Light: The Journey Begins
LIVE IN PEACE YOURSELF
AND THEN YOU CAN BRING
PEACE TO OTHERS.
Thomas à Kempis, The Imitation of Christ
It was a seven-thousand-ton ship, one of the smallest of the Matson line. Not very big by today's standards. It carried only first-class passengers, a limited number in steerage, and some freight. It was so old that this was to be its next-to-last run between San Francisco and Sydney, Australia, with stops in Honolulu, Samoa and Fiji.
It was the summer before my senior year at Berkeley, and my closest fraternity brother and I were ready to see the world for two months. We signed up as cadets and were put to work doing everything but the glamorous jobs. Still, this was adventure, wasn't it? For a twenty-year-old college kid who had never ventured beyond the Golden Gate, the turn-of-the-century vessel seemed like an ocean liner.
I thought I'd seen weather in Berkeley. But compared to what I experienced one dark, cold night in the South Pacific en route home
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from Sydney to San Francisco, the most severe Bay Area weather amounted to little more than a drizzle.
It was my watch, and my job was to tour the ship and punch the time-clock stations. The sea was raging. I couldn't believe waves could be so many stories high. They were monsters, and the bigger they got, the smaller I felt. More than once I asked myself, Why did I talk myself into taking this trip? My mind raced back to the comforts of home and my brothers at the fraternity at UC Berkeley. But no, that would have been too easy. I'd wanted to prove something to myself. I'd wanted adventure. Well, now I had adventure, and it was spelled T-Y-P-H-O-O-N, and I didn't much like the looks of it.
A Raging Sea
Being assaulted by winds and walls of waves on a wildly tossing sea was like being run over by a train in a dark tunnel. We knew the typhoon was coming, but I, for one, hadn't expected it to pack such a wallop. Everything was battened down as we prepared to take a direct hit. Those of us who were on deck had our slickers on, similar to the old yellow slickers used by New England fishermen. Being a novice to things of the sea, I'd hung mine up near a hot pipe in the for'c's'le a few days before, and the heat had melted all the oil from the fabric. Now my slicker leaked like a sieve. It wasn't much good, but it was all I had to wear as the ship shuddered and pitched into huge mountains of brine and foam.
It was fast approaching midnight. As I made my final rounds on deck, everything I saw brought on physical terror. The lights of the ship reflected only a few feet out over the water, so each wave became visible only as it reared to crash. More than once i thought, What if I were washed overboard while making my rounds? No one would even know. I'd be lost forever in a violent angry sea. The possibility of death was enough to focus my mind. But almost as terrifying as drowning was the fear of falling into darkness and death all alone — no one to see, hear
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or report the blotting out of a life.
I went below to steerage, right by the rudder. There the steerage passengers clustered. It was an area just for men. Instead of bunks they slept on boards, rather like pieces of shelving, about eighteen inches wide with six-inch upright planks as dividers. The boards were set up eight across and three deep. Those were close quarters. The steerage passengers were mostly Malaysians who had already been thrust into crosscultural trauma. Now the pitching and rolling of the ship and the deafening roar of the grinding rudder-control machinery, punctuated by an explosive banging of the rudder itself, were enough to unnerve the stoutest heart. Some twenty-five men clung to one another in a tight bundle of fear and panic.
In steerage, as the bow of the ship pitched deep, the propeller would come right up out of the water with a terrifying roar and vibrate the entire stern of the vessel as though it were coming apart at the seams. (That in itself should have been enough to prompt a conversion experience for me!) The men were being thrown back and forth on each other so fiercely that at one point they looked like the mob of baseball players who rush out of the dugout and pile on the pitcher after he strikes out the last batter to win the final game of the World Series.
Facing Death
I was still on duty, responsible to make hourly rounds of the ship and punch the time clock. So I struggled to make it back to the bridge. To get there I had to climb the rigging that angled to the mast, where I bypassed the boat deck by about three inches. That got me by the first-class cabins on the middle deck, which I mounted by swinging from the rail to the seaside. Then I had to drop from the rigging to the deck. This move had to always be in sync with the pitch of the ship as it rocked back and forth and up and down. The idea was to jump off the rigging onto the deck as the ship leaned toward the opposite side, so I could drop straight down.
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The maneuver called for care even in smooth waters. But during the storm the real art was to hang on the slippery, varnished rope ladder and climb twenty feet of rigging as it slanted out over the water with the roll of the ship.
