The Bloomin' Onion

Saturday spirituality groups at the behavioral health center are not mandatory, they are voluntary. I heard them announce over the loudspeaker, “If you would like to attend spirituality group, please join us in the cafeteria. If not, find something productive to do in your rooms.” I don’t know if they were excited to come or if it just sounded better than “something productive” in their rooms, but twenty adolescents showed up in the cafeteria that day.

I was providing evidence for a global flood and receiving a number of questions (challenges), particularly from a couple of the kids. One girl was a pantheist—believing that God was in all things—and she was totally comfortable with everyone just believing whatever worked best for them. The other young man was an atheist—a proud atheist. Something in the way he said that, announced really, made me think of the Shakespearean quote, “Me thinks thee doth protest too much.” He, too, was fine with people believing whatever worked for them, but as for him—as he was quick to point out—there was nothing I could say to convince him there was a god. Again, Shakespeare.

I kept doing my best to address their questions or observations or opinions with my own vantage point, through a biblical lens. The others were not as inquisitive, but they were listening. Engaged. Interested in this dialogue, which was probably not at all what they expected when called for spirituality group. As always, there was a burden on my heart to do God justice, to share truth in love, to bring the gospel of hope, forgiveness, and love to these kids who had so clearly been deeply hurt already in their young lives.

After the hour-long session, the kids were filing out and I was getting my computer put away in the corner of the room. The proud atheist approached, asking if he could ask another question. That question led to the next question and we just kept visiting in the corner as the staff wiped down tables and prepared for the evening meal. We were still lively engaged when the kids began to return for supper, some sitting within arm’s reach of us as he continued to ask questions and to share about himself.

He informed me that he was not only an atheist, he was also a homosexual—actually tran and pan, rattling off his sexual identity labels the culture has practically made trendy. He went on to say that he had been sexually abused in his mother’s home, and again after he was placed in foster care. At age five, he was placed in the care of his grandparents . . . meaning all that horrific abuse had happened before he likely even started kindergarten!

And then he went on to describe his mom. He said that he could swear for an hour and not come close to describing how f***ing evil she was. He described his journey to find faith, dabbling in every faith imaginable—even the satanic for what he described as an “interesting” and “crazy” period in his life. He shared that he had largely felt rejected and shunned by Christians because of his homosexuality. And so that . . . all of that . . . was what had brought him to the conclusion that there was no god. He would be an atheist. A proud atheist.

They say that sometimes getting to the heart of someone is like peeling an onion. People protect their heart with layer upon layer of defense and opposition. It can often take years of relationship and hours of conversation to get to the heart of the hurt that has shaped someone. This young man dropped layer after layer right there in the corner of the cafeteria. It was like the Bloomin’ Onion they serve at the Outback Steakhouse. Everything just peeled back to bare a broken soul. It was like the 15-year-old proud atheist was stripped away to a vulnerable little five-year-old right before my eyes.

No wonder he was confused about his sexual identity. No wonder he had no desire to enter into a vulnerable, romantic relationship with a woman when the one who was supposed to have loved him violated that trust so badly. No wonder he wondered how there could be a God—especially a loving God—when so much evil had been done to him at such a tender age. No wonder he was so confused. I wished that our time wouldn’t have to come to an end, that we could just keep visiting, that I could fix everything for him as quickly as it had been revealed. He, too, seemed to want to linger, asking even if there was a way for us to continue the conversation. Was there a way he could reach me? Could we email?

Strange that a proud atheist would be so inquisitive and eager to share so deeply with a Christian speaker who had shown up for a one-hour spirituality group . . . or was it? Just one more case where an evidence-based approach got me “in the door,” as the behavioral health center chaplain would say—engaging with evidence before asking to accept anything on faith. If there was evidence for the people, places and events of the Bible, maybe the Bible could be trusted? Maybe God was real? Maybe that young man was created with a purpose?

And yet, while I know the evidence might have gotten me in the door, I also know it was Christ’s love—in me, for him—that peeled back the onion. No evidence could pry back the layers of hurt in such a short time. Only the love of Christ . . . the gospel . . . the Good News! If God had found it in his heart to forgive us even while we were yet sinners—maybe this young man could find a way to forgive? That is what would ultimately free him from the chains that held him captive far more than the locked doors and security system at the center.

I wasn’t able to connect with that young man again. He was discharged before I was able to ask the chaplain if I might be given some additional time with him, one-on-one. I am left to pray that our encounter may have planted some seeds, to trust that God’s word would not return void, to believe that that vulnerable little boy inside the proud atheist might just find hope and healing after so much hurt. That what the enemy had intended for evil, God could use for good. Because, despite all of the evidence, that is what lies at the root of faith—being sure of what we cannot see.

“…so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty,

but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.”

Isaiah 55:11 NIV

“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish

what is now being done, the saving of many lives.”

Genesis 50:20 NIV

“Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.”

Hebrews 11:1 NIV