Kyle Lake
On October 30, 2005, Kyle Lake walked into the waters of baptism at University Baptist Church (UBC) in Waco, Texas.
As he was preparing to baptize a young woman, signifying her commitment to following in the way of Jesus, he reached out to grab a microphone after realizing his lapel mic wasn’t working. Because of a malfunction in the water heater, an electrical current traveled through his body, fatally electrocuting him in front of 800 people.
When the accident happened, I was in a room across the hallway with Kyle’s three children and a visitor, “leading” children’s church. In those days, kids at UBC were scarce, and the children’s church consisted of whoever was available (and willing) sitting in a small nursery, passing out snacks and doing our best to teach a two-minute lesson.
That day’s lesson involved the baby Moses being placed in the water, which eventually led to his and his people’s deliverance.
I was helping one of the kids cut out a picture they had colored of Moses when the mom of the visiting child stepped into the room. “I need to be in here if that’s ok,” she said.
Her face was pale, and I had yet to experience enough life to know it was the look of trauma. “Sure,” I said.
Soon after, people began to stream out of the sanctuary and into the hallway. I heard random words and phrases rise about the noise–water, “he’s ok,” and “they got him out.”
During worship the week before, a colored plastic light filter fell from the rafters and almost hit someone. It might have injured someone, but they would have likely walked away with a cut or scrape. I didn’t assume that whatever was happening in the sanctuary to make people stream out of the room was that, but I placed it all in the same mental box.
That was, until a friend entered the children’s room, looking like a ghost. “It’s Kyle,” she said. “You need to get the kids home, but don’t take them out the front door. The ambulance will be there.”
My world grew dizzy. For a moment, while others helped gather the kids’ things, I walked into a corner and prayed, “I’m scared. You’ll have to just accept my fear as my prayer right now.”
Kyle was my pastor and a close friend.
We were supposed to see a movie together, “Elizabethtown,” the Friday before. Early in the day, he messaged me and said he would need to take a rain check.
It was Baylor Homecoming, and some of his family, all alums, came into town early. The next day was the parade and football game, so I didn’t see him until Sunday morning.
A group of us were meeting for Sunday School in a large room in the back of the church, which is in an old grocery store building. The sanctuary is generally where the aisle would have been, and what we call the “backside,” the fellowship hall where we met for Sunday School, is where the stockroom and freezers would have been.
As we were talking, I looked up and saw Kyle peeking around the corner of the next room. He caught my eye and made a silly face, as if he was up to something, and then disappeared again around the corner.
That was the last time I saw my friend. I think about him every Sunday when I walk around the corner where he disappeared. I touch the doorframe and remember who he was to me and the world.
It’s not lost on any of us who knew him well that Kyle died on October 30. Halloween came and went, and then we buried him on November 1, All Saints Day.
Halloween is a day for play, and on All Saints Day we remember those who have reflected the light of God into our lives. For Kyle, that light reflected onto us was joy without a filter, and playfulness.
Kyle was 33 when he died. I was 31.
In the days after his death, I often thought, “This is terrible, but I wonder what life will be like without Kyle when I am 40 or 50 and beyond?” Now, at 50, I have my answer: Life without Kyle is terrible. It is also joyful and playful. There are wars and rumors of wars and far too much hate. But humans still make beautiful art and greet friends with hugs and laughter.
Despite all my deconstruction and “woke” lefty theology and politics, I still count myself among the wild-eyed loonies who believe in the immortality of the soul and a literal resurrection.
If you want a detailed theological apologetic for why I believe this, I am not intellectually up for that job. All I can say is that there are some people in our world for whom this life is clearly too big to contain. They point to the reality that there has to be another life beyond this one for this life to spill over into.
Kyle was one of those people.
We sing a song at UBC with the lyrics, “So mourn your losses/ Sing your songs/ But build your houses with fingers crossed/ There is a hope now graven in the dawn/ And every ending to that burning edge belongs.”
In all your losses and the songs you sing, the houses you build and in every dawn you witness, I wish you the grace to live out Kyle’s benediction, which we still recite at UBC every Sunday before beginning our week– “As we approach this week, may we love God, embrace beauty, and live life to the fullest.”
Senior Editor at Good Faith Media.