Going up the ladder, my body was tight with tension. I knew if I didn't hang on, I'd be gone and would not be missed until the watch was over. As I meditated on that possibility and looked through the rungs of the rope ladder right down into the turbulent sea, my climb seemed to last forever. Finally I let go and dropped to the deck. But because I was tense with fear, I tried to move too quickly on the wet, slick, canvas-covered surface. I slipped and fell, spread-eagle. Then I felt myself beginning to slide.
The soles of my tennis shoes couldn't get a purchase on the wet canvas. The edge of the deck was smooth and rounded so that lifeboats would swing out freely. I tried to dig my fingernails into the top of the deck, but to no avail. I just kept slipping back toward the water. I could feel myself going overboard. I couldn't stop. My mind raced with images of Munger dropping, engulfed by the waters of an angry sea, lost forever in the cold, dark night.
After what seemed like an eternity, the ship finally rocked in the opposite direction. I struggled to my knees — I couldn't get my legs to do much more than that. Somehow I managed to make it to the postage-stamp-sized housing behind the smokestack, where the telegraph operator's hut squatted. Exhausted, I collapsed in a heap with my back propped against the wall.
Ten or twelve minutes later, I finally found the strength to stagger back to my watch. I felt I'd had enough adventure to last a lifetime.
Seeking the Meaning of Life
For many nights after that terrifying storm, I found myself standing watch under the stars and wondering, What is the meaning of existence, anyway? Am I anything but a zero in the midst of millions of other zeros?
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If I'd been lost at sea, would I have fulfilled any purpose? Would my life have been worth anything? Deep inside, I knew my loss would not have made even the slightest dent in history.
My thoughts continued. What if I survive this voyage and live a long useful life? Even then will my life have any ultimate significance or meaning? I answered no to that also.
Emotionally and spiritually I felt I was lost in a sea of meaninglessness, drowning in a vast vacuum of emptiness. The more I thought about my situation, the deeper was my depression.
I began to compare myself with the members of the crew. I figured that with my pedigree and behavior, I was certainly better than they were. After all, some of them were existing at a subhuman level. They were living solely for creature comforts and animal appetites; all they seemed to want was lots of liquor and women and enough money to buy them. Just hearing their constant strings of four-letter words made me feel seasick.
But was my motivation in life much better? Was I not existing for my own creature comforts, which would ultimately make my life as valueless as theirs? Sure, my tastes were more refined, but that didn't mean much. I kept asking myself, Munger, how are you really any different from those men who seem to live at an animal level?
For three years I'd been trying to have fun fraternity-style. I would often escort a date to San Francisco on the car ferry and spend a lot of my hard-earned money taking her to a hotel for long night of dancing. We'd then head back across the bay to Berkeley, continuing our conversation and gazing at the stars shining over Twin Peaks, or sitting in the car and being romantic. But now none of that even seemed remotely important. Nothing I was doing was taking me anywhere. I knew there must be an answer for me, but i was hard-pressed to find it.
Here I was, returning from Australia — same stars, different waters. I'd seen a bit of the world and would bring home plenty of good memories. Still, I was just as disillusioned and disturbed as I'd been back at Berkeley.
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Would I ever find an answer to the depression that dogged me?
Looking for Answers
Two weeks after my narrow escape at sea, I found myself once again on watch in the middle of the night. Again I was alone, but this time the seas were calm and the stars so bright I felt I could touch them. I knew that for centuries seafarers had set their clocks on the movements of the same stars I saw scattered throughout the universe. I couldn't help but compare the ordered movement of the stars, the planets and the galaxies millions of light-years away with the chaos and meaninglessness of my life, so full of pain and disappointment.
What was the answer? I had received all the opportunities in the world to position myself for success: a good university education, a caring family, lots of friends. Yet my life was still without any real interest or purpose.
My Christian background told me that if there was an answer, it would come in affirming Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord. From day one I had heard sermons from the pulpit and advice from my parents that expounded on my need for a personal relationship with God through his Son. It all sounded good, but I wasn't convinced it would work.
As I thought about this a few night watches later, something strange began to come over me. I was being washed with a new reality. My clamlike heart was slowly being pried open by something greater than myself. That's when I prayed, "Christ, if you're up there, if you're the living God, and if you can make the stars move so smoothly and accurately that we can set our clocks by them century after century, you surely must have a way of communicating yourself." It was my first real prayer.
Then, without warning, the truth of Christ came to me . . . I am the light of the world.
I responded, "If you really are light, let me see some of it, and I'll
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try to follow it." That was the moment I opened the door of my heart to Christ. I didn't know it, but all along I had been longing desperately for the light.
