Be God’s

Part of going to Cornerstone is bittersweet each year. It’s fun to reacquaint with those from years past, to see what new stuff old bands are doing and outrageous stuff new bands are doing. But I’m always haunted by who will not be there. The list of Cornerstone fixtures who are no longer with us is growing each year. This past year a favorite among those who attend the Cornerstone “U” tents that hash over theology, apologetics, and new world religions (preferred term to “cults,” which is seen as pejorative by many who study these groups) will not be there. Bob died of a heart attack, leaving a wife (and co-speaker), some children, and many appreciative “fans” who always found him approachable and accepting.

He joins the ranks of such names as Mark Heard, Gene Eugene, and Rich Mullins. They are some of the more memorable ones who have “beat us home.” Many have heard my story about meeting Rich at C-stone. I was with my wife and kids at the main stage listening to Sarah Masen, a quirky, very-literate, singer-song-writer with “a funny voice and funny looks.” My son Luke was not as impressed, so he and my wife headed over the side where they sell personal pan pizzas. On the way they saw a guy with long-hair, tattered jeans, and stubbled face in the crowd, half-ways listening to the singer, half-ways talking to friends. That looks like Rich they thought, as well as a whole slough of other attendees. They came back to where I was standing and told me to hurry on over and see Rich. It was him.

As is the case often when I meet someone new, I go into inane, small-talk mode. Millions of questions for Rich have rushed through my head before and since, but at that time I steered the conversation toward the current singer and what thoughtful lyrics she has. That and the obligatory “oh we love your music, our daughter sings ‘Awesome God’ all the time.” But I never got to ask him things I’ve wondered about like the death of his brother and the obscure reference in one of his songs to a man named “Dysart.” (It was years later that a more computer savvy friend Doug was able to scan the internet and find the correct reference which the song mentioned, putting my mind at ease.) But Rich seemed fine with our intrusion. He didn’t play the part of a snooty musician or aloof “star.” He was happy to talk with our young daughter Christina, make that listen to, and give her an autograph. It was drizzling though and everything was wet. And no one had a pen or paper. So we searched and searched. It became our mission to find something dry enough to take a smearing marker, so that his words would be legible. On a scrap piece of cardboard he scrawled: Christina, Be God’s. Rich. We thanked him and were on our way, leaving him to chat with his fellow ragamuffins, never imagining that we would never see him again (on this earthly home at least.)

A few months later we heard the devastating news that Rich was killed in a car crash not too far from Cornerstone on Interstate 39 in central Illinois, a road we traveled yet a few months later as we headed south to Suzi’s parents for Christmas.

I’ve always wondered about (and even arrogantly snickered at) people who cry over the deaths of celebrities—presidents, Princess Di, movie stars, and the like. I understand loved ones, family members and close friends. But with Rich it was different. He was able to strike a chord in me that made his death difficult to deal with—like a family member. He wrote in a way that I could easily internalize and make his words my own. I could pray his songs, because they conveyed so well what I thought and felt.

So Rich beat us home. He wrote so often about his home. And the last months of his life here on earth are almost eerie in their premonition of his final trip. In some of his last recordings he redid a song from his first album entitled “Elijah” where he prays to go out like Elijah in a chariot of fire. And the very last song on his last “unfinished by him” album he sings about Jesus’ promise that where He goes, we may also be. The song starts with a paraphrase from John’s gospel:
"In my Father's house there are many, many rooms
In my Father's house there are many, many rooms
And I'm going up there now to prepare a place for you
That where I am, there you may also be.

He’s there now and he’s left a legacy which thanks to the w.w.w.w.w.w……… we can read lots and lots of.

But in conclusion (I hear those scores of applause, he’s almost done), Rich’s legacy is best summed up in the way he learned to live life from his parents, and the tribute he gave to them in the song “First Family,” a wonderful song-title in itself, trumping the importance of the family in Washington D.C. In one of my all time favorite metaphors he sings of how his folks “worked to give faith hands and feet and somehow gave it wings.”

"My folks they were always the first family to arrive
With seven people jammed into a car that seated five
There was one bathroom to bathe and shave in
Six of us stood in line
And hot water for only three
But we all did just fine

Talk about your miracles
Talk about your faith
My dad he could make things grow
Out of Indiana clay
Mom could make a gourmet meal
Out of just cornbread and beans
And they worked to give faith hands and feet
And somehow gave it wings

I can still hear my dad cussin'
He's working late out in the barn
The spring planting is coming
And the tractors just won't run
Mom she's done the laundry
I can see it waving on the line
Now they've stayed together
Through the pain and the strain of those times

Talk about your miracles
Talk about your faith
My dad he could make things grow
Out of Indiana clay
Mom could make a gourmet meal
Out of just cornbread and beans
And they worked to give faith hands and feet
And somehow gave it wings

And now they've raised five children
One winter they lost a son
But the pain didn't leave them crippled
And the scars have made them strong
Never picture perfect
Just a plain man and his wife
Who somehow knew the value
Of hard work good love and real life

Talk about your miracles
Talk about your faith
My dad he could make things grow
Out of Indiana clay
Mom could make a gourmet meal
Out of just cornbread and beans
And they worked to give faith hands and feet
And somehow gave it wings"