『Ep. 1 - The Freedom To Be Lonely』のカバーアート

Ep. 1 - The Freedom To Be Lonely

Ep. 1 - The Freedom To Be Lonely

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 We live in a culture that celebrates independence, but I’ve learned the hard way that independence and isolation can coexist in unhealthy ways. During my decade in prison, I found the most authentic Christian community I’ve ever experienced — one forged in chaos, diversity, and desperation. Ironically, eight years into my freedom, I sometimes feel lonelier than I did behind those walls.This is about that paradox. It’s about what community means, how easily it fractures, and why the gospel ties love and connection together at the deepest level. It’s also about the cost of standing for truth when it pushes you away from the people you love most.If you’ve ever felt disconnected in a world that’s more “networked” than ever, I think you’ll find yourself in these words.“The person who loves their dream of community will destroy community, but the person who loves those around them will create community.”I first read those words from Bonhoeffer’s Life Together in my mid-twenties, serving a ten-year sentence and just beginning to lead and mentor many broken men in a very broken place. I wanted to be like him—wise beyond his years, overflowing with love, unwavering in the struggle against injustice. His vision of self-sacrificial love was one voice among many that spoke to me through the pages of the books I’d devour. Their words filled the stale air of my cell—and my heart—with divine wisdom the church seems to have largely forgotten.In that wretched place, I was blessed to taste real community. Strange that now, years into my life of freedom, I find myself more isolated than ever—craving the very spiritual connections I once had in prison. We were created for community, and without it we are incomplete.Zion HillOut of my decade of incarceration, four and a half years were spent at Northeast Correctional Complex in Mountain City, Tennessee. I visited there again last night—something I’ve been doing for a little while now—returning to the ministry where I once served as associate pastor, Zion Hill.It’s always surreal going back. Many of the same men are still there—men I knew well, who became family to me. I stood in that same room week after week, teaching, preaching, worshiping, and taking part in a movement that made a real impact on everyone it touched. It was the most raw and real Christian experience I’ve ever had.Last night, after I shared a bit, Eddie Sawyer got up to preach. He was the pastor I served under when I was inside. He is probably the most consistently faithful man of God I’ve ever known. As I listened, nostalgia hit me hard. Hearing his prophetic voice deliver manna from heaven for my starving soul—it just hits different within those walls than it does anywhere elseI glanced down at my Bible, the same Bible I carried during my time there—the same one I preached from, wept over, consulted, and studied. The one that I’ve walked away from and stumbled back to ever since. Inside that Bible was a piece of paper I remembered well—an old prayer request sheet from one of our Bible study nights. A paper with hardly any space left to write on, filled with glimpses into the pain and brokenness of men whom society despised.It was an intense part of my journey. The prison itself was in turmoil at that time. The state of Tennessee had just appointed a new commissioner over the Department of Corrections, and he wasted no time shaking things up. A barrage of major policies changed overnight, mass transfers shuffled men at random all over the state, uprooting many who had spent years working to get there to be close to their families. And as movement restrictions tightened on the inmate population and more constructive outlets were taken away, violence rapidly surged across the state.In the midst of all that, Zion Hill exploded. Our ministry team was stacked with men from every race, gang affiliation, age bracket, and walk of life—all full of love for one another despite having nothing in common but their current residence and their love for Christ. Our weekly services became packed. Even the Wednesday Bible study grew from only being three or four people for years to fifty or sixty crammed into a hot classroom with floor-to-ceiling windows that the sun beamed into that time of day. The stank of body odor was only overshadowed by the thickness of the Spirit in that place. They gladly endured it because real discipleship was happening.I saw violent gang members drop their flags, enemies reconciled, and men set free from addictions. Men tithed hygiene and other essential commissary items bought with their meager prison job wages so the church could provide for anyone in need—no questions asked. And as tensions rose across the compound, our community became a force for peace.It was something only God could create. United in diversity. A motley crew of society’s boogiemen doing Kingdom work from inside a cage. The purest spiritual community I’ve ...
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