The Martyr in the Mundane
Interesting life plans
This Weekend Edition of Ecstatic features Kate Gaston
THERE ARE SOME who move through life as though guided by an inner compass. Yes, a compass which steers them toward a great and glorious destiny. Maybe some of you have reached that destiny. If so, congratulations. These words, though, are for those who have followed a more—shall we say—meandering path through life.
There was a time when within my breast burned a sense of destiny, propelling me onward, each step bringing me nearer my high calling. The year was 1998. I was fifteen years old, and I was going to be a missionary.
Not just any old missionary, mind you. No, I was going to be the kind of missionary who eats grubs for the gospel; who requires nothing so prosaic as comfort, but who is sustained by the sheer joy of a purpose-driven life.
My plan for facilitating God’s will went a little something like this: First, I’d enroll at Wheaton college. Yes, Wheaton, whose hallowed halls are the forge in which the twin fires of wisdom and knowledge are stoked to a holy zenith. The next obvious step? I’d need to marry a Wheaton man. I’d be sure to recognize him by his square jaw, conservative haircut, and the similar light of destiny burning in his eyes.
Bibles and machetes in hand, we’d hack our way deep into the heart of the jungle. The details get a little hazy once we’d get there, but of one thing I was certain. No matter how many grubs we ate, we’d be martyred. Martyrdom was, after all, the only way of proving our devotion to God, so you see, it couldn’t be helped.
I spent an unreasonable amount of time planning for my martyrdom. Much like I planned to stop, drop, and roll if my clothes spontaneously burst into flame. Adulthood seemed fraught with these kinds of dangers.
The granddaddy of all my fears: what if I was Left Behind? I had a contingency plan for surviving the Tribulation, of course. But I knew, sooner or later, I’d have to venture into civilization to scavenge for food. Which is, of course, when the Antichrist would catch me, rummaging through some back-alley trash can like a dispensationalist raccoon. He’d throw me in prison, and demand I take the Mark. I’d resist, obviously, so he’d drag me into the town square. It was there, among the jeering throng, I’d meet my end. Martyrdom again.
IT WAS PRECISELY in order to avoid this scenario that I got saved no fewer than 17 times. My brothers and I, to ensure we were doing our part for God, would spend Saturday evenings street witnessing at the mall. We’d loiter outside Coconuts music store, accosting unsuspecting shoppers with the good news of the Gospel.
We’d read somewhere that each of us had a predetermined number of tickets to heaven in our pockets. I didn’t know how many tickets I had, exactly. All I knew is that if I didn’t give those tickets away, someone was destined for hell. (Well, predestined, really.) But what if those hundreds, thousands, of souls spent eternity weeping and gnashing their teeth, all because I’d bought a ticket to see Titanic instead of handing out the tickets in my pocket?
During those youthful years, despite my outward fervency for the Lord, I was haunted by a secret. A secret so heinous, so damning, I could barely confess it to myself, much less pray about it. What was my secret? Simply this: I didn’t want to be a martyr. I didn’t want to eat grubs. I didn’t want to live in the jungle. I was fine with the square-jawed husband if God called me to it, but the rest was for the birds.
I knew, deep in my innermost being, that in the moment it counted, I’d chicken out. I’d holler Uncle, and beg for mercy. I’d take the mark, and be found out as the embarrassment of a Christian I knew myself to be. The final letdown in a long line of letdowns, and God was up there somewhere, shaking his head in mild, paternal disappointment.
SPEAKING OF DISAPPOINTMENT, let’s talk about the Heroes of the Bible, shall we? Call to mind your childhood Sunday School room. The small plastic chairs. The flannel board. The off-brand cookies. Each Sunday morning, I’d hear the stories of those heroes; watch them striding across the board in their bizarre, frozen, felt-doll poses.
Samson, with his long hair and muscles; with his donkey jawbone and prostitutes. The Little Shepherd Boy David, bringing down Goliath with his slingshot, and making the down payment for his first wife with a pile of Philistine foreskins. But of all the Bible lessons of my childhood, the story which has gained the most nuance from the slow marination of age is, perhaps, the Parable of the Prodigal Son.
