Where To Worship

Life was good in Deland. I was completely on my own, with my new apartment, new job and beautiful new wife. She worked as a keypunch operator. I worked at a sawmill, then later operated a band saw at a place that made transformers. We lived on the edge of the Stetson University campus.

We attended Deland Baptist Temple, a small, autonomous church that was part of the World Baptist Fellowship. Their doctrine seemed to be the same as my Southern Baptist thinking and my wife’s Chapel beliefs. The people were nice. The pastor was friendly. And we fit right in. I taught some Sunday School classes and spoke to the teens. I even drove the church bus, which was actually a van. I picked up a few kids, as well as some older folks who didn’t have rides.

One character that stood out in my mind was an elderly woman from nearby Orange City, who played the piano. She was quite outspoken and opinionated, but we were drawn to her and her husband. Another fellow made a brief appearance one Sunday. He came in barefoot, was friendly in nature, and left a $1,000 check in the offering plate. That raised two questions: 1) What did he want? And 2) Was the check good? Answers: We never saw him again, and I don’t remember what the pastor spent the money on.

So why did we pick this unusual, little church? I think it was because we wanted something different from what we had been raised in. One Wednesday night, however, changed that. I was about ten minutes into my teaching when I saw the pastor and his wife sit down on each side of my wife. Then all three got up and left the room. A few minutes later my wife sat back down, alone, crying.
We left quickly after the service, and I asked her on the way home what had happened. She said that the pastor told her that her baptism was illegitimate because she had not been baptized by an ordained minister in a real church, and that she would need to be re-baptized.

Now, a word about her home church, the Plymouth Brethren. The name comes from a group that met in a home in Plymouth, England in 1830, under the teaching of John Nelson Darby. However, most of the current “assemblies,” as they are called, do not trace themselves back to this group. They see themselves as descended from the original church, always operating in the background of the organized church. Their doctrine is pretty fundamental, in line with most of conservative Christianity. They had no membership, other than the “right hand of fellowship” from the elders, their only official leaders. Their core “meeting” was a one-hour worship service each week, with open “sharing” by the men, hymn singing without musical accompaniment, and concluded with a communion service. Their women wore head coverings and kept silent. They had no pastor or minister, no seminary graduate, but would often employ a “full time worker,” who would preach and visit the sick, and, for his service, would receive one weekly freewill offering per month. An elder or the full time worker could baptize.

So the pastor at Deland Baptist Temple had a dilemma --- by his reckoning. I met with him on a Saturday. The discussion didn’t last long. I cited Ephesians 4:5 (“… one Lord, one faith, one baptism…”), and he returned with a passage on obeying the authority of leaders (Hebrews 13:17). I decided that we should leave. He requested that we not contact others in the church, so as not to cause division. I honored his request, but, in hindsight, have regretted it. While we had no intention of turning the church against the pastor, the truth that led to our departure should have been shared with, at least, those whom we knew well. We received a few phone calls, but quietly responded that it was “the Lord’s will.” Who knows what reasons the pastor gave?

This would be the first of a few run-ins I would have with clergy.

Get Me To The Church On Time

By the time I got the bad news about my future at Stetson U., I had already proposed to my girl. I went through the entire process of meeting her dad --- alone --- and asking for her hand in marriage. He made me wait for what seemed like forever before he came out of the bedroom to receive me. By then I was working for a company that made canning equipment. So I had a job, and I convinced him that I would be finishing school at the earliest opportunity.

He appeared to be more interested in my testimony. He had heard me sing at Campus Life, and I had visited the chapel where he and his family worshiped. I shared the fact that I had given my heart to Jesus, that the Son of God had died for my sins, and that my future wife and I would live the Christian faith. I assured him that I would take care of her. I even threw in the plan to go into full time Christian service (which I still believed). The whole package took about twenty minutes, and I got his approval.