Head vs. Heart Knowledge
Why do I tell this personal story? Because we all come to Christ through a unique self-disclosure of God. For me it started with terror at sea — there I confronted my meaningless self. For you it will be different (at least I hope so). But the gospel message is always clear: there's no way you and I can get to God through our own efforts. We can't climb a ladder and finally get over the top to see the light. It will always be a revelation. It's like getting to know a friend. You may know something about the person, but until that individual reveals himself or herself, you never really know your new acquaintance.
Over the years I'd tucked away a lot of information about God. I had a deep respect for his handiwork in creation. I had heard the gospel stories about Jesus and the wonders of God. But I had no relationship with the Creator. It was all theory. It was as if I had been parading through a dark room crowded with large pieces of ornate furniture and delicate vases. I was knocking everything over and making a royal mess of it. Then I stumbled toward the light switch and turned it on. Suddenly the room — and my life — was flooded with light. My world finally began to make sense. I started to see things as God meant them to be.
"Nothing Religious, Please . . ."
By the time I'd returned to home port in San Francisco weeks later, the earnestness of my cry had dimmed, quickly crowded out by the fun of telling old friends and associates about my exciting journey. It was easy for me to talk about the adventure; I couldn't —I wouldn't — talk about my prayer. Even though I knew I needed God's light to shed its brilliance on the shadows of my life, I refused to respond. I was still taking it all in — but choosing not to commit myself to follow through on what
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I'd thought and prayed during the storm at sea.
I had hardly regained my shore legs when my parents told me that they were headed for a two-week vacation at Mount Hermon, a well-known Christian conference center nestled in the Santa Cruz Mountains. I said I'd go with them on one condition: I would spend no time learning about God. I reminded them that I had just returned from a two-month voyage and needed a few days of vacation.
I remember telling my mother, "I'll come down to Mount Hermon, but don't expect me to go to anything religious." I knew a conference was being held on the grounds, and I wasn't about to get involved. But Mother was smart. She'd been praying for years for her wandering son. She knew I was in the fraternity crowd and had zero interest in church. She also knew I had some reservations about Christians — I stereotyped them as a crowd that didn't know how to have fun, social misfits, unpopular throwaways who'd been left behind.
I had what today we'd call an attitude. When I did go to church once in a while with my parents, I would hear myself saying in my head, Hey, Lord, take notice here — Munger's in church today. Cross off some of the bad marks, and put some checks on the good side of the ledger. God certainly must have been impressed.
That was how I felt when I arrived at Mount Hermon, and my mother knew it. So she decided to do a little parental manipulating, first by reintroducing me to a family friend, an attractive young woman I'd not seen for years but with whom I'd spent some happy times on several family occasions.
Marian Parish was still a lot of fun. What I hadn't expected was that Marian also belonged to an enthusiastic group of Christian young people who had come to a conference at Mount Hermon with henrietta Mears, teacher of their college class at Hollywood Presbyterian Church.
Before I knew it, Marian had introduced me to a few of her girlfriends. I liked that — a lot! Many of these young women were lovely, but that wouldn't have been necessary: after two months at sea, a petticoat
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draped on a telephone pole would have looked pretty good to me.
Later in the week I found myself alone with one of these attractive young women. I asked her if she'd like to go to a movie in Santa Cruz. Her face lit up, and I thought, Boy, this is going to be great! Then she popped my balloon by saying, "I'd love to, but I'm with the conference and I can't go with you tonight. Why don't you come with me, and then maybe we could do something afterwards?"
Fading Prejudice
I figured I had nothing to lose. In fact, spending a few minutes hearing about God might even pay off with an enjoyable summer relationship. I'd already decided we would sit in the back row, close to the nearest exit. But my friend insisted, "I want you to come with our gang."
I thought, Why not? After all, there were a number of other attractive young women in the group. So I found myself in the second row, jammed in with a bunch of students waiting to hear Henrietta speak. I didn't have a chance!
Here I was confronted with something I'd never seen before. These kids looked good and were dressed to the nines. They knew how to socialize and were comfortable having a good time. My prejudices against Christians started fading fast as I found myself attending the meetings night after night — and enjoying it. I even started listening to the messages.
The last night of the conference, the group gathered in a semicircle of bleachers overlooking an inspiring vista of majestic mountain redwoods framed by a beautiful evening sky. In that "victory circle" many of my new friends began to give fervent testimony to what Christ had done in their lives. Some of what I heard that night was hype and emotion; but a lot of it was also straight from the heart. I was starting to get the message that there was a key to a life-changing reality. They were talking about real happiness, fulfillment, having a life worth living. Many of them seemed to know Jesus Christ personally. They conversed
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with him and were experiencing his love. Every testimony seemed to be about a living Lord who brought light, life and joy into people's lives. Even the prayers were about light — in stark contrast to my life, which had been stumbling along in self-imposed darkness.
