Joshua Harris and Donald Miller both served on staff at Summit Ministries in Colorado for a summer in their late teens. At the end of that summer, they made a vow along with five other guys to follow a list of moral standards for a year. They didn't keep the vow for very long, but their friendship continued, and they eventually wrote books and Facebook posts where they recounted different aspects of the same experience, but for different purposes.
Read the excerpts below and ask yourself: how will I view today's struggles and friendships ten or twenty or thirty years from now? What have I learned from my struggles and friendships of the past? And how can I continue being a faithful, encouraging friend even when our perspectives have changed?
Donald Miller: On the discouragement of breaking self-imposed standards
Donald Miller (2003). Blue Like Jazz, pp.79-81
[Note: this memoir became an inspiration to the emerging church folks, young people searching for spiritual authenticity outside of the evangelical church they were familiar with. Miller has since stepped away from active church attendance.]
I was a fundamentalist Christian once. It lasted a summer. I was in that same phase of trying to discipline myself to "behave" as if I loved light and not "behave" as if I loved darkness. I used to get really ticked about preachers who talked too much about grace, because they tempted me to not be disciplined. I figured what people needed was a kick in the butt, and if I failed at godliness it was because those around me weren't trying hard enough. I believed if word got out about grace, the whole church was going to turn into a brothel. I was a real jerk, I think.
I hit my self-righteous apex while working at a fundamentalist Christian camp in Colorado. I was living in a cabin in the Rockies with about seven other guys, and the whole lot of us fell into this militant Christianity that says you should live like a Navy SEAL for Jesus. I am absolutely ashamed to admit this now.
We would fast all the time, pray together twice each day, memorize Scripture, pat each other on the back and that sort of thing. Summer was coming to a close, and we were getting pretty proud of ourselves because we had read a great deal of Scripture and hadn't gotten anybody pregnant. We were concerned, however, about what to do after we split up, thinking that if we didn't have each other we'd fall apart and start selling drugs to children. One of us, and it was probably me, decided to create a contract that listed things we wouldn't do for an entire year, like watch television or smoke pipes or listen to music. It was the constitution of our self-righteous individualism. The contract stated we would read the Bible every day, pray, and memorize certain long passages of Scripture. We sat around one night with pen and paper and offered sacrifices, each of us trying to outman the other with bigger and brighter lambs for the slaughter. We were the direct opposite of a frat house; instead of funneling our testosterone into binge drinking and rowdy parties, we were manning up to Jesus, bumping Him chest to chest as it were, like Bible salesmen on steroids.
I hitched a ride to Oregon and got an apartment in the suburbs where I didn't know anybody and nobody knew me. I had this necklace on my neck, this string of beads, each bead representing one of the guys in the contract, and a cross in the center, a reminder that we had all gone in on this thing, that we were going to be monks for a year. At first it was easy, living in a new place and all, a new city, but after a while that necklace started to choke me.
The first of the exploits to go was the Bible. It wasn't that I didn't want to read it or didn't agree with it, I would just forget. It sat on the floor next to my bed beneath a pile of dirty clothes. Out of sight, out of mind. I'd forget about it for a month until I cleaned my room, and then I'd lift up a pile of dirty clothes and there would be my Bible, staring up at me like a dead pet.
One evening I was walking around Pioneer Square in downtown Portland when I noticed a pipe and tobacco store across the street. I decided I'd step inside and take a look-see. I came out with a new pipe that I swore I wouldn't smoke till the year was up. It was a good deal, you know, about fifteen dollars or something. I couldn't pass up the sale on tobacco, either, even though it would go bad before the contract expired. I sat down in Pioneer Square with the skateboarders and musicians, chess players and coffee drinkers. I decided to pack my pipe, just to get a feel for it. I stuck it in my mouth to bring back that sensation, the feel of the stem between my teeth. Then I lit it. Then I smoked it.
After the Bible and the pipe thing fell apart, I decided to yield a bit on the television aspect of the contract. There was this indie pizza place down the street from my apartment, Escape from New York Pizza or something like that, and they had a big-screen television. I'd go down and watch Monday night football, which was a double sin because on Mondays we were supposed to be fasting. I figured none of the guys would mind if I switched the fasting day to Wednesday, just to shuffle things around. I shuffled so many fasting days around that after three months I was supposed to go twelve days without eating. I think I fasted twice that year. Maybe.
