I thought I'd begin with a short testimony since, well, that seems like a good place to start.
I was raised by two incorrigibly alcoholic parents, both of whom had died by the time I was 21. I was effectively raised as an only child since my brother and sister were much older and escaped the home when I was still a toddler. It wasn't entirely the childhood from hell but it wasn't Leave It to Beaver either.
There was one great blessing: My parents were so preoccupied with their own demons that they didn't care what I believed. Both were highly intelligent but neither religious nor irreligious. Religion just wasn't a part of my childhood one way or the other. Easter was strictly about coloring eggs and eating chocolate bunnies, Christmas strictly about unbridled greed and eating chocolate Santas.
The great blessing is that I was spared any parental indoctrination of the sort that still haunts many people when they're 50 years old. I was entirely free to think and explore for myself. For this reason, I wouldn't trade my childhood for Beaver Cleaver's even if I could.
I was always serious and introspective. My Dad started calling me Grandpa when I was five years old. In the midst of the chaos that surrounded me, I always had the sense of a protective Something that gave me an inner confidence everything would eventually be alright and I'd somehow land on my feet. I didn't connect this Something to God or anything in particular; it was just an abiding assurance that seemed to come from somewhere outside myself.
I was always interested in death and "weirdness" – ghosts, reincarnation, UFOs and whatnot. By the age of ten, I was reading some fairly heavy stuff in these areas. I remember having a sudden epiphany at the age ten or eleven, standing in my parents' gravel driveway, that somehow electromagnetism was the key to survival after death and that an "electrical me" is what would survive.
I had no particular interest in religion, however, and certainly not in Christianity. At around age 15, I was drawn to Buddhism and would amuse my parents by sitting on a rock and chanting "Om" while they nursed their Budweisers, but it was a passing fancy.
My Mom died – of cirrhosis, of course – when I was 18 and just entering college. My Dad was nowhere to be found, and I went into a bit of a tailspin. I was never on an entirely self-destructive path – I didn't drink (much, anyway) or smoke (I detested it) and wasn't the least bit interested in drugs even though they were everywhere around me. (I used to joke that I had "rebelled against my parents" by becoming an unusually clean-living teen.)
I was no saint. I used to steal things – pretty big and expensive things – just for the excitement of it. I took some insane risks and could have easily gone to prison if caught. Perhaps it was the grace of God I wasn't caught. I always felt bad afterwards and often threw away or gave away the items.
My sophomore year, my roommate was a huge, genial guy named Bob. He was a serious Christian but not a proselytizer. He was active in Campus Crusade for Christ and the Southern Baptist Church, but we nevertheless got along famously. We didn't discuss his religion at all.
One snowy afternoon, Bob was in class and I was bored out of my gourd in our dorm room. Bob's Bible was on a little table between our beds. I don't know if I'd ever looked at a Bible. I couldn't have told you whether Ezekiel was in the Old Testament or the New (or whether it was in the Bible at all, for that matter - didn't Fred Ezekiel used to be a second baseman for the Cubs back in the thirties?).
What the heck, I thought as I reclined on my bed, let's see what sort of stuff wacky Bob is reading. The Bible "just happened" to flip open to the Gospel of John. As it "just happened," John was probably the only book in the entire Bible that would have captured my attention sufficiently to keep reading. "In the beginning was the Word …" – whoa, this sort of weirdness was right down my alley!
I kept reading. As I did, I heard a strong voice. It was an inner voice, not an audible one, but it was clear and compelling. It said something like, "This is it! PAY ATTENTION!!!" I'd never had an experience like it before (or since).
I finished the Gospel, and by the time I did I was blubbering like a baby. Thank God I was alone. Bob had used one of his little Four Spiritual Laws tracts as a bookmarker, and I read it and said the prayer inviting Jesus into my life. By the time Bob got back from class, I was one of them there Christians, whatever that meant. At first, Bob thought I was pulling his leg.
HUH? WHAT THE HECK JUST HAPPENED HERE?
Because I was bright and articulate, I quickly – WAY too quickly – became the darling of the Campus Crusade staff and the Southern Baptist pastor. I became a Crusade student leader, much to the chagrin of others who had been faithful Christians all their lives. The Southern Baptist pastor sponsored me to attend Golden Gate Baptist Theological Seminary. My head was spinning.