I knew this was my time of crisis. I had asked for light, and God was giving it to me. How was I going to respond? I heard myself saying, Yes, Lord, I do believe you are the light of the world . . . that you do not want me to walk in darkness . . . and that you want to give me the light of life.
That night, in the victory circle, I could see those young people were onto life. They were into something worth living for. They knew Christ. They had found the answers to the questions I'd been asking.
Into the Light
I watched as each student gave his or her testimony, placed a little stick on the fire as a public promise — a symbol of commitment — and then sat down on the far side of the circle. I could tell that as the evening wore on, those who hadn't moved would become more and more isolated from the larger group.
So there I was, once again under the stars, and still feeling lost at sea. Yet I somehow knew the answer to my dilemma was close at hand. So what would I do — just sit there? I remembered my prayer for God's light on that stormy night in the South Pacific just one month before. Was I going to do something about my relationship with God tonight, or would i continue to play the game? I kept hearing a voice inside: Munger, why don't you receive me and respond? Look, you say you've been in darkness and you want light. You say you want to know the meaning of life, but you've not really come to me, the Source of life itself. Why are you so fearful of me, as though I were going to take life away from you, when instead I've come to give you life everlasting? Stop running so hard to escape from me.
I was afraid. What would my friends think? It would be so embarrassing.
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No one close to me, apart from family, was a convinced Christian. I knew I'd be ashamed to be known as an out-and-out-believer. Yet it had suddenly all become so personal. It seemed as though Jesus himself was coming to me, holding out his nail-pierced hands, saying, I am your friend . . .the best friend you'll ever have.
I was one of the last persons to step to the front of the circle that night. I suppose I got up because I was just ashamed to sit passively any longer. I remember that as I stood before those students, I said something about wanting to identify myself with Christ and turn my life around and learn to know God better.
Those words spoken out loud, publicly, opened my eyes and set me free to begin to know Christ. I had finally been introduced to the ultimate Friend for whom my heart had longed. I was still light-years away from a commitment, but even though I'd not yet understood Jesus to be Lord and Savior, I had trusted what I knew of him as God, my saving, loving Friend. We had finally met in a significant way. It wasn't a full-blown relationship, any more than one date is equivalent to a marriage. But it was the start of a growing friendship, the point at which I moved toward trusting Jesus as Savior, Lord and giver of true life.
That is why my heart is always tender toward those who come to God without the process of being broken by sin. There are many introductions to Christ. Usually, sooner or later, a breaking process is required. Eventually each of us must face the guilt and the wrongness in our life. But that's not always the first step! For me, that night in the victory circle was when I faced the light for the first time in my life. It was the first move, as the Chinese say, in a journey of a thousand steps.
That's also why, in sharing the gospel, I don't try to determine whether someone has been converted. I leave that to God and allow people to say for themselves where they stand. I learned early on to let the Holy Spirit bear witness. I would say in leading a person to Christ, "Can you from the heart thank God that he has now forgiven you?" You can usually tell from the way they pray whether it's authentic, but even so,
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I don't respond by saying, "Now you're converted." It's a journey, and the person has taken a good step forward.
Even the disciples did not meet Jesus and become committed for life on the spot. When they heard John the Baptist call him "the Lamb of God," they wanted to know more. So they asked him, "Master, where are you staying?" And he invited them to come and see, to check him out, as it were. They followed him and got to know him. They then learned more about him. They heard him preach, watched him perform miracles. Then, for all we know, they went back to their fishing boats.
It was later that they had their moment of truth, when Jesus called for action. That's when Jesus said, "Let's go do it." He didn't say, "Men, think it over for a week or so, and let me know how you feel about my proposal. I'll come back in a few days and you can tell me if you want to go along with me or not." No! He simply said, "Follow me," and started walking. The disciples didn't worry about the risks involved, whether Jesus was a fake, who was going to run the family store. They simply listened to the Master and followed him.
But it's important to realize that there was a foundation in the disciples before Jesus asked for a serious commitment. When we ask people to make a commitment to Christ, whether it's the first step of faith or a challenge to a deeper level of obedience, that foundation of knowing something about Jesus is important. Following Jesus means fullness of life, not simply sacrifice for its own sake. I try to point to that life and let people come into it as they are ready.
The disciples didn't have much light at the moment of their decision, but they had enough light to take that first step. And that's all God requires of any of us when our needs intersect his ability to meet our need, when we find ourselves ready to be rescued from our own stormy seas by our Captain, personal Savior and Friend.