This was in December. We were to be married the following June. We still can’t agree on whose idea it was to get married so soon, but I suspect that I had the greater influence. I gave her the ring the same night that I took her to hear David Wilkerson (The Cross and the Switchblade). I don’t remember anything about his sermon. I was in love, and her ring seemed to cause her hand to float up in the air often so that folks could see it.

We were married in June at her parents’ church, and we honeymooned on the Gulf Coast in a small vacation home loaned to us by a neighbor. The house was on a small canal, a few blocks away from the beach, with a few other houses around it. But there was basically no civilization around it, that being decent stores, restaurants or shopping malls. The closest attraction was Weeki Wachi Springs, where we went to see the “live” mermaids, young women in big fish tails (with bathing suit tops) that could hold their breath under water for a really long time, behind a glass.

Just before we got married, I had changed jobs and started working for a sawmill in Deland, so that we could be near Stetson U., whenever they were ready to take me back. So, following the brief honeymoon, we stopped by Orlando to tear through our wedding gifts, then head up to our apartment, where we would enjoy the newness of married life for the next seven and one-half months.

As devout Christians we were anxious to find a church as soon as possible. She had been brought up in the Plymouth Brethren church (more on that later), and I was of the Southern Baptist faith. We were both ready for a change. Little did we know, however, what Deland Baptist Temple had in store for us.

Stetson Who?

The second phase of my undergraduate studies took place at Stetson University in Deland, Florida. Like Judson, Stetson also had a religious affiliation at the time I was there, that of the Southern Baptists. I found that odd because the school had a strong student body government that had petitioned to have cigarette vending machines installed on campus.

Also like Judson, I was admitted to Stetson on probation, having poor grades, with shaky credits that were being transferred from a non-accredited college. And for one more year I would not change my performance level --- I think it actually got worse. I lived on campus, but spent so much time at home, some 30 minutes away, I might as well had stayed there.

I proudly displayed my minister’s license in my dorm room, but was told by my hippie roommate that I had better not try to convert him. I didn’t. In fact, I can only recall one occasion, when I had taken him and his laundry to a local Laundromat, that we had any serious discussion about religion. He was pretty much turned off by the hypocrisy of the so-called Christians around him. I had been trained to respond that, regardless of how he felt about it, it still wouldn’t do him any good when he was standing in Hell. But, for some reason, my lips weren’t saying it. I think that even back then I was too embarrassed to witness because, deep inside, I couldn’t fully cope with my own beliefs.

A stronger force was at work within me, however, that of having to face an angry God for challenging the doctrines that he had set forth. So I continued to trust --- in the teachings of men.

My love life was taking a new direction. Being caught up in the Elvis subculture, I set forth to date a new girl every night, if possible. I would again make my selection from the beauties at the Youth For Christ (now Campus Life) Saturday night programs. This didn’t last long because I was soon attracted to an Italian girl, who would later become my wife.

Now being absorbed into my new romance --- sorry, Honey, not your fault --- my course achievements plummeted. In short, I flunked out of college. My counselor, who was also failing me, said that I would be suspended for at least one semester, while I attempt to settle down. He recommended that I either go into the military or get married. I did both.

My mother said that if I got married, I would never finish college. She was wrong. But first I had to get through nine months of work and four years of the United States Air Force.

Party, Study, Pity Party

I brought many of my bad habits from high school to college with me. I aced some classes, failed or nearly failed others. Not being a drinker, my version of partying was staying up all night, eating junk food, watching TV and pursuing romance.

I had a close relationship with a girl from high school, who was only 4 feet, ten inches tall (I’m 6-2). I have always remained faithful in each relationship --- all four of them. However, being away from my girl was always difficult. For whatever reason, when I came home for Christmas, we had a serious conversation about our future. I had maintained that the Lord wanted me in full time Christian service. (I realize now that he wants us all in full time Christian service, but that’s a different story.) She didn’t see that as a viable way to support a family. So it was over. And I don’t think her mother ever really liked me.

