Richard Wayne Mullins

There was always something tragic about Rich Mullins. Maybe it was the ever-present hint of sadness in his eyes, which spoke of his personal battle with depression -- a battle he only recently had found courage to admit publicly. Maybe it was the bold, brash things he said to unsettle our concrete theologies and theories about God. Maybe it was the vulnerability with which he openly championed celibacy and monasticism.

After all, "normal" American Christians don't try to mold themselves into monks. Rich's referral to this experiment as "The Kid Brothers of Saint Frank" didn't quite take the edge off the sword with humor, as much as he might have thought. The truth is, he made a lot of us uncomfortable in our downy faith nests.

He left you no middle ground. You either loved him passionately or disliked him heartily because he "rubbed you the wrong way." Flying-in-the-face of expected Christian norms of dress and lifestyle, he undeniably challenged all he encountered, whether "industry insiders" or concert audiences.

In a piece written for "Release" magazine more than a year ago, Rich's producer called him a modern-day prophet. Sort of an American John the Baptist, he was a voice "crying in the wilderness" for repentance and sincerity of heart in seeking God.

In the 1960s, a Dominican monk/poet described John the Baptist after his death in terms much like my reaction to Rich upon meeting him: "the dangerous edge teetering yet in those coinless eyes." _[1] That same "dangerous edge" shimmered in Rich's eyes as well. He had this way of burning into you with his eyes, almost like he was seeing your soul. I know. It happened to me in the fall 1991.

The only word I can use to describe that meeting is "traumatic." I had only recently heard him for the first time a few weeks prior. Through a serendipity, I was one of a group of people who had received backstage passes to meet him at a show in Birmingham, Ala.

During the show, he began to stare at me repeatedly. No smiles. No clue to what he was thinking via expressions. After three hours of this treatment, I had changed my mind about wanting to meet him. I thought him rude, intimidating and cynical (based on several comments he made during the show).

At the time, I was an insecure and inexperienced songwriter who wanted to become an artist. I thought it would be nice to have the opinion of a songwriter who had "made it," so I gave Rich a demo tape and asked for a critique, since I would be traveling to Nashville a few days after the concert to see if doors would open for me.

But Rich refused. He asked me instead, "Do you really believe that God is the one who gave you these songs?" I stammered a positive reply. Shoving the tape back into my hands and looking me intensely in the eye he said, "Then you go with what you've been given. It doesn't matter what I or any other artists think. You just go with God." Even though I felt resentment and the sting of his rejection (in more ways than I can tell you), his words had penetrated into my heart. I knew that God Himself had spoken to me through the lips of this unshaven, barefoot man.

Rich died the way he lived: driving as hard as he could to get to the Light, defiant against the darkness.

I want to close with two thoughts to comfort all who love him. The first is the real message he gave me six years ago: "Go with what you have been given. Just go with God."

Second, he often said his favorite song he'd written was "Elijah." Consider this excerpt of the chorus: "When I leave, I wanna go out like Elijah.... And it won't break my heart to say goodbye."

Dear family of God, let us be strong for Rich and not be crushed by our grieving. We know where he is... and that we'll see him again.

Neither the Lord Jesus nor Rich want his goodbye to break our hearts.

-- by Martia Wilson, Winfield, Ala.

_{[1]Brother Antoninus, "The Hazards of Holiness," title poem, Doubleday Publishing Co., 1959.}