This is something a bit more personal than I generally share on the blog, and a little longer than what I usually write as well, so bear with me.
I confessed Jesus as Lord on August 11, 2002 in a small church in Lakewood, NJ but my conversion began long before that. It’s strange to think that in nearly 10 years of being a Christian that I have yet to meet another person who came to Christ like I did. I can think of dozens of people who all share similar experiences with each other, yet none of them with me. How peculiar! So I thought to share a bit of my personal testimony, in hopes of finding a kindred spirit, or at least in hopes of being reassured that my salvation isn’t irrevocably weird.
About 2 years before I came to Christ a very good friend of mine “got saved” (that’s how we say it Pentecostal parlance; if you say something different then so be it). He had been my barber for years, and at that time I got my hair cut once a week, plus he lived next door to my cousins, so I saw plenty of him. Now in addition to being a philanderer (to put it mildly) and a recreational drug/alcohol user, my friend was also a self-centered man given to violence. But I wasn’t much better, if I could say that I was better at all, so it never bothered me much.
I don’t know how things work in hair salons, but in barbershops there’s no topic off limits. The discussion in the shop was usually about drugs or sex or some combination of the two. So imagine my surprise when I went in to get my regularly scheduled haircut and what I got instead was an earful about Jesus. I was taken aback. Here was a guy who quite literally, just days before, had been drinking and drugging and fighting and fornicating, telling me about Jesus!
Once I got over the disbelief I just went on my merry way. I ignored most of what he had to say and went about my life. But week after week I had to keep hearing about Jesus. Now keep in mind that I was raised Catholic, so it’s not like I’d never heard the name Jesus or had any idea about his sacrificial death, but when I was 13 I decided that I just wasn’t interested in any of it. When I was 17 or 18 I worked with a Guatemalan fellow who we called Rambo, who had preached to me for weeks and was met with argument, mockery, and utter disrespect. At that time in my life I really wasn’t interested in any of it. I was more interested in saying that I was a god and that there was no mystery to the universe.
So back to my friend; as he kept preaching I kept telling him something like, “I’m happy for you, but that’s not for me.” I never debated; I never ridiculed; I just kept it moving. You could say that I mellowed out since working with Rambo. Anyway, he kept preaching and I kept listening, but nothing made me want to change anything that I was doing. I had my life together: baby on the way, check; gainful employment, check; girls just a phone call away, check; all the weed I could smoke, check; happiness, check. So what did I need Jesus for? As far as I could tell, I didn’t. I mean, it was nice that it took Jesus for my friend to get his act together, but I was doing alright on my own.
So after about a year-and-a-half of hearing about Jesus once weekly, God started to make himself known to me through events I couldn’t explain. I’ll limit myself to one seemingly mundane example. I was working at a pizza place as a cook and I also handled the deliveries when it was slow or when the other driver was overwhelmed. One night we got an order for delivery but we couldn’t find the address on the map (this was in the days when you had to use a map because only the military had GPS). So we get this call and couldn’t find the address. I called the gentleman back to get directions and he gave them to me. I followed them to the letter and couldn’t have gotten more lost. I had gone up and down countless roads looking for this guy’s street and I couldn’t find it. I called the boss a few times to have him take another look at the map but that didn’t help at all. I called the customer to see where I went wrong but he couldn’t help. Finally, after an hour or so, I called my boss and told him that I was coming back. He agreed.
So I went to turn my car around in a condominium complex that had a horseshoe entrance. All I had to do was drive in and out. Somehow I got lost in this complex, which seemed impossible given that it was only a horseshow I had to navigate, but when I finally stopped the car and looked up, I saw the man whose food I had standing on his porch flagging me down. The reason I couldn’t find his house was because he didn’t live in one. He lived in a condo and he failed to mention that his street was in a complex! I was looking at all the wrong streets and in getting turned around in this complex I ended up being exactly where I needed to be! As I drove back to the pizza place I thought long and hard about the chances of that happening and concluded that they were a long shot.
But there were more things to come that I won’t get into here. I will say that the birth of my daughter changed a lot. I prayed when I was a kid, but like most kids I had a messed up childhood (I’m not complaining, trust me!), so it wasn’t long before I gave up on prayer. But when we went to the hospital for my daughter to be born I had a couple of conversations with God. I can’t remember exactly what I said but it was along the lines of, “please let the labor be quick and give me a healthy baby.” So we arrived at the hospital at 8 AM and my daughter’s mom was induced a little after 10 AM. By 12:12 PM I had a healthy baby girl! Now I’m not the kind of dude that cries, like ever, but when she came out I shed literally two tears. I went outside and called my friend and said exactly these words on his voicemail: “When you talk to God, tell him I said thanks for answering.”