The story of the Prodigal Son—with its veritable wonderland of vices—is popular with Sunday school teachers the world over due to its versatility as a moral bludgeon. Be a responsible steward of your money, kids. Be careful what kind of friends you make, kids. Don’t go to parties or drink alcohol, kids, or you’ll die of starvation.
I nibbled my meager handful of cookies, and pondered that poor prodigal son, up to his ankles in the muck of the pig sties. Even as a kid, I recognized myself in him. I didn’t need a teacher to point it out. I’d do precisely what he’d done. I’d say the wrong thing. Do the wrong thing. Generally, make a mess of the Okay Life I’d been given.
AS I GOT A LITTLE OLDER, I discovered I shared some rather unflattering character traits with the older son, too. It’s a certain snivelly self-righteousness felt most frequently at church potlucks, when I’ve labored over a casserole—the true hallmark of a gentle and quiet spirit—but someone else shows up with a bucket of fried chicken.
That older son tendency also occasionally rears its head when I’m, say, hearing about a friend’s creative success. I am so delighted for them, I truly am. While at the very same time resisting the small but visceral urge to see them hamstrung in some way. Nothing major, really, just incapacitated enough that it buys me time to claw my way over their prostrate body on my way to the top.
In all those Sunday school lessons, not once did anyone talk about the father. The father always faded into the wallpaper, upstaged by the moral turpitude of his sons. Only after having a kid of my own did I begin pondering that father’s predicament. What it must have felt like for him to come to grips with the reality that his kids were the literal worst.
Nevertheless, that father was waiting. He’s straining his eyes for a glimpse of his son. And when he finally sees his boy, does he play it cool? Does he show tasteful restraint? No. He hikes up his robe and bolts down the street, skinny-old-man-legs flying. He’s hollering for balloons, streamers, a pinata. He’s throwing a clean robe around that smelly kid without a second thought, because he’s got his boy back.
HOW MUCH OF MY LIFE have I spent flailing toward some profligate sense of destiny? Or striding forth with some distorted entitlement toward God’s good gifts, chalking them up to what he owes me? Or wallowing in resentment over the good stuff he’s given to someone else? Every moment, I’m stretched taut between the two polar impossibilities of wanting God, all the while crowning myself with the tin-foil diadem I’ve pieced together from the cosmic recycle bin of human achievements.
As for all those signposts of Christian destiny, well, I don’t live in the jungle. Just a normal neighborhood. I’ve never preached the Gospel in another language. But I’ve made Burger King runs for my doddery, old neighbor, Joe. I’ve never eaten grubs. But I make a mediocre casserole. Maybe I don’t own a machete, but I’m doing the work God put in my hands to do. And even with the pig-sty stench of my self-righteousness seering his metaphysical nostrils, he leans in, and makes that work beautiful.
For me—for each of us—God is that father barreling down the driveway. I can’t fathom the expense of the robe I find myself wearing. I can’t even conceptualize the price he paid for this feast. His welcome is lavish to the point of immoderacy; his hospitality so gratuitous it leaves me scarlet-cheeked, clutching my pearls at the scandal of it all. Even while my philandering heart prowls and skulks and yearns after other loves, even so, he pulls me to himself. He beckons me in such a way that causes me to believe that, yes, I really just might be beloved.
Kate Gaston
Writer & Storyteller
Kate is a columnist for
. Her writing explores the power of open doors and shared meals in cultivating deeper community. Reflecting a love for storytelling, Kate’s writing draws readers into the beauty of ordinary moments and thoughtful conversations. Her work at Rabbit Room embodies a desire to nurture belonging, encouraging readers to embrace the art of welcoming the stranger.What did you think of this essay? Share your thoughts with a comment!
Today’s essay was recently read live at our Nashville Inkwell Evening hosted by Belmont University, where this essay had the crowd of 180+ teetering on the point of tears of laughter throughout.
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"His welcome is lavish to the point of immoderacy; his hospitality so gratuitous it leaves me scarlet-cheeked, clutching my pearls at the scandal of it all."
This reminds me of someone's comment once that, if "prodigal" means "wasteful," wasn't the Father the most prodigal of all? Thank you for this. I laughed out loud. And it lined up perfectly with today's readings according to the the Catholic liturgy!
Can we please get an audio recording of this too? I heard it live at the event; I was crying laughing and then smiling through tears--she read just as as well as she writes y'all