reflections on a Christian life

They say that God has no grand children- because each one of us must come to Christ on our own.  If that is true, why do they also throw out the statistic that most Christians came to Christ during their childhood years with the additional suggestion that one of the best ways to grow the church is for Christian couples to have babies?

Well- I guess I’m one of those 2^nd generation Christians.  I’m told that my dad became a Christian down in Texas while stationed at Fort Bliss, El Paso.  Since they were there about 2 years, during which time, I was born, I don’t know if he came to Christ before or after my butt breach entry into this world.

Church was what we did- and we were not just Christians- we were Baptists- a heritage which I was informed was most like the early church which began just after the resurrection (or was it with John the Baptist?- I can’t remember- except when I got to college I learned about Zwingli and the Anabaptists and figure that the roots more likely rose out of the stew of the Reformation).  I should add, we were Conservative Baptists…There were apparently people called American Baptists who were too liberal and Southern Baptists who were akin to used car salesmen and the Regular Baptists who all had crew cuts and burned books and Beatles records.  From what I knew, the Conservative Baptists had it dialed in just right.

We went to the First Baptist Church (don’t think there was a second Baptist church in our town).  Dad was a deacon and the Sunday School Superintendent and my mom was a 2 and 3 year old teacher and did most of the solos during special music.  We sat about 2 rows back from the front every Sunday on the right side.  I could tell you just about every detail about that sanctuary.  I knew where all the water spots were on the ceiling tiles, how many rows of pews there were, and which pieces of stained glass were cracked.  On the side wall was a Mercator map of the world with little lights where each of our missionaries was located as well as one for our church.  I could name every one of those missionaries as well as their kids since their pictures were all thumbtacked on the corkboard in our kitchen.  When some guy from our church left for the mission field, he repainted and updated the board, adding a light for his destination city.

In between drawing on offering envelopes, adding up the digits of the hymn numbers posted on each side of the platform, and trying to guess which families were sitting behind us by peering under the pew and looking at all the legs and shoes hanging down, I picked up a jumbled theology of legalism and grace.  One pastor often challenging us to consider what our answer would be if the communists burst into to our church, lined us up outside and demanded that we renounce Christ or be shot.  I guess people got tired of that talk because attendance kept dropping and he eventually left.  Our next pastor was a reformed alcoholic and avid fisherman.  He had hit bottom at the rescue mission in downtown Newark, went to Bible College and was now in our pulpit, with his wife at the organ and his kids in the front row.  “Rescue missions” really are about just that.

We kids in the church would sometimes go down to the mission play our instruments and sing while the pastor did the sermon.  Hard to believe that in that sea of sorry looking humanity that wandered off the street knowing that if they just sat through the service, they would be rewarded with a warm meal, there could be a future pastor.

Anyway, pastor Al was about grace, his most memorable illustration being about a little boy making a boat only to have it lost down a storm drain.  Later he finds it in a second hand store and purchases it, saying “little boat, you are mine twice- once because I made you and twice because I bought you.”  Must be a good illustration because I still remember it- and it is a heck of a lot better tale than what happened to the kid and his boat in the opening chapter of Stephen King’s “It”.

As to how I came to faith- I don’t know if it was the Holy Spirit, peer pressure or being spooked about hell, but I don’t think that matters any more.  I know I had a conversation in the back yard with my brother and prayed some time around the age of 5 or 6.  Later when I was nearing my 8^th birthday, we had some evangelist doing a series of weekend meetings- “Dynamite Robbie Robertson” wow- I am not making this up!!  The first night he has some sort of call to conviction which my older brother raised his hand for.  That got kudos for him when Robbie congratulated my parents on Bill’s response.  I also knew that in order to get to take communion, I needed to get into that baptism pool which was under the floorboards where the Pulpit stood.  The next night I figured was my turn so I made my move.  I guess he was looking for something bigger because I next found myself after the service sitting with two men who came forward along with Robbie himself and we were reading John 3:16 together and praying the sinner’s prayer (what is it Billy Graham used to say?  “You may have come here on a bus- don’t worry, it will wait for you”).  I figured, no harm in doing a second round because I sure didn’t want the alternative- I observed later that people were constantly invited to rededicate their life to Christ- what that means about the first time or the last rededication, I don’t know- maybe we should just do confession like the Catholics.

Anyway, shortly after that, I got baptized and became a member of the church- which meant, I got take communion and actually vote during church business meetings.  Plus I got put on the tract committee that had a budget somewhere near $50/year.  “Chick” tracts were just making their appearance- best described as graphical horror novels for Christians.  If they didn’t scare you into becoming a Christian, they would scare you away from Christians.