So today I gave my first chapel sermon here at HUF and it went pretty well, although I rushed it a little as I tend to do when speaking. But I think the lesson was well-received by the group. They told me they liked it anyway. I also had a cough and am getting a cold, so it wasn't my best sermon ever.

But here it is, I'm posting it really for my Mom, because I know she'll ask me to do it anyway. And I think of all the sermons I've done-this one is my favorite, even better than that sermon I did about superheroes.

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So you've just died.

You've kicked the can. You've taken your last breath. You've passed on from this world. You've already seen your whole life pass before your eyes. The fat lady has sung. Life is over and the hereafter has begun.

And so with that final breath, as Hamlet might say, you have shuffled off your mortal coil and await what dreams may come. You step out of your body, look down at a face that had once been yours and but no longer is, and you're a bit confused about what to do next.

That's when you see it: a long, dark tunnel that had not been there before. With little options to choose, you begin walking down this tunnel, to see a small light waiting for you at the end. As you creep down this tunnel, the light is getting brighter and brighter with every step. A bright, white light that is coming closer and closer.

As you near the light, you begin to hear singing. You hear singing that is both beautiful and frightening, both majestic and terrifying.

And then you reach the light at the end of the tunnel. A bright, glorious and blinding light that envelopes and consumes you. And when your eyes become used to the light, you find yourself somewhere else.

Within this light you see giant pillars rising up, as thick as mountains, supporting a ceiling thousands of feet away. You see golden clouds drifting between the great pillars, passing only to show visions of art and glory crafted by hands not human.

On the floor of this majestic hall, a hall so great and massive you could lose the Sistine Chapel and all the palaces of the world quite easily if you weren't careful, and between the pillars and beneath the clouds, stood a chorus of a million angels, singing their songs in a language you've never heard before, but somehow understand. They are each creatures of starry flames, thunderous voices and eclipsing eyes.

And all their eyes are on you.

And then, as you turn from the chorus of angels, you see Him. You see the source of the ethereal light, the light that is far superior to the thousand-foot pillars, to the strange songs, to the fiery choir. He is the source of light, the source of life. Sitting on a throne large than the earth, surrounded by beings of a hundred wings and a thousand faces, surrounded by kneeling saints and inferior crowns. He is the Being of glorious, untainted, pure light covered in robes made from bursting suns and interwoven stars. A circle of swirling galaxies revolve around His head, a head that is the very pinnacle of all existence. His face is too indescribable for meager words and mortal imagination to comprehend.

And He is looking at you.

He is looking at you with eyes as bright as the Milky Way and as deep as the chasm of space. He wears an expression of what appears to be curiosity, an expression that contains every emotion bestowed to man, and then some that weren't.

You cower beneath the Almighty's gaze with the sum of all fears, with a trembling of Old Testament proportions. You stand there without your clothes, without your riches, without your body. You are standing beneath His gaze naked and laid bare. Needless to say, if you still had pants, you'd have wet them.

And then something unexpected happens: a human steps out of the One and Only. He steps out from the sunny robes and shining face. It is a man of average height, with dark, Middle-Eastern skin, wearing white robes and bearing holes in his hands and feet.

He walks up to you, completely at peace in this terrifying place, with a small smile on his face and his fingers caressing the hole in his hand, as if absent-mindedly. He looks at you in the eye, and says in a voice that may or may not be familiar, "Tell me your story."

"Tell me your story."

Over Christmas break, I read a book called "A Million Miles in a Thousand Years" by Donald Miller, one of my favorite authors. In this book, I learned that we are all characters in an epic novel being written by God. This is a novel full of mystery, intrigue, adventure, action, horror, romance, heroic deeds, sacrifice, and true love. And we are all the main characters.

As John 1:1-5 says, "In the beginning was the Word, and the word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it."

Jesus is the Word of God and we are the stories that have been written with but that one word.

God expects us to live exciting lives, lives that involve leaving home and seeing the world, that involve taking risks and taking leaps of faith, that involves defying the odds and facing our giants.

I think that when we get to stand before God, He won't stack your good deeds against your bad ones. Or immediately raise His thumb to approve your entrance to Heaven or point it down to send you elsewhere. I think He'll ask us to tell our stories, our life stories down to every detail. After all, He is God, and you are naked, so you have nowhere to hide anything. You tell Him your life.

And how disappointing would it be to have to tell the Creator that you did not explore the world he created for exploring, to tell Him that you came across an obstacle, but did not have the faith to overcome it, to tell Him that you fought with sin, but did not defeat it. To tell Him that you gave into sin, and did not put up much of a fight.

Everybody loves a happy ending, including God.

And how disappointing would it be to tell God that He did not have a major role in your life's story, or that He was not even a part of it at all, even though He was the one who wrought your introduction.

So while you are here in Florence, and gallivanting across Europe, live adventurously, take those once-in-a-lifetime chances, close your eyes and take that great leap of faith.

And while you are living adventurously, live adventurously with God, make Him the main character of your own story, make Him the prologue, climax, and epilogue, make Him the title of every chapter.

So there you are, standing in Presence of the Almighty, at the feet of the Creator, among the angels and the saints, standing before the Christ Jesus, and you've been asked to tell your story.

So what is your story going to be?