After a year in seminary, I dropped out even though the kindly professors urged me to stay. Notwithstanding my conversion experience, I knew I didn't have the depth of belief and understanding to be preparing for the ministry. I was having to pretend to believe too many things. I couldn't simply will myself to believe, things that made no sense to me or that I was constitutionally incapable of believing.
I remember saying to my wife, "In some ways it would be wonderful to be as simple and accepting as these folks, but I'm just not." Most of those around me had been indoctrinated into Christianity when they were toddlers and had never questioned any of it.
I embarked on a long and diligent quest that continues today, some 50 years later. I call it a quest for Ultimate Truth, or as close as I can get to it in this lifetime. I went back to square one. Although the quest wasn't neat and tidy, I could see in retrospect how it had a certain framework to it.
I considered threshold issues such as materialism versus dualism and idealism; the nature of consciousness; the survival of death; and atheism versus deism and theism. I considered other religions, mostly Hinduism and Buddhism. My studies involved thousands of books and all sorts of curious detours. Just as an example, I read pretty close to every book on Psychical Research and Spiritualism published from 1840 to 1930. I know as much about the Shroud of Turin as anyone you're ever likely to meet. I also delved into more mainstream subjects like philosophy, physics, cosmology, neuroscience and anything else that seemed like it might be relevant (always at the level of an intelligent layman, mind you, not a philosopher or scientist).
If this sounds unlikely, let me explain that I intentionally arranged my lifestyle and my career as a lawyer so I'd have vast amounts of free time and wouldn't need vast amounts of money. I spent my legal career mostly researching and writing complex motions and appellate briefs for other lawyers, something that came extremely easy to me. In 40 years as a lawyer, I never worked past 5 PM or on a weekend. I never really had to dwell in the muck that comprises the practice of law for most lawyers. (Thank you, God – and I mean that.)
Anyway, I eventually arrived at strong theistic convictions. The question then, of course, was "What species of theism?" It's impossible for anyone to be fully informed about all possible varieties of theism, of course, and my conversion experience surely gave me some predisposition toward Christianity, but I did make a sincere effort at considering the major possibilities.
It seemed to me, then and now, that Christianity provided answers fundamentally different from those of any other theistic belief system. More importantly, the answers Christianity provided meshed the best with my own experiences and observations – of myself, of my fellow humans and of the reality we inhabit. They don't mesh perfectly – I still have some doubts and questions and see deep mysteries, but Christianity is the best fit.
The next question, of course, was "What species of Christianity?" For at least the past 20 years, I've been neck-deep in Christian theology and apologetics of every conceivable stripe. I arrived at some level of understanding, some level of confusion, and some level of conviction.
Rather than trying to force-fit myself into some branch of Orthodoxy, Catholicism or Protestantism and being back in the position of having to pretend to believe things I don't really believe, I simply describe Christianity as the "template" for my beliefs. I am a Christian in the broadest sense. I add meat to the bones of the template on the basis of my own experiences, observations, studies, reflection, intuition, prayer and communion. Hence the tongue-in-cheek name The Little Church of What O'Darby Believes.
Oh, back to my conversion experience of 54 years ago: Every now and then over the decades I realized I'd gradually developed attitudes and convictions quite different from what they had once been. Something was happening inside of me through no conscious effort on my part, something that couldn't be explained solely on the basis of getting older and (theoretically) wiser. This is one of the key things that pushed me in the direction of Christianity. It did seem as though something real had happened in my dorm room and that a transforming Spirit had entered into me.
If I'd finished seminary, maybe I really would've become the next Billy Graham as my pastor had hoped. (He never forgave me for dropping out.) If so, I probably would still be pretending to believe things I didn't really believe and holding shaky convictions far less strong and well-informed than mine actually are. No, I don't think becoming a Christian superstar was God's plan for my life. I don't think I blew it by dropping out of seminary.
What I do think occurred 54 years ago was that God reached down and claimed me at a critical juncture when my life might easily have taken a very different, distinctly non-spiritual turn. God knew I wasn't ready and wouldn't stay on the path, but at least He got me into the fold and starting to ask the right questions before all hope was lost. So although I once questioned the reality of the experience, I no longer do.
