“No—not at all. God will give me the messages.”
“Robby. You’re responsible for five messages. We’re being paid to do this, and these kids are counting on being fed spiritually. You have to know what you’re teaching. God honors preparation. He’d rather you study, wrestle with it, and pray over it than just wing it and leave everything up to him. Do you think I just let God give me music while I’m in front of the audience? Or do I practice and learn good songs?”
“I see what you mean. I never thought of it that way.”
Jeremy rolled his eyes. He knew I’d been born again, but I’d brought a whole lot of the old Robby insanity with me. Maybe that could even be a good thing.
I actually preached through Daniel, and somehow the Lord blessed my seat-of-the-pants preparation. Daniel was a young guy who honored God even though he was in a hostile culture—a great case study for students. While everyone skied during the day, I hunkered down in my room developing sermons. What I lacked in depth, I made up for in excitement, and that counts for a lot with that age group.
For the final night, the organizers of the retreat wanted me to give an invitation. I spoke from the Scriptures as usual, but then I shared my story of addiction and deliverance. You could feel God moving in the room. There are times when he shows up in a powerful way, and there’s a special, electric intensity in the air. This was one of those evenings. I gave an invitation for the students to give their whole selves to Christ as Jeremy played his guitar. A little into the song, a guy came forward to give his life to the Lord. Then a girl stepped up, tears in her eyes.
I looked over at Jeremy and signaled for him to keep playing. In my spirit was the assurance there were a lot of kids in the room who were right on the edge of a decision. I urged them to listen to God’s voice and make a commitment for Christ today, to give him their future.
Someone else came forward. Then another. Jeremy had to keep playing. After thirty minutes, the room was filled with the tears of students. We had a large group of commitments; many were crying out in repentance and giving their lives to Christ for salvation. Jeremy and I were as overcome emotionally as everyone else in the room. We’d never seen God at work like this.
When it was all over, Jeremy showed me his hands, bloody from strumming chords all that time without a pick. His fingers were raw, but his soul was flying high. So was mine.
The ministry was going well, but I had so much to learn as a baby Christian myself. My greatest vulnerability was that I saw myself as having no vulnerability. With Jesus in my heart, what could go wrong? I’d put my past totally behind me, as I saw things. Looking back, what I really needed was a mentor by my side, someone to keep me accountable and watch my spiritual blind side. Jeremy wasn’t there during the weekdays; it was just me on my own, thinking I was ready to save the world.
One day, during the usual, quiet week, I was restless and decided to drive my shiny new Cadillac through some of my old stomping grounds and show them what God could do. That would get them thinking, right?
It was Mardi Gras season. And here was Gallaty, who used to be broke, strung out, and miserable—now clean, sober, and driving the best ride in town. This would open some eyes with the old crowd—then I could tell them about Jesus.
I had the best of intentions, and I was right that every single one of my old friends needed salvation. They were blind to it, just as I’d been.
I turned up the stereo to ear-splitting levels and drove by the house where some of my old buddies lived. I was playing hip-hop, but the rapping was all about Jesus now—DJ Maj, Grits, and KJ-52. A couple of my friends were out. Rocky walked up to my window and said, “Hey, Gallaty, where did you get this car, dude?”
I grabbed his hand. “Jump in and I’ll tell you all about it!”
My two friends climbed in, and we headed to the French Quarter. Everybody loved cruising, especially during this time of year. With the windows down and the music amped, everybody would stop what they were doing and watch us go by—three guys rocking a Caddy with Jesus rap booming through the speakers. It felt great to me, as if I was the returning hero, the “after” half of the classic before-and-after story. And I was giving all the glory to God.
Naïve though I may have been, there wasn’t anything wrong with any of this—except me. I wasn’t ready to withstand temptation. I was the weak link in my own idea.
This was a Friday night. I said, “Tell you what—I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll just cruise again. Listen to music and drive through the streets. You guys know I’m not on drugs anymore, so we’re not going to get into any trouble.”
“Sure, Robby. Let’s do it.”
The next day I picked up three friends, all still addicts as they’d been before, and we laughed, drove around, and blared our music. After a while, one of them said, “Hey, can we stop at the gas station and get a few beers?”
I wasn’t going to drink with them, so it was no big deal, right? I was working on these relationships, showing I wasn’t judging them. I knew Jesus met people right where they were and started from there.
Now they were drinking as we drove up and down the streets of the French Quarter. One of them was standing up through the sunroof, talking to people as we went by. Some of the girls were trying to climb into the