I hated the entire year. Hated it. I felt like a failure every morning. I hated looking in the mirror because I was a flop. I got ticked at all the people who were having fun with their lives.
I'd walk home from the pizza place feeling criminal for my mischief, feeling as though I were not cut out to be a Christian, wondering what my punishment would be for disobeying God. Everything was failing. I'd get letters from the other guys, too, some of them doing quite well. I wouldn't answer them. Not only was I failing God, I was failing my fundamentalist brothers!
Joshua Harris: On the discouragement of breaking self-imposed standards
Joshua Harris (2003). Not Even a Hint, pp.15-18, 21-22
[Note: at the time of writing Not Even a Hint, I think Harris was assistant to C.J. Mahaney, and the year after publishing he took over the pastorate of Covenant Life Church (Gaithersburg, MD) from Mahaney. Soon after, the book was sold at the booktable at Household of Faith Community Church (Gresham, OR), where his father pastored and where I attended. I listened to the audiobook in Thailand around 2015.]
Seven of us were gathered in the dimly lit living room. A single sheet of notebook paper passed slowly between each person. Finally, it came to me. I scanned the numbered list then solemnly signed my name at the bottom of the page.
The "contract," as we had come to call it, was a strict code of conduct, a list of promises that each of us was vowing to follow for the coming year.
We would read our Bibles every day.
Go to church every Sunday.
Memorize a passage of Scripture every week.
Fast every Tuesday.
Share our faith with one person each week.
We wouldn't watch any movies.
We wouldn't kiss a girl.
We wouldn't drink alcohol.
And we wouldn't masturbate.
Actually, I don't remember all the promises on the list. I think there were nearly fifteen. But I distinctly remember that the vow to refrain from masturbating was number ten on the list. That promise held the particular attention of each of us.
...I was eighteen years old. The other six guys ranged in age from seventeen to twenty-four. That summer we were working as counselors at a Christian leadership camp in Colorado. Carlos, Clint, and I washed dishes. Don, Brook, Jon, and Scot shuttled students in the vans. We called ourselves "The Stallions"--named after a cabin several of the guys lived in.
I can't remember exactly where the idea for the contract came up. I guess we wanted rules. We wanted to know we were pleasing God. The whole process of becoming holy seemed complicated to us, so the idea of reducing our faith to a manageable list of promises and prohibitions was appealing.
So there we were in Jon's parents' living room signing our names. After we were done, Jon took the piece of paper, placed it on the floor in the center of the room, and knelt beside it. "C'mon, guys," he said. "Let's seal our vow with prayer."
The whole thing was very dramatic. All that was missing was a rising orchestral theme playing in the background. We got down on our knees, huddled in a circle, and extended our right hands onto the sheet of paper. We closed our eyes and bowed our heads, then pledged before God to obey every rule on the list.
It was official. The contract was ratified. I felt sure that the angels in heaven must be leaning down in amazement, watching our impressive display of godliness and the sheer strength of will in the room.
A few days later, we all left for home. I was still basking in the euphoria of our religious zeal. Every generation needs men of courage, men of conviction, men of strength--men of God. I was one of those men.
The illusion lasted about two weeks. That's when I broke rule number ten of the contract.
The year that followed was a very humbling lesson in how utterly incapable I was of being righteous in my own strength. And I wrote "number ten again" in my journal more times that year than I want to think about. All my great ambitions, all my vows, all my self-efforts were revealed to be worthless.
...I can laugh now as I look back on that year under the tyranny of "the contract," but it really taught me some important lessons about the limitations of human rules and regulations to bring about real change in a person's life--especially in the area of lust.
...My failure to uphold "the contract" was my first clue that my method for resisting lust was misguided. To begin with, it was based on my own standard of what it meant to obey God. I created a rule I thought I could follow: I wouldn't masturbate for a year.
