One Sunday Morning

I hate wind. There’s something eerie about it, like an empty voice threatening trouble. For some reason bending trees and rushing air through cracks in the house bring despair, like a freight train on my heels.

So when my friend warned me 80 mile-per-hour winds were forecasted for the weekend, I externally shrugged and dismissed the threat, quipping the intelligence of our glamorized weather anchors and their cheesy green-screen backdrops. Internally, my organs tensed because I know the power of Santa Ana winds in fall.

The next day, as forecasted, the winds began to blow. Violent, merciless winds raced through Malibu, with gusts strong enough to challenge full-grown men. Of course, winds in LA are always attached to the hip with fire. Somehow the two get together and consort, like two school-yard bullies bringing their shared rage to the playground.

That night, I was house-sitting at the Joys in Paradise Cove. Like most nights there, I went out on the patio to get a breath of fresh, ocean air and take in the view. At night, you can see the lights of LA and Palos Verdes. You can even see airplanes land and take off at LAX.

The wind chimes were being tortured so I took each of them and put them in the house. But returning to the patio, I smelled smoke within the wind.

I’ve heard stories of winds and fire in Malibu – it’s not good at all. The canyons of Malibu are magnets for fire and wind, or so I’ve heard. Questioning whether I was truly smelling smoke, I took two deep breaths. It was pitch black and I walked around the house, trying to spot fires on the horizon, but nothing. I thought twice about calling the fire department, but not wanting to be an alarmist, believed someone was simply enjoying their fireplace.

Wind woke me up several times that night. I remember being a kid sleeping in my Grandma’s house as wind blew throughout the night. In a frantic whisper, I swore to her someone was in the house, but she kept reassuring me the wind was simply moving through cracks in the house. I still remember laying there with my eyes wide open, trying to make frantic shadows into figures of men. I barely slept the entire night.

At 6am, a loud noise woke me. Immediately sitting up in bed, I looked out the bedroom glass doors down the coast. Something fuzzy was in the air, between me and the lights of Palos Verdes. I thought clouds, but knew it wasn’t right. I jumped out of bed and went to the doors and my stomach dropped. About four or five miles down the coast over the mountains was a large orange glow. I immediately knew the implications of the orange glow. I’ve seen that glow a few times in Colorado – and both were fires that consumed thousands of acres. And with the wild wind blowing massive clouds of smoke out to sea, an immediate sense of urgency overtook my body, powered by a healthy surge of adrenaline.

Throwing my clothes on, I was more concerned about a co-worker living on Corral Canyon – where I figured the fire to be. Jumping in my car, I expected to hear news on each radio station. Instead, it was business as normal. Stocks, Iraq, weather forecasts. Nobody – at least the media – knew about the fire.

I drove frantically down PCH, sometimes swerving to miss tree limbs in the middle of the street. Occasionally a blur of emergency lights passed by me. The sun had yet to rise, but things grew even darker as I drove down into the colony and Cross Creek area. Visibility faded to less than a quarter mile in the smoke. Electricity was out, everything was dead. Through the smoke, an army of faint emergency lights made their way in caravans up Malibu Canyon. I’ve never experienced a war zone or a natural disaster, but I imagine this something like the end-of-the-world might feel, or at least close to what Spielberg might come up with.

And in every good movie, things got worse. I looked to my gas gauge and realized the needle was below the three, red bars on empty. With no gas station open, I rushed back to the Joys, praying I wouldn’t run out of gas in the middle of a major wildfire.

On my way back, I called Noralea, our church administrator, waking her up with the news. We’ve been through this before, but I warned her the fire looked like it was up the canyon and the winds were blowing south toward the church. She said she’d come down right away. I also tried calling Greg, our senior pastor, but no answer after four or five attempts.

Once back to the Joys, I found the keys to their car and immediately headed back to church. On the way, I was able to talk with Winsome, our administrative assistant, who then called Mike, our associate pastor.

Once to the church, I hesitated for moments, trying to assess the situation. I then drove a block up the canyon to a CHP officer and asked how dyer the situation was at the time. “Very..” he said.

I whipped the car around, rushing into the church parking lot.

Running into the church, it was still pitch black inside. I know the office well, so I had no problem running through the office into the hallway and looking for a flashlight in the janitor’s closet. Noralea calls again. Trying to control a small sense of panic welling up, I was frustrated a flashlight wasn’t immediately available.

After a few moments, I remembered the flashlight in the front office. Quickly locating it, I then started collecting computers. I began with the communications computer. It’s a MAC for one thing – but the hard drive was not backed up. I proceeded to grab the PCs, but was unable to get into the server closet.

At this point, a fire engine sat parked outside with three or four firefighters watching the direction of the smoke. Running up to one, I asked what kind of threat the church was under. The firefighter thought a “3 or 4” on a scale of 10. On hearing this, I relaxed, thinking the wind was moving the fire east of the church.

I returned to the office, grabbing some water and waiting for everyone to show up. Ross soon arrived. Noralea, Greg, then Michael and Karen arrived. Still thinking the church was under a low threat, we grabbed our most important documents, every once in a while looking out the front doors to check on things happening outside.

With the metallic sun rising through thick smoke, we gathered together in the front office to pray. Holding hands, our small circle lifted up our humble sanctuary to our Good God – entrusting all that would happen into His sovereign hands.

