My Friend Frank
The Hippie Turned Theologian That Changed The Local Church
I first met Frank Damazio in 2002 when I moved to Portland for college. He was already a household name in our circles. My dad’s office looked like a Damazio pop-up shop—books everywhere, his name scribbled on legal pads, VHS recordings of sermons with labels like “Frank - Prophetic Leadership ‘96”. He was the guy at every conference we went to growing up—part theologian, part linebacker, part myth.
I actually met Bethany, his daughter, before I met him. She drove a red VW Bug, listened to Ryan Adams, and hated anything that even smelled like Christian college culture. Naturally, we hit it off. Through her I eventually met Andrew—who, at fourteen, had the energy of a cracked-out Jack Russell Terrier and the physical strength of a Greek demigod. He was singlehandedly terrorizing the staff, to Frank’s obvious delight.
At first, my interactions with Frank were minimal: “Nice to meet you, sir,” followed by a nod that somehow carried the weight of a doctoral thesis. I was just another PBC student, a semi-redeemed pastor’s kid trying not to get expelled. But once my brother Gabe and our friend Jon Bjorkman showed up the following year, something shifted.
Bethany invited us over for Christmas. I brought Jon and Gabe—Jon, who has the emotional intelligence of a counselor and the theological precision of a surgeon; and Gabe, who has the subtlety of a sledgehammer and the charm of a feral cat. Frank immediately loved Jon. Gabe made him laugh. And Andrew? Andrew wanted to wrestle Gabe immediately—which he did, in the living room, to the point where someone bled. Sharon was horrified. Frank was delighted. It was perfect.
We played hyper-competitive ping-pong in Frank’s garage, ate our weight in Christmas leftovers, and slowly infiltrated the Damazio orbit. Their kids didn’t like typical church kids, which is fair—neither did we. They liked us because we were honest, scrappy, and slightly dangerous. We were pastor’s kids, which meant we came with a mix of entitlement, trauma, and a deeply inappropriate sense of humor. We weren’t impressed by titles. We didn’t quote devotional books. We didn’t pretend—much.
Andrew loved Gabe’s chaos. Frank trusted Jon. And me? I was the wildcard. The guy they couldn’t quite categorize. “Why’s he at PBC?” people would ask. “Is he in the worship department or the theology track?” The answer was yes. All of the above. None of the above. I was trying to find God while writing sarcastic essays in theology class and sneaking out to indie shows downtown.
And somehow, Frank never tried to box us in. He just let us be. He watched. He laughed. He gave us space.
Access to the Damazio family was rarer than a straight man at a Taylor Swift concert. You didn’t just stroll into that orbit. The kids were the gatekeepers, and they had a built-in radar for posers, bootlickers, and anyone trying too hard.
Take, for example, the youth pastor at the time: a peacocking lug we’ll call Dobby. He was a good-hearted PBC grad who had married ministry royalty, which in our world meant he got to play dress-up in Frank’s shadow. Dobby strutted around campus with Frank’s authoritarian energy, minus any of the gravitas. I remember him pointing at a book table during a youth conference and saying, with all the self-importance of a third-string megachurch preacher, “I haven’t written books because I’ve been too busy building ministry.”
That line might’ve worked on an intern, but even at 21 I thought, No, dude—it’s because you’re an illiterate ignoramus.
Dobby couldn’t stand me, Gabe, or Jon. To be fair, Jon was better at playing it cool—he stayed in the political shadows like a CIA asset. But Gabe and I? We weren’t kneeling for any youth pastor monarchy—we played the game but Dobby saw through us, and we saw through him. It was political chess, and PK’s always win.
Dobby would walk into Frank’s office and there we’d be—Gabe and Andrew wrestling over a knocked-over coffee table while Frank was howling with laughter. It drove him nuts. He had the title; we had the access.
My relationship with Frank was complicated. I spent holidays at his house, spent his money at the movies, but also got kicked out of his college. Twice. Suspended three times.
Frank was President of PBC, so he had to personally sign off on my expulsions, which is kind of hilarious. On one hand, I was in his living room eating turkey and watching basketball with him and Andrew. On the other hand, I was caught drinking a beer at a minor league game and he had to deliver the ecclesiastical pink slip.
The final time, during my senior year, he drove up to the dorm after the disciplinary meeting. He found me outside. I walked up to his Acura, leaned into the passenger window:
“Hey.”
“Hey, buddy,” he said. “You should come back next year. Just move to Portland. Be a part of the church. Work with me a bit.”
“Yeah… okay.”
Even in my dismissal, he was reaching for me. Not to punish, but to keep connection.
When I got home to Canada, I was just grateful it was over. Four rocky, formative, frustrating years—I was toast. I didn’t talk to Frank for about five years. But when I landed in New York, he was one of the first to reach out. He was connecting with Carl at the time, trying to understand what was happening in Manhattan, and I had the inside track.
As I started teaching and doing weekends, our relationship deepened. When I moved to Costa Mesa, it got even richer. We talked about everything—ministry, burnout, structure, temptation, fathers, sons, platforms.
And when I launched TheosU, Frank was one of the first big voices to affirm it.
He mentored me in a way only a handful of people ever have. He knew all the parts of me: the chaos, the charm, the talent, the self-sabotage. And he never flinched. He always brought me back to the center, to the things that matter, the things that last.
If you’ve never read him, you need to; here are the four theological things that mattered to Frank, a sort of summary of his impact:
