I grew up in a relatively small town in Missouri located squarely in the “Bible Belt”. My parents were charter members of the independent Baptist church that we attended and were extremely involved; my dad was a deacon, and my mom was a Sunday School teacher, pianist, and church secretary. They were adamant that we were at church any time the doors were open, Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night, and every other church event. Outside of church, my parents did their best to create a model Christian home.
From as early as I can remember, there was an altar call at every single church service and the congregation was asked to remember when you “asked Jesus into your heart” and reminded that if you hadn’t you are destined to burn eternally in Hell. I was only five years old when fear led me to tell my dad that I needed to ask Jesus into my heart. He, along with another man at the church, took me to the church office and led me in the “sinners’ prayer” and at one of the next few services, I was baptized.
A few years later, the conflict in the Middle East, and the calendar’s proximity to the year 2000, had spawned a surge in sermons around end times. Our church taught that all believers would be taken to heaven prior to the tribulation outlined in Revelation. This led to an enormous amount of anxiety and fear during every altar call, which spilled over into everyday life; the fear of death was a regular focus of my thoughts. One of the doctrines of our church was “once saved, always saved” but that if you have doubts, it was better to make sure than to risk dying without Jesus in your heart. At this point, I realized that I could not remember the exact words I prayed when I was five and that I might not have actually asked Jesus into my heart the “right” way. After watching the opening ceremonies of the 1992 Barcelona Olympics with my family, we all went to our beds. Lying alone in my dark room, the fear of dying and spending eternity in Hell consumed me. I went to my parent’s bedroom and, ashamed, asked my dad to come to my bedroom so that I could pray the sinners’ prayer with him again. He gently tried to tell me that I had taken care of this when I was five, but I persisted, and he prayed with me. I was baptized again soon after.
During my formative years, the youth group of the church was almost exclusively where I spent my time outside of school. I looked up to both the senior and youth pastor of the church. I learned as much as I could about the Bible, participated in Vacation Bible School, summer camps (as both a student as well as a counselor for the younger kids), went on short term mission trips, and did my best to follow all the rules.
After High School, I continued to live with my parents while attending the local state college and began working part time. I bought a house when I was 21, moved out, and continued to faithfully attend church. I began dating a girl, from church of course, and we got married. I had few doubts that I was doing what was right. The sudden and tragic death of my wife’s brother, mental and spiritual immaturity, and failure to seek guidance as a couple led to separation. This broke me entirely; my world was turned upside down. I wanted things back the way they were, and I did not understand why I was being put through these trials.
During the separation, I decided to take what was supposed to be a temporary position with my company in San Antonio, TX. Soon after arriving, I became involved with a local Southern Baptist church, made a ton of friends and even became a leader, teaching Sunday School and conducting Bible studies. My new friends and the busyness softened the blow of the news that my wife had filed for divorce. Since we lived in a “no fault” state, we had no children, and she did not want anything except what she had taken during the separation, I had no choice but to simply sign the papers.
Over the next few years, I doubted everything I believed, including the very existence of God. I was filled with anxiety, most often highlighted by the fear of death. Over time, I began following “deconstructionists” and the doubts became larger. I began having more discussions with believers who were not like me. Some did not believe in the things that I was taught growing up. Many had different opinions about Jesus, who he was and is, and what happens after we die. I also came to recognize that faith and Christianity did not necessarily look like I previously thought it should.
While all of this was going on, I started dating a wonderful woman that I’d been friends with for a long time. We got engaged, were married just a few months later, and in the 10 years since have had three beautiful children. The responsibility of being a husband and a father have helped to refocus my own walk with God.
I don’t have it all figured out. I still struggle with unbelief and doubt and fear. I know I chose Jesus when I was five, and I chose Jesus when I was eleven, and I chose Jesus while in High School youth group, and I chose Jesus after a divorce and moving to a new city. I’ve never NOT chosen Jesus; however, I used to believe that God had given us all the answers that we need in the Bible and that rock solid confidence in a particular set of beliefs was a strength. Now I am more comfortable with not knowing all the mysteries; that maybe God has given us all the answers we need, but that maybe we aren’t meant to know it all yet. I continue to discover that “choosing Jesus” might not be what I thought it was 40 or 30 or even 10 years ago.
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