Back on campus I met another girl, Janet (not her real name), and I immediately was swept away. With the exception of some classes and sleeping, we spent every waking moment together. She introduced me to the concert choir and college gospel teams. Being able to sing fairly well (I think), I took to both quite well. Even as a newly titled Reverend, I hadn’t begun to speak much, other than the standard testimony.

Traveling around the area with the gospel team, and around the northeast with the choir was great fun, but it continued to erode my already-shaky study habits. I gradually polished my testimony and slowly became less the loner. All of the faculty liked me, and I was elected choir president for the following year.

Janet’s roommate, Mary (not her real name either), was engaged to another student, a senior, who had his own car. He headed up one of the gospel teams, and the four of us would often travel together. He was much more serious than his betrothed, but they seemed to be the right fit for each other. I wrote to her almost two years later to explain why I had left her best friend for another.

I returned to Judson for my second year as a seasoned student with my own car. My plan was to swing by East St. Louis and pick up Janet, then head on up to campus. To my surprise and disappointment, Janet informed me that she could not return that year due to lack of finances. We attempted to maintain the relationship throughout the year. I made several trips to southern Illinois, and she made a few trips to Judson.

Janet suffered from what she called brain aches. I never quite understood that, but I would learn over the course of time that this was only one of several peculiarities that I would discover in her. My mother didn’t much like the fact that she was two years older than me.

I will now write about how the relationship ended, but I must first introduce my second year roommate, Ron (another fake name). Ron was a preacher’s kid from Devil’s Lake, Wisconsin. He stood 6-4 (that's why I'm not using his real name) and had a steady girlfriend back home who was about the same height as my short high school girl. He had a pleasant personality, but he quickly became annoying because he was obsessed at bettering me in everything. His girlfriend was better. His part-time job was better. His home town was better.

The college had its annual spring formal banquet some time after Valentine‘s Day, and I had arranged to pick Janet up at the train station. I had bought a corsage and a large heart-shaped box of chocolates. I kept these in her ex-roommate’s (now married) apartment on campus.

I had been doing a number of speaking engagements, traveling with the gospel teams, and had just preached to a crowd nearby the night before the banquet. Afterward I went to Mary’s apartment, where I received a phone call from Janet. She said that she had an oppressive feeling and felt quite certain that the Lord didn’t want her to come up for the banquet. She also felt strongly that Satan was at work against her. I was crushed. The trusting part of me couldn’t blame her, because I believed that such forces were at work. But the romantic spirit in me wanted her to come anyway.

I gave her corsage to Mary, then walked dejectedly back to my dorm, carrying the box of chocolates, which, after I arrived, I tossed in the trash. Bad move. Ron saw my action, laughed at my sad news, then lunged for the candy in the trash. I didn’t realize that I could sink any lower, but I did.

I don’t think I saw Janet again until I left for the summer. My parents had decided that, since Judson was non-accredited (at that time), it would be best for me to transfer somewhere else. That somewhere was Stetson University in Deland, Florida, about 40 miles from my home in Orlando.

I suggested to Janet that we agree to date other people and see what the summer brings, but not officially break up. Looking back, it has occurred to me that neither of us ever sought the Lord’s will in our lives; we were totally focused on ourselves. And I was totally focused on her.

But God would continue to work in my life, whether I realized it or not. I would continue to make good choices and bad choices. And it would definitely be a life-changing summer.

Judson Who?

My first day of college was unforgettable. My grades in high school were so bad that I had to find a liberal arts college that would take me and not break my parents’ bank account. I wanted to have some distance between me and home, so I found Judson College in Elgin, Illinois, just northwest of Chicago.

Often confused with the all-female college by the same name in Alabama, Judson was named after Adoniram Judson, the first protestant missionary to Burma in 1813. It became Judson University in August, 2007. Originally Judson was affiliated with the American Baptist Association, the northern counterpart to the Southern Baptists. The preaching of the American Baptists was more mainline and less hellfire and brimstone. Like most other colleges that have religious foundations, Judson has evolved as an independent academic institution.