I was raised by two incorrigibly alcoholic parents, both of whom had died by the time I was 21. I was effectively raised as an only child since my brother and sister were much older and escaped the home when I was still a toddler. It wasn't entirely the childhood from hell but it wasn't Leave It to Beaver either.
There was one great blessing: My parents were so preoccupied with their own demons that they didn't care what I believed. Both were highly intelligent but neither religious nor irreligious. Religion just wasn't a part of my childhood one way or the other. Easter was strictly about coloring eggs and eating chocolate bunnies, Christmas strictly about unbridled greed and eating chocolate Santas.
The great blessing is that I was spared any parental indoctrination of the sort that still haunts many people when they're 50 years old. I was entirely free to think and explore for myself. For this reason, I wouldn't trade my childhood for Beaver Cleaver's even if I could.
I was always serious and introspective. My Dad started calling me Grandpa when I was five years old. In the midst of the chaos that surrounded me, I always had the sense of a protective Something that gave me an inner confidence everything would eventually be alright and I'd somehow land on my feet. I didn't connect this Something to God or anything in particular; it was just an abiding assurance that seemed to come from somewhere outside myself.
I was always interested in death and "weirdness" – ghosts, reincarnation, UFOs and whatnot. By the age of ten, I was reading some fairly heavy stuff in these areas. I remember having a sudden epiphany at the age ten or eleven, standing in my parents' gravel driveway, that somehow electromagnetism was the key to survival after death and that an "electrical me" is what would survive.
I had no particular interest in religion, however, and certainly not in Christianity. At around age 15, I was drawn to Buddhism and would amuse my parents by sitting on a rock and chanting "Om" while they nursed their Budweisers, but it was a passing fancy.
My Mom died – of cirrhosis, of course – when I was 18 and just entering college. My Dad was nowhere to be found, and I went into a bit of a tailspin. I was never on an entirely self-destructive path – I didn't drink (much, anyway) or smoke (I detested it) and wasn't the least bit interested in drugs even though they were everywhere around me. (I used to joke that I had "rebelled against my parents" by becoming an unusually clean-living teen.)
I was no saint. I used to steal things – pretty big and expensive things – just for the excitement of it. I took some insane risks and could have easily gone to prison if caught. Perhaps it was the grace of God I wasn't caught. I always felt bad afterwards and often threw away or gave away the items.
My sophomore year, my roommate was a huge, genial guy named Bob. He was a serious Christian but not a proselytizer. He was active in Campus Crusade for Christ and the Southern Baptist Church, but we nevertheless got along famously. We didn't discuss his religion at all.
One snowy afternoon, Bob was in class and I was bored out of my gourd in our dorm room. Bob's Bible was on a little table between our beds. I don't know if I'd ever looked at a Bible. I couldn't have told you whether Ezekiel was in the Old Testament or the New (or whether it was in the Bible at all, for that matter - didn't Fred Ezekiel used to be a second baseman for the Cubs back in the thirties?).
What the heck, I thought as I reclined on my bed, let's see what sort of stuff wacky Bob is reading. The Bible "just happened" to flip open to the Gospel of John. As it "just happened," John was probably the only book in the entire Bible that would have captured my attention sufficiently to keep reading. "In the beginning was the Word …" – whoa, this sort of weirdness was right down my alley!
I kept reading. As I did, I heard a strong voice. It was an inner voice, not an audible one, but it was clear and compelling. It said something like, "This is it! PAY ATTENTION!!!" I'd never had an experience like it before (or since).
I finished the Gospel, and by the time I did I was blubbering like a baby. Thank God I was alone. Bob had used one of his little Four Spiritual Laws tracts as a bookmarker, and I read it and said the prayer inviting Jesus into my life. By the time Bob got back from class, I was one of them there Christians, whatever that meant. At first, Bob thought I was pulling his leg.
HUH? WHAT THE HECK JUST HAPPENED HERE?
Because I was bright and articulate, I quickly – WAY too quickly – became the darling of the Campus Crusade staff and the Southern Baptist pastor. I became a Crusade student leader, much to the chagrin of others who had been faithful Christians all their lives. The Southern Baptist pastor sponsored me to attend Golden Gate Baptist Theological Seminary. My head was spinning.
