The following article appeared in the Austin American-Statesman on December 23, 2006 under the headline “Religious identity is no mystery.” The newspaper was then running a series in which readers were asked to contribute first-person stories pertaining to faith. I noted that some if not most of the Christians had become apostates. Even those who still called themselves Christians were apologetic and wishy-washy. I was fed up with what seemed like an intentional slanting of views. When I so informed Michael Barnes, editor of that section of the AmStat, he urged me to write my own. Here it is, updated slightly.
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I grew up in Dallas and attended three Presbyterian churches: Oak Cliff, Casa Linda and St. Mark. My brothers and I were taken to church—or at least Sunday School—with great regularity, but I remember no fervor, depth or sense of complexity about what was being presented.
The truth is, it all seemed a bit perfunctory, both at home and at church. Still, I feel considerable gratitude toward those Sunday School teachers who so kindly volunteered their time and energy.
I suppose I wandered a bit during my college years, but things were percolating inside. There came a particular moment in the summer of 1976 when I drove past a church in north central Austin and acknowledged that I believed in the Christian Gospel.
An important step, but it was just an intellectual assent. I suppose I feared going further, although what was there to fear? Maybe I thought I would turn into a raving fanatic if I did more.
During the next three years, I read some books, talked to some people and grew a bit. I was on the road to genuine faith. So it was that one night in early April 1979, I was lying in bed and stopped resisting.
It certainly was not the first time I had prayed, which had happened sporadically since childhood. But that night in Denton, I confessed my faith and prayed to God in Jesus’ name. I want to be quite honest and admit that no blinding revelation took place, no angels appeared and spoke, nothing otherworldly—as that term is usually defined.
On the other hand, I can say without any hesitation that each of the past 27 [now 31] Aprils, I have celebrated what transpired that night. Never since, not once, have I feared hellfire, brimstone or damnation. I was never too big on those things, anyway. Nor have I wavered or yearned to be anything other than who or what I am. When I learned that my cousin–who is married a Jewish guy–was converting to Judaism, I stated that I would not do that in a million years.
Even my gender (male), my ethnicity (European American), my sexual orientation (hetero), my politics (a mad jumble of liberal, conservative and middle of the road) and the span of my life (late 20th and early 21st centuries) have been secondary to my true identity: Christian believer.
Some people would call it the working of the Holy Spirit, and others would say it is merely my intuition that brought me to such a point. Like the roots of an oak tree, my faith has grown slowly but deeply.
It’s not as simple as it sounds, though. I tend to ask impertinent questions; challenging my own faith tends to keep it real and vital. There is much, very much, that I do not purport to understand. In such cases, I think it is best to realize some mysteries have not yet been revealed, certainly not to my mind. This is the wisdom of knowing I am not wise, which has a bit of a Buddhist ring to it.
My intellectual and spiritual limitations notwithstanding, I will now describe the foundation of this faith.
I am convinced that something quite profound and unique happened in Palestine 2,000 years ago. Countless prophecies in Jewish scripture pointed to the coming of a Messiah, and He did in fact arrive in the form of Jesus Christ. Do I believe He was born of a virgin, lived a sinless life, healed the sick, raised the dead, walked on water and fed the multitudes? I certainly do. Do I believe He was killed by human beings just like me and was resurrected after three days in the tomb? Yes. Do I believe He ascended to heaven and sits at the right hand of God, the Father? Indeed I do.
But do I believe we have followed His lead properly over the generations? Absolutely not. This should be no great surprise, because it is our nature to go astray and fall short of God’s glory. If Jesus Christ is the light of the world, it is right and proper that He be adored, loved and worshipped. He is not just a prophet, not just an enigmatic sage, not just a great rabbi from long ago. Fully human and fully divine, Jesus Christ is God’s one and only son, I believe, and it behooves us to pay close attention to what He said and did.
It has often occurred to me that we don’t know much about the earthly life of Jesus. Because I believe His was far and away the most significant life ever lived, it’s too bad nobody did a better job of documenting His every act and word. He needed an amanuensis—someone to do what James Boswell did for Samuel Johnson 17 centuries later in England. I say, only half in jest, that it was lousy historiography that Matthew, Mark, Luke and John did not put pen to paper until at least 50 years after these dramatic events had played out.
It happens to me every Christmas season, and this one is no different. I see the sparkly lights, the candy canes and the ubiquitous Santa Claus, and I am irked. I hear the inane or at least secular music that has nothing do with the birth of our Lord and Savior in a manger in Bethlehem so long ago, and I am perplexed. And yet I know He would not have me judge or criticize my brothers and sisters, and all the emphasis on gaiety.
I am grateful to have been given a deep, abiding and multifaceted Christian faith. I suppose this is why I like to enter various churches in central Austin when no service is going on. Many a time I have knelt among the pews at San José, St. Mary’s, St. David’s and Good Shepherd (take note: Catholic and Protestant alike) for a few minutes of quiet contemplation, prayer and worship in my own way.
A couple of years ago, I was dismayed to read about an Anglican priest who cheerily advocated giving less prominence to the cross because “it carries too much cultural baggage.” This man, who presumably graduated from theology school and has given a number of sermons inside Christian churches, puzzled me greatly.
Hide the cross? Never. I don’t just see the holy cross, I behold it. I feel the utmost humility, reverence and love for the Lord, who shed His precious blood for our sake.
Call me what I am: man of hope, man of faith, Christian disciple.
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