In the fall of 1965 my parents and I arrived at the Judson campus, having driven from Florida over a two day period. We climbed out of the car wearing matching red and white plaid shirts. How geeky was that? Immediately a big black man strode up to me, smiling, holding out his hand and saying, “Hi, I’m your big brother!” I fell back with the reply, “No, you’re not!”

After a confusing few minutes of sorting things out, I learned that upperclassmen were assigned to freshman, in order to help them acclimate to their new surroundings. The only other black person that I had been in the same room with was Joe, the cook at my mother’s restaurant, whom she often referred to as a “good n******.” My “big brother” said that he had sent me a letter, with photo, but I hadn’t received it. I wonder now what I would have done if I had gotten it before we left on our trip.

I didn’t like the way my mother talked of blacks, but at the time I did not consider her racist. I am now not only convinced that she was, but that it had rubbed off on me. I finally accepted my new friend, but I avoided most opportunities to have any contact with him. He had even offered to drive me around town and show me the area, but I was afraid we would end up in the black section; so my fear drove him away. He finally gave up on me.

I look forward to the day when I can ask his forgiveness and embrace him as a true brother

Bits and Pieces

It’s interesting how certain conversations, even brief ones, stick in your mind after many years. As Youth for Christ president (in the school club) I was busy keeping things organized, giving devotionals and working with new converts. One young fellow started out as an eager believer, but his parents --- particularly his dad --- weren’t so sure about what he had gotten into. When he suddenly stopped coming to the club meetings, I gave him a call at home.

He said that his dad had explained to him how the Bible didn’t make any sense and that he was foolish for coming to the club meetings. I replied that his salvation experience was a very serious matter, that he should continue in his new belief, even though he was forbidden from being with us. He then quoted a passage from the Bible (also suggested by his dad) --- Matthew 5:20 Except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and the Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven. (KJV)

He explained that since he wasn’t planning on entering another life in a box (case), then he didn’t have to worry about the warning. I said that he was misinterpreting the scripture and that his salvation was eternal, unless he really hadn’t accepted Christ in the first place. Little did I know at the time that we were both stupid in our understanding of what God was saying.

One time David B. and I pretended we were sick in order to skip school. Our real purpose, however, was to go down to the Youth for Christ center and help Joe N. work on the Christian Victor’s float for the upcoming parade. The YFC director, Gus, came out and mildly admonished us for cutting school. We had justified our action by the fact that we were doing the Lord’s work, and that presenting the gospel in a visual format was more important than school. Joe didn’t seem to care either way; he was just glad to get the help.

On another occasion I was at David’s house, hanging out with him and his little brother (I can’t remember his name). The brother challenged me regarding the fact that if I really believed that all who rejected Christ were going to spend eternity in Hell, then I should be on my hands and knees, begging them to repent. I mumbled something about how that wouldn’t bring them any closer to accepting, but in my heart I considered it too embarrassing to see myself employing such dramatics.

This same boy would convict me again weeks after the auto accident that put him and his brother in the hospital. Immediately following the event, I went home, devastated, because the accident had been my fault; I had acted irresponsibly and had almost cost someone their life. I went to the hospital the next day to check on everybody. David’s brother had already been released. David was in good spirits, joking that a broken collar bone would keep him out of the army, and it did (this was during Viet Nam). The young girl was also in good spirits and seemed to hang onto her recent salvation experience, in spite of the fact that it seemed that God had not protected her from injury on the very night of her decision.

However, for days I couldn’t eat or sleep. I moped around the house. Finally, one day, I just let it all out; the tear dam burst, and I lay sobbing in my mother’s arms. I needed to get away. The Christian Victors had planned an overnight fishing/witnessing trip on the coast and, after much compelling from Joe, I went along. The night was pleasant. We sang gospel songs around a campfire. And I slept --- like a rock. I was told the next day that no one in the group had ever heard another human being snore so loudly.