After a year in seminary, I dropped out even though the kindly professors urged me to stay. Notwithstanding my conversion experience, I knew I didn't have the depth of belief and understanding to be preparing for the ministry. I was having to pretend to believe too many things. I couldn't simply will myself to believe, things that made no sense to me or that I was constitutionally incapable of believing.
I remember saying to my wife, "In some ways it would be wonderful to be as simple and accepting as these folks, but I'm just not." Most of those around me had been indoctrinated into Christianity when they were toddlers and had never questioned any of it.
I embarked on a long and diligent quest that continues today, some 50 years later. I call it a quest for Ultimate Truth, or as close as I can get to it in this lifetime. I went back to square one. Although the quest wasn't neat and tidy, I could see in retrospect how it had a certain framework to it.
I considered threshold issues such as materialism versus dualism and idealism; the nature of consciousness; the survival of death; and atheism versus deism and theism. I considered other religions, mostly Hinduism and Buddhism. My studies involved thousands of books and all sorts of curious detours. Just as an example, I read pretty close to every book on Psychical Research and Spiritualism published from 1840 to 1930. I know as much about the Shroud of Turin as anyone you're ever likely to meet. I also delved into more mainstream subjects like philosophy, physics, cosmology, neuroscience and anything else that seemed like it might be relevant (always at the level of an intelligent layman, mind you, not a philosopher or scientist).
If this sounds unlikely, let me explain that I intentionally arranged my lifestyle and my career as a lawyer so I'd have vast amounts of free time and wouldn't need vast amounts of money. I spent my legal career mostly researching and writing complex motions and appellate briefs for other lawyers, something that came extremely easy to me. In 40 years as a lawyer, I never worked past 5 PM or on a weekend. I never really had to dwell in the muck that comprises the practice of law for most lawyers. (Thank you, God – and I mean that.)
Anyway, I eventually arrived at strong theistic convictions. The question then, of course, was "What species of theism?" It's impossible for anyone to be fully informed about all possible varieties of theism, of course, and my conversion experience surely gave me some predisposition toward Christianity, but I did make a sincere effort at considering the major possibilities.
It seemed to me, then and now, that Christianity provided answers fundamentally different from those of any other theistic belief system. More importantly, the answers Christianity provided meshed the best with my own experiences and observations – of myself, of my fellow humans and of the reality we inhabit. They don't mesh perfectly – I still have some doubts and questions and see deep mysteries, but Christianity is the best fit.
The next question, of course, was "What species of Christianity?" For at least the past 20 years, I've been neck-deep in Christian theology and apologetics of every conceivable stripe. I arrived at some level of understanding, some level of confusion, and some level of conviction.
Rather than trying to force-fit myself into some branch of Orthodoxy, Catholicism or Protestantism and being back in the position of having to pretend to believe things I don't really believe, I simply describe Christianity as the "template" for my beliefs. I am a Christian in the broadest sense. I add meat to the bones of the template on the basis of my own experiences, observations, studies, reflection, intuition, prayer and communion. Hence the tongue-in-cheek name The Little Church of What O'Darby Believes.
Oh, back to my conversion experience of 54 years ago: Every now and then over the decades I realized I'd gradually developed attitudes and convictions quite different from what they had once been. Something was happening inside of me through no conscious effort on my part, something that couldn't be explained solely on the basis of getting older and (theoretically) wiser. This is one of the key things that pushed me in the direction of Christianity. It did seem as though something real had happened in my dorm room and that a transforming Spirit had entered into me.
If I'd finished seminary, maybe I really would've become the next Billy Graham as my pastor had hoped. (He never forgave me for dropping out.) If so, I probably would still be pretending to believe things I didn't really believe and holding shaky convictions far less strong and well-informed than mine actually are. No, I don't think becoming a Christian superstar was God's plan for my life. I don't think I blew it by dropping out of seminary.
What I do think occurred 54 years ago was that God reached down and claimed me at a critical juncture when my life might easily have taken a very different, distinctly non-spiritual turn. God knew I wasn't ready and wouldn't stay on the path, but at least He got me into the fold and starting to ask the right questions before all hope was lost. So although I once questioned the reality of the experience, I no longer do.