The result was that I placed my hope in the wrong source of power to obey--my own willpower and strength. I wasn't putting my faith in God; I was putting my faith in Joshua Harris and his ability to resist temptation.
My motivation didn't help either. Though it wasn't completely wrong--part of me genuinely wanted to please God--a huge part of my motivation was to "feel" like a pure person. I wanted to be able to say I hadn't sinned. I wanted to show God how good I could be and how worthy I was.
But of course it all fell apart. After I sinned again, my motivation crumbled. I didn't feel pure or worthy of God's love. My guilt made me hesitant to pray. So I tried harder to muster the willpower to stop lusting. This only led to more discouragement and frustration. Even when I revised my standards--"I won't do it for the next nine months!"--the whole cycle repeated itself again.
Can you relate? Do you see how getting our standard, source of power, and motivation all wrong leads to ongoing failure?
I wrote this book because I've learned that I don't have to live on this treadmill. You don't have to either. God's Word shows us how to get on the path to freedom. It shows us that the key to escaping the cycle of defeat is to embrace God's standard for holiness, His source of power for change, and His motive for fighting sin.
Joshua Harris: On the deepening of faith
Joshua Harris (2010). Dug Down Deep, pp.21-22
[Note: at this point, Harris had been senior pastor of Covenant Life Church for six years, and was feeling nostalgic, realizing that he was grateful for the formative experiences that had challenged and deepened his faith, even though they seemed intense at the time, and even though his writings in his early twenties had laid blame on some of his early religious environments.]
When I was seventeen, I went to a Christian leadership camp in Colorado Springs. The students there were different from other Christians I'd met. They were serious, focused. That might have been the first time I was with a group of Christians who weren't simply trying to "outfun" the world. These kids wanted to outthink and outwork and outlove the world. They wanted to apply their minds to studying Scripture and gaining a Christian worldview. Many had a hunger for God and his Word that stood in stark contrast to my life.
In one session the camp director asked students to stand and recite passages of Scripture they had memorized. I misunderstood the request and at one point stood with my Bible in hand and read the passage. When I realized my mistake, I felt really dumb. I slumped back into my chair red-faced and embarrassed as others stood, one after another, and recited portions from memory. Worse than my misunderstanding was the realization that I didn't have a passage of the Bible memorized. My conscience was pricked.
Around that same time my girlfriend and I ended our two-year relationship. It was a significant moment in my spiritual life. I didn't realize till we broke up just how much our relationship, with its ongoing temptation to compromise, had been draining my spiritual passion. With the distraction and guilt of that temptation over, I began to pursue God in a way I'd never done before.
Joshua Harris: On the encouragement of long-term friendship
Joshua Harris (17 Jan 2022). Facebook.com
[Note: at this point, Harris has stepped down from pastoring, gone to seminary, renounced his former books, left his marriage, left his faith, and started a business-coaching consultancy.]
I’ve been friends with @donaldmiller since I was 17. We met while we were both working at a Christian leadership youth camp in Colorado Springs (any Summit alumni out there?). He was a counselor, I was a dish washer. When he moved to my hometown of Portland, Oregon, after camp, our friendship continued. We ended up working alongside each other, traveling, and dreaming of being writers.
Thirty years later Don is still my friend and there’s a long history of him inspiring me, teaching me, and supporting me. When I decided to stop being a pastor he reminded me of entrepreneurial roots and encouraged me to launch my own business. When my marriage ended he didn’t judge or berate me. On a weekly basis I draw from his StoryBrand framework in my creative agency and his Business Made Simple video curriculum in my coaching.
Don just released a new book called Hero on a Mission that uses principles from story to help you set clear goals for your life and, instead of playing the role of victim or villain, choose to be a hero on a mission.
I interact with a lot of people who have gone through significants shifts in their beliefs. And consistently they ask, “Where do I find meaning? How do I rediscover a sense of purpose?” For anyone asking those kind of questions, I’d highly recommend Don’s book. It’s inspirational, but also extremely practical. It guides you in creating a life plan and encourages you not to let fate write your story. It teaches you to set big goals and then break that down to daily choices.
Don’t let discouragement, distraction, or confusion steal your story.