As embarrassing as that was, what came next was worse. David’s brother had been released from the hospital the day following the accident, was already recovering well, and had come along with us to the beach. I had begun to feel like a burden was lifting from my chest, when he walked right up to me and said, “How can you be here, laughing and enjoying yourself, when my brother is lying in the hospital?”

I was speechless. Others tried to defend me, but I really felt that he was right. Why wasn’t I at the hospital, caring for my friends? I had single-handedly made the whole traumatic event all about me. I’d like to say that I rushed back and did what was right, but I didn’t. First off, I couldn’t drive, having lost my license for a time. Also, I let my well-meaning defenders talk me into to continuing my own recovery. Perhaps they were right, but I believe that the whole ordeal began to shape me a little on the inside.

One final thought from high school. I began preaching more; I even made a tape for my grandmother. I fancied myself an upcoming Billy Graham. I was asked to preach in a number of churches, and I was supported by my home church, Edgewood Baptist. They even issued me a license to preach. Back then, such a document was official and authorized you to do whatever ministers do. You could marry people (I did one, but it later failed.), bury people and visit the Intensive Care ward at the hospital.

My mother loved it. She told everybody that I was a reverend --- even addressed her letters to me at college as Rev. Steve Johnson. And so I went off to Chicago, Illinois, armed with my credentials and a determination to change the world for Jesus.

The Crash

I had begun driving early in high school --- actually got my learner's permit at age 14. I didn't have to drive to school; it was only a block away. So I used my car to run errands for my mother (she owned and operated two restaurants) and haul my friends around.

I distinctly remember driving five different cars during high school and college, but my favorite was a '56 Ford sedan. I don't remember the models of any of my cars and have carried that stupidity through to my current life --- although I think I'm now driving a Ford Ranger XLT pickup.

Florida was famous for sudden thunderstorms with a significant downpour. I had taken it upon myself to transport other kids my age to and from the Youth For Christ Saturday night rallies, as well as to other Christian functions. David B. was my regular co-pilot. One Saturday night following a rally, I was in the process of taking a bunch home. David was in the front seat with me. There was a cute, young girl between us (she had just “gone forward and accepted Christ” at that evening's program). In the back seat were David's younger brother and the son of one of my Mom's waitresses.

I will already confess at this point that my car had faulty windshield wipers. Actually, they didn't work at all. I was pretty irresponsible, and my mother didn't get around to fixing them (my Dad was overseas --- again). We were driving in downtown Orlando after dark. It began to rain hard. I recall turning left at a traffic light, having seen no other traffic. Suddenly, out of nowhere, my car was slammed on the passenger side by a city bus. The bus seemed to continue hitting us, maybe two or three times, until the car was lodged against a telephone pole.

I will also confess that we weren't wearing seat belts, even though two were installed in the front seat. Seat belts were just starting to be installed in cars then; they weren't required by law, and nobody was using them. Still, it was noted in the police report that we had been sitting on them.

The car was resting against the telephone pole at the rear passenger door on the driver's side, and the bus had backed up a few feet. I was able to get out of the driver's side and began quickly assessing the situation. David's passenger window was shattered, and there was blood on his face. The girl next to him was crying, and her foot seemed to be jammed into the floorboard. David's brother was upside down in the back seat, and the boy next to him was relatively unharmed.

The rain had stopped, but the engine started smoking. Fearing that the car would catch fire, I frantically tried to get my passengers out. Both passenger-side doors were jammed, the left rear door was against the pole, and the girl couldn't move to get out of the driver's door. I recall getting very frustrated that a crowd that had gathered would not give assistance. They kept telling me to wait for the ambulance. I was frantically pulling on David's door, but to no avail.