About ten minutes later, a sheriff’s vehicle screams into the parking lot and over his loudspeaker yells, “You must evacuate immediately!” I remember the tone in his voice. It wasn’t just a voice of duty, going door-to-door evacuating residents. He had obviously seen something of urgency up the canyon and wanted to communicate immediacy.

Urgency clicked within each of us. Greg suggested taking pictures of the offices. I jetted downstairs to unlock our camera from it’s cabinet. With this invisible clock ticking, I ran through the building, taking pictures of as much as I could. Looking out through the sanctuary windows toward the east, I snapped a shot of one of my favorite views. Michael grabbed the church Bible on top of the piano. On the phone with Josh (our worship director), Ross grabbed his most expensive guitars. I grabbed a guitar from Kristie’s office and the backup disks from the server closet. We rushed out of the church, but I had remembered you’re always supposed to close doors in a fire. So Noralea and I rushed back in and closed all of the doors.

Running into the parking lot, the sense of urgency was explained. Smoke and ash was now blowing directly over the church in gusts of 50-60mph winds. Turning to the mountain behind the church, we saw 20-foot flames up on the ridge.

Driving down Malibu Canyon, it truly looked like a war-zone. The low visibility wasn’t the worst part, but the pink-orange-gray light made me sick. Small spot fires burned on each side of the street.
 
Then driving past Pepperdine on PCH, we quickly emerged from hell into a beautiful, Sunday morning. Without looking in the rear-view mirror, it was all blue skies and normalcy.

I pulled over on PCH and turned around to take pictures of the smoke. Immense columns of smoke blew out to sea. Just looking at it was enough to put the fear in anyone, but knowing what was inside, quietly replaced the dying adrenaline in my body with sadness and helplessness.

Returning to the Joys, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I debated whether to call somebody or just stay put. The media still didn’t know much. And out those wide windows that tragic view of our threatened church and restless, green ocean.

No longer wanting to be alone, I headed over to the Mudgetts. I remember barely being able to walk up to the door because of the wind. Once in, I thought it was weird Joel Osteen was on the television. I guess people react in different ways to stress like this. I guess Joel’s optimistic and good attitude was appropriate for the moment.

Then my phone rang. I don’t even remember who called me. But again, the tone in their voice said everything.

I told Mike, “turn on the news, it’s our church.” As soon as the second of static cleared from the millisecond it takes to turn from one channel to another, our collective hearts dropped. There was our church, engulfed in flames. Fifteen feet flames were shooting out of the sanctuary windows, where literally I had stood thirty minutes before.

I remember trying to make a sound, but nothing came out of my open mouth. Each of us stood in the living room, bodies awkwardly angled toward the television in silence.

And so the church burned. In the deepest part of my brain I never thought the church would actually burn. I assume firefighters save buildings. But to see it on television burning, jammed my thought process for a moment. It’s almost like you have to re-wire your brain and allow denial to be overwritten with reality.

To be in that space thirty minutes prior, and now that space not existing is something difficult to accept cognitively. As for our hearts, we just wanted to be together. Greg called and soon arrived. And we were just there, with one another. And I suppose that is what made it all okay.

Our phones would not stop ringing for the next two days. Greg would be interviewed for three, continuous days. And we all took deep breaths as we slowly came to realize the long road in front of us.

Throughout that first day especially, memories of what was left behind would unexpectedly burst into realization. The senior pastor pictures in the foyer. The hand-made cross in the sanctuary. A rabbit and a hamster. Practically the entire archive of our church’s history. Diplomas, personal treasures, favorite books, all left behind. It’s hard to lose your church, it’s hard to lose your entire library and years of research as Greg lost.

Greg, Michael and I returned to the church three hours later as the fire burned east. Driving up Malibu Canyon, television breaking news became reality. We passed power poles half fallen with power lines laying near the road, the whole mountain scorched, leaving only black roots.

Walking up into the church, there were numerous satellite trucks in the parking lot. It felt like a Hollywood backlot. And there was the church. Just a pile of debris still smoking with spot fires here and there. The smoke was noxious. Three or four firemen remained, pumping water into the charred but still preserved fellowship room.

I walked around the entire church, as if mourning with a friend on his death bed, the life and oxygen slowly slipping from it’s center. Then, something so foreign – the burned remains of our church – became disturbingly familiar.

Looking upon the remains, I began to think of those places in my life – experiences that seem lifetimes ago, or fresh wounds from weeks ago. Places of my life that seem to have burned down uncontrollably while trying to save a failed relationship, a broken heart, unmet hopes. The charred remnant of what once was or could of been.

The smoke and debris become remarkably familiar as they threaten ruin to the things we thought were once promised and reliable. The ash a reminder that it’s existence is more ordinary than exception. Rising smoke as a testimony of life in a fallen world.

But out of that smoke and down from heaven comes a promise that breathes hope into our very center: “I am making everything new!” says the one seated on the throne (Revelation 21:5). The nature of such news clarifies the presence and inevitability of adversity, pain and fire on earth, but breathes of a new paradigm to come. This is why we hope.

This is why we can stand on a windy day, watch our church burn down and have a sense of optimism, hope and even joy. This is why we are alive. This is why October 21, 2007 and the proceeding events will be a symbol of the greater act to come.

So may we praise God with all of our hearts both in the day of destruction and the day of life. For we know how this story ends.