my new heartbrother, Frank. He began sobbing again as he tried to speak to me and I followed suit. God had knit us together for a very special revealing of His grace. Then there were hugs all around and I could barely let go of my dear prayer group friends. I knew they understood God had freed me from the tyranny of who I thought I had to be. It drew us even closer together in God's mercy and love.

That morning, the leaders of the conference had given each delegate a small slip of paper to write what God had done for them during the past week. After communion, it was to be placed in a basket as an offering to the Lord. The basket was gone, but I still had my paper. I wrote carefully; knowingly and placed my scrap on the altar, unfolded. If anyone had noticed, it read: "Jesus died for me."