All were transported to the hospital. I was also told to go in order to be checked out. I don't even remember who drove me. Three were admitted. David, with a broken collar bone, our female passenger, with a broken foot, and David's little brother, with a busted knee-cap. The other boy was released with minor scratches, and I was released after a lot of window glass was removed from my hands.

Life was a blur for several weeks.

Victory In Jesus

Weekends were busy for me in high school. My newfound faith found new friends in the form of a local gospel team called The Christian Victors. Their theme verse was I Corinthians 15:57; their theme song was Victory In Jesus by E.M. Bartlett.

Buddy P. was the president. He was a mentally-challenged young man (older to me) with a heart of gold. He literally loved everyone. Always had a smile. Always spoke of God's love. He had a special desire to write to movie stars and tell them about Jesus. He wrote hundreds of letters --- and got many replies, including autographed photos.

The other two leaders were Joe N. and Denny S.. Joe was a robust fellow with big ideas. He was a great encourager and was instrumental in helping people to develop their potential. At one point during my high school years he owned and operated a small pizza place, where he sold pizza by the slice, didn't serve beer, and provided a place for teens to hang out. It attracted mostly Christian teens, who practised their testimonies on each other, ate pizza and drank Coke. It was just down the street from my house, so I was a regular.

Denny was a quiet, friendly fellow, who was engaged to a lady who was the sister of a temporary girlfriend of mine. I don't know what Denny did for a living, nor do I recall what he did for the Team. Denny, Joe and Buddy were the only adult influences in my life at that time, since I was an only child, and my folks were generally unavailable.

The Christian Victors went around to churches to share their testimonies in word and song, followed by some preaching. One Sunday at a church Joe was leading the group and asked if any of the team had anything else to share (we were near the end of the service). I raised my hand and said that I would like to sing a song. I had been singing at home along with my record player to the sounds of the Beatles, Elvis and Tennessee Ernie Ford. Since John Lennon didn't seem appropriate in church, and I imagined I had a rich bass voice like Ernie, I stood and sang a solo without accompaniment. To my surprise, most everyone loved it.

I found it easy to learn both tenor and bass parts, so I became a regular participant in quartets, trios, groups --- and now solos. This experience began to bring me out of my shyness, and I was more willing to share openly in front of any number of people.

Then a horrible automobile accident, in which I was driving, almost sent me permanently back into my shell.

I Have Decided To Follow . . .

My Dad was overseas in Vietnam; my Mom was a busy restauranteur (owned and operated two of them); I was immersed in a "safe" Christian community. It had a leader, named Gus. It accepted me, when no one else would. It had a guidebook, the Bible, with their interpretations. It had unwritten rules that were strictly adhered to. And it didn't take kindly to asking questions or leaving. Sound like a cult?

Youth For Christ had two goals: 1) Get saved; and 2) Teach you to get others saved. I struggled with, but succumbed to the first one and utterly failed at the second. Each rally would close with an altar call. The altar was the audience-edge of the stage; the call was a heartfelt plea to accept Jesus into your heart, all accompanied by the incessant singing of Gospel verses until someone responded. It didn't usually take long.

I never went forward, but on one occasion, following a rally, I went home, knelt by my bed, and said the words that were supposed to change my life. From then on I proudly boasted (to my Christian friends only) that I had accepted Jesus. The second part of the altar call was for those who felt that they hadn't been living for the Lord and wanted to rededicate their lives. I recall wondering how so many of the kids around me, the same ones who had recently gotten saved, were already backslidden to a point where they had to go forward again.

Shortly after my salvation experience I wrote to my Dad in Vietnam and spoke to my Mom, who was at that time living a less-than-pious lifestyle. I got a letter back from my Dad, saying that he was pleased that I had salvation, that all the years of taking me to church must have took. My Mom lectured me on how she used to sing in a gospel group as a child, that her daddy (my grandpa) was a preacher before he got cancer and took to drinking, and that I couldn't teach her anything about Christianity.

After you got saved, Youth For Christ, like Billy Graham's crusades, would steer you into a local church that had similar teaching. Somehow I ended up at Edgewood Baptist, not far from my home (but not down the street), where I would be encouraged to be baptised by immersion. While I was assured that baptism was not required for salvation, it certainly rounded out the process and was "commanded by our Lord."

One other important YFC experience. I had a brief relationship with a cute Italian girl that I met in the youth choir. A few years later we would meet again and commit to a marital bond that is now going on 40 years.

With salvation firmly in hand, I was prime for another Christian group that was lurking in the shadows of Youth for Christ, seekng new converts to fill their agenda. This was the experience that would move me from the pew to the stage.

If You're Saved And You Know It . . .

YFC was the place for me --- in high school. Ever the loner, I wandered through my first year, making few friends, putting in my time. I wasn't really unhappy; I just didn't fit in. I played right guard on the Junior Varsity football team (I've always been a big boy.), but I didn't play very well, and the hot Florida sun workouts didn't fit in with my chocolate sundaes and TV.

I was just starting to drive, and I became friends with another loner, David B., a short, stocky fellow, who came from a fairly well-to-do family. I also discovered (or they found me) a small group of upbeat kids, led by a curly-haired young man by the name of George S.. He was president of a school club called Youth for Christ. Already having a secondary religious nature, I easily adapted to this band of Christian enthusiasts.

I was regularly teased for my straight-laced behaviour by several other boys in school, but this new group of friends welcomed me just as I was. The interesting thing about the off-color teasing from the "heathen" boys was that they thought that I didn't know what they were alluding to. But with TV (been watching it since I was born), and the worldy Jimmy D. and David B., I was pretty savvy to the innuendos directed my way. However, I didn't let on that I knew, and I felt uncomfortable being around such talk.

The YFC club met weekly in one of the classrooms. The meetings consisted mainly of reading the Bible, praying and brainstorming on how to get our classmates "saved." I recall one campaign we pursued to add God into our team spirit. Edgewater high school's mascot was an eagle, so we printed up the verse Isaiah 40:31 (they that wait upon the Lord ... shall mount up with wings like eagles), mimeographed (There's a word from the past!) hundreds of them and stuffed them in all of the hall lockers before the big game.

The only other activity in the YFC club was preparing for Saturday night, when clubs from all of the other local schools would compete in Bible memorization at the Youth For Christ rally in downtown Orlando. Several hundred students would congregate in the YFC youth center for singing, entertainment and preaching. The contest consisted of sitting on an electronic signal pad attached to a folding chair, then waiting for the moderator to begin reading slowly a verse from the Bible. The contestant who knew the verse would jump up, then, when acknowledged as having been first, would be required to complete it and give its reference. It was actually quite fun, even though it was King James version. Sort of like Shakespeare doing a Christian game show.

I would later become president of Edgewater's Youth For Christ club, but first I had to get "saved."

Sunday Best

Throughout junior high school (now called middle school) I was a typical latchkey kid. A latchkey kid is one who lets himself in the house after school because no one is home to greet (or care) for him. My dad was stationed overseas in the Air Force, and my mom was a catering manager at a large hotel in Central Florida.

I can't explain it, but I felt the need to go to church on a fairly regular basis. My mother never went, except on Easter. There were two local churches near my home --- one Methodist, and one Lutheran. They were both within bike-riding distance. I seem to remember visiting the Lutheran church and joining the Methodist church, not necessarily in that order. The Lutheran service was stuffy, what I would later call liturgical. It contained a lot of responsive reading, prayers that were read and a formalized communion. I don't think that I went very often.

The Methodist church was more informal, and the pastor was a nice fellow. I even attended some Wednesday nights. I had a best friend, Jimmy D., who would go with me sometimes. Jimmy was a skinny Yankee who had a mouth on him (He used the F-word a lot.), but he was a loyal friend, and we talked about everything. One Wednesday night at the Methodist church, we were sitting in the back, talking lowly, but