There’s a scene in the movie We Bought a Zoo that I love!  A dad, played by Matt Damon, asks his son how things are going with his girlfriend.  When the son shares some struggles, the dad smiles and says, “You know, sometimes all you need is 20 seconds of insane courage.”  We find out later, the dad learned that lesson when he took 20 seconds to talk to a complete stranger and ended up marrying her.

Let me be clear; I don’t like having to use insane courage. It’s uncomfortable.  That’s why I told my son he didn’t have to jump from a Hawaiian cliff. But there’s a problem.  Sometimes, God likes those moments.  And two weeks ago, one of them came at me like a 98-mph fastball thrown right at my head.

My wife and I were attending the Christian Educators Summit in Colorado when one of the speakers walked on stage with a big grin on his face.

What’s that grin about? I wondered.

His name was David Schmus, the president of Christian Educators.  Deb and I had only known him for a couple of days, but already his humility and soft heart for people made it easy for us to trust him. He walked up to the podium like a pitcher walks up to the mound, took the microphone in his hand, and threw out a challenge that made me want to drop to the ground and head back to the dugout.

“I’m gonna ask you to do something today,” he said, “that’s gonna be hard.”

He projected a slide on the screen with the names of every person in the room divided into groups.

“These groups are going to different parts of the city,” he said. “We’re giving each of you $20 for lunch, and the challenge is to have life-giving conversations with anyone you meet throughout the afternoon.”

I closed my eyes to soften the blow of what I heard. The introvert in me wanted to scream “NO WAY!”

He continued.  “If the conversations lead to talking about Jesus, that’s great! But if they’re just about where people find hope or what they’re passionate about, that’s great too.”

Everyone in our group took big breaths as we walked to Luis’ car.  The four of us were grown men, but we prayed like children walking back up to the plate, still scared of fastballs.

“God, we don’t really know what we’re doing,” Tom prayed, “but would you lead us into conversations that would stir people’s hearts for you? We need you, Lord, and we ask this in Jesus name, Amen.”

We parked the car, and the four of us set out into town desperate for 20 seconds of insane courage.

We had no idea what we were about to face, but when we reached a park, Tom stopped us.

“Let’s try this spot,” he suggested.

We split up.  Jim and I went into the pavilion while Tom and Luis walked up to a teenage boy sitting on a bench.  Because Tom is a principal and Luis is a coach, teenagers fall right in their wheelhouse.

In the pavilion, kids were working on crafts, so Jim and I started conversations with the parents watching.   That’s when I heard shouting.

A man with a stained t-shirt and a huge red beard had just walked up to Tom and Luis.  They had already started talking with the boy when the man interrupted.

“This kid doesn’t want you here!” he shouted.  He stepped a little closer to the three of them and kept up his rant.  “Get the hell away from him!”

The kid seemed just as shocked as Tom and Luis.

“We’re just trying to have a conversation,” Tom said gently, feeling the eyes of everyone in the park.

“I’m coming back in a few minutes,” the man continued, “and when I get back, you better be gone!”  He grumbled to himself as he walked away, but everyone in the park heard his threat.

“Are you okay if we talk with you for a minute?” Tom whispered to the boy.

“Oh yeah. Please stay,” he answered.

The grumbling man walked toward the pavilion and sat down at a bench near Jim and I.  He looked homeless and overwhelmed, so I sat next to him.

That’s when he started spewing words about the two men he just saw and something about busses and bad people.  His thoughts, like his movements, were erratic—making no sense—so I reached out my hand to shake his.

“My name’s Erin,” I said with a smile.

“I don’t give a **** who you are!” he said, looking me up and down.

He didn’t shake my hand.

Instead, he got up and walked back toward Tom and Luis.

“I told you to get the hell away from this kid!” he shouted at them, pointing his finger. His anger was coming unhinged.  “Come on!” he shouted, motioning to the kid.

Tears started to form in the young man’s eyes, and then he did something none of us saw coming.  He got up from the bench and stepped behind Tom and Luis.

They were his wall—his only defense.  And I wondered, How many other scared teenage kids had found refuge in the hope these men offered?  How many athletes on Luis’ soccer team? How many students in Tom’s school? 

I felt like I was watching a cinematic version of the Bible when demons possess people and hurl angry shouts at followers of Christ.

Venomous words kept spewing through the red whiskers of the bearded man.  There was no reasoning with him; he just wouldn’t stop.

Finally, Tom had enough.  He stood straight up–all six foot five inches of him–and squared up with the man.  He and Luis didn’t say a word while the boy hid behind them.  They just stood like soldiers unwilling to budge, taking the brunt of every angry word.

The confrontation had reached a climax.  Darkness stood in direct opposition to our 20 seconds of insane courage and everything the four of us believed.

But we weren’t alone.  Like the light breaking through the cottonwoods, the Author of hope was there too, amid all that darkness.  And we didn’t know it at the time, but He was about to make His entrance into our cinematic scene, an entrance we’d never forget.

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