So I am currently in the midst of week 3 of my semester here in Florence and it seems like I've been here a whole lot longer-months even. And yet, at the same, strange time, I feel as if time is slipping by like sand caught in a dancing wind that blows around you, swirling about you majestically for a moment, then passes by, leaving only memories and things left jotted down in a journal. But I am nowhere near the end of my adventure, I still have Europe to see and the world to conquer.

But this weekend was perhaps one of the best weekends of my life-riding on the heels of that one special weekend I was crowned king of the Prom.

Friday began early as we all boarded our bus at 8:00 am and headed off for the large village of Lucca, which is one of those many towns within Europe that have been resentful of change and the buildings and roads and churches remain in the medieval ages. You will find no mega churches here or examples of humanity's genius from today. Lucca was nice town, I will admit, but the downpour of rain and the drafty, frostbitten churches and the lack of astonishing facts did not leave us with a good flavor in our mouths and a good memory in our heads. We were rather smitten to be gone from the town and head on towards the rest of the day.

The rest of the day brought Pisa, that legendary architectural mistake that has made every child who has seen its picture in a classroom and every adult lucky enough to visit it. I've probably seen more than a hundred pictures of Pisa in my life, a commonality in today's fast-pace world photography and print. But actually standing at the foot of this famous structure, seeing the angle it was leaning at, and just waiting for it to come crashing down, was unreal. However it was nowhere near as grand as actually climbing the tower it-self. It was one of the strangest things, entering the tower through a crooked door, climbing a spiral staircase that leaned to the left, or right depending on which way you're facing. And then you make it to the top, and you desperately cling to the railing when you see one side of the circular structure much lower than the other. It's one of those memories you will never forget.

I seem to be making a lot of those.

Saturday brought the chocolate and Albanians. After classes on Saturday (yes, we have classes on Saturday-and Sunday) a group of us went to a chocolate fair at the Santa Croce (one of Florence's numerous churches) Square. The place was an inner-ant-mound of excitement as Florentines and tourists alike flocked the white tents, itching to get their hands on the chocolate-covered oranges and cherries and gummy worms. I managed to get a nice brownie smothered in hot fudge. What a treat!

The night brought the Albanians. Currently, Italy is having an explosion of Albanian immigration-which I think is a good thing because Albanians now how to have a good time (I'm absolutely positive that Italians do too, it's just that they're more reserved than Albanians by a long shock). And with the Albanians came dancing. We all sat along the walls of a small room in the Florence Church of Christ, watching these young Europeans hop, skip and smile as they held hands and danced around the room, playing the music of their home. Then gradually, they would pull us in and teach us the dance.

The dances were easy and free, with room for improvisation. The Albanians simply took us by the hand and pulled us into a circle of laughter and twirls. The music was folksy and foreign, like something out of "My Big Fat Greek Wedding".

However, like all dance parties involving Americans, Cascada is going to get involved somehow. Especially when it comes to "Every time we touch". So naturally, I had a good time.

I don't know what it is about dancing, but it is one of my favorite gifts God gave us. And yes, I do believe dancing is a gift He gave us, just like singing, writing, athleticism, drama, public speaking, and health care. And like any of God's gifts, we can use it for good or bad. In the case of Saturday night, it was good. And it was fun.

No matter what anyone says, Harding kids do know how to have a good time, probably a better time than students at other schools, probably because we don't have illegal substances or consume beverages that cause extreme idiocy. And eventually it went from Cascada to Hadaway to Ke$ha. And I had a dance off with an Albanian, who may or may not have, gone easy on me. But whatever the outcome-it was fun.

Sunday brought a pot-luck. I know you actually don't spell pot-luck like "pot-luck" but for the sake of everyone else, I'll call it "pot-luck". The food was great and the compay even greater. I think friends make food taste better-that's probably false-but it does make meals more enjoyable. It's the little things of Italy as well that makes this trip grand. After the pot-luck we had a quick battle of the sexes pictionary game and some chili.

And then we went to the soccer-or futbol-whatever you want to call it- game and it was quiet an experience. When you think Americans are bad about their favorite sports teams and hating on their rivals, Italians are worse, much worse. It was Florence verses Rome, the purple and white verses the red and black...respectively.

I think since Italian cities no longer fight wars and try to conquer each other, they've turned to soccer as their outlet for violence, obscenity and hometown pride. But since Florence lost 1-0, the city was not a happy place.

Extreme sport-pride makes me angry and embarrassed to be sharing the same gender with these so-called "manly men". When you see grown men cursing their hearts out, pouring beer the color of urine down their gullets with the gluttony of a troll, pathetically living vicariously through the athletes they always dreamed to be, but somehow let a beer-belly get in their way, and have a temper-tantrum worthy of a two-year-old when something they have absolutely no control over whatsoever did not go their way. And boy, did I see that at the soccer game last night.

Now I'm not generalizing in anyway or saying all sports fans are like this-I would be an idiot to say that. But the way the men acted at the game last night absolutely revolted me. And I know similar actions take place in the States.

However, we were able to watch the Super Bowl last night here in the Villa, so my respect for sports fans lifted somewhat because there was no cussing or beer-drinking, although the coke we had tasted really funny....

But that is what happened to me this past weekend my faithful readers. It was a good weekend to lighten my spirits and make memories to last a lifetime.