So now I had a kid, was engaged to her mom, still had some other girls on the side, was still getting high, still making good money, and was still generally happy. I kept seeing my friend for my weekly haircut and I kept hearing the gospel week-in and week-out. Nothing really changed. But God continued drawing me in until it got to the point where I realized my sin before him. I was sitting down with my boss after work one night and we were smoking a joint, as per our custom. I sat there and then looked at him and said, “You know, if we died right now we’d go to hell.” He responded by saying, “Shut up man, I don’t wanna hear that!” “But it’s true,” I retorted. And that was that. I called my friend up on the following Saturday and left a message saying that I’d see him in church on Sunday. But I didn’t know where his church was so I called the barbershop and one of the other barbers told me.
So on August 11, 2002 (a mere 12 hours after I quit smoking weed) I wandered into a small black Pentecostal church in Lakewood, NJ with my fiancé and 7 month old baby. I walked through the doors and experienced culture shock for the first time in my life. I was used to black folks since I’ve always had black friends, but I wasn’t used to black church. It was nothing like the Mass I grew up with. There was no holy water; no liturgy; nobody in vestments; not even a pew in sight! There were old ladies with white doilies on their head (does that qualify as a vestment?) ushering us up to the front of the church to take the only seats left in the building. People were dancing and shouting and speaking in tongues. It was weird!
So we took our seats and got ready for the sermon. The pastor was out of town and another minister (a guy named Donald) came up to preach. I remember that he was saying something about Job and a hedge of protection but to be honest, we kept sneaking off to the vestibule with the excuse that the baby needed to get changed, or to eat, or to calm down. I really didn’t hear the message at all. But when I returned for the last time it was right after the call for salvation was made. Someone told me that they had asked if anyone wanted to be saved. I said that I did, after all, I thought that the only reason to go to church was to get saved. So I walked up to the front, and in something like a scene out of a movie, four men ushered me into a side room like they were secret service agents trying to protect the president from assassination!
One of the older gentlemen opened up his Bible to Romans 10 and asked me to read verses 9-10. I obliged him and read aloud, “That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.” Another gentleman asked me if I understood what I had just read. I said, “Yes,” even though I was partially unclear. They then asked me if I believed that God raised Jesus from the dead. I said, “Yes.” And then I confessed Jesus as Lord. They all hugged me and congratulated me and we went back into the sanctuary.
I was then asked to get up in the pulpit and say a few words. So I got up but I had to wait while the music was playing. I was uncomfortable to begin with since I had showed up in a dress shirt that was a little too young for me (I hadn’t had occasion to dress up in a number of years), but standing there bopping back and forth (when I loathed dancing) as the music played and the church looked at me was really awkward. So when the MC (a wonderful little old lady named “Mom” Lynn) handed me the microphone and asked me to speak I said something like, “Jesus is my Lord now and I don’t wanna serve the devil anymore!” Mom Lynn smiled at me and said, “That’s nice, but how do you feel?” I looked at her half-puzzled and said, “I feel good.”
In the 7 years I went to that church I never saw another person get saved like that. There were plenty of sinner’s prayers recited, but never reading the Scriptures and making a confession of Jesus as Lord. I never saw anyone asked if they understood the gospel they were professing to believe. My experience of getting saved in that church was peculiar, but it was peculiar in how God drew me as well. I didn’t come to Christ in despair like so many other folks I know. Plenty of people I’ve seen get saved over the years did so because life was terrible for them or because they experienced some terrible tragedy. My life was actually pretty good.
I also know plenty of folks who were led to recite the sinner’s prayer as the result of slick preaching (I shudder to say that I’ve seen folks manipulated into saying it by forceful preachers). I wasn’t. My friend’s preaching, while being nice and all, paled in comparison to the way God was revealing himself and the way in which the Spirit of God convicted me of my sin. And I can’t credit the sermon preached on the day of my conversion either since I didn’t hear most of it. I showed up at church with the intention of getting saved and that was the end result. So when I think back on it all I’m always taken by the peculiarity of it. And the peculiarities didn’t stop there, but this is the story of my conversion, so I will.
Maybe next time I’ll talk about my entrance into teaching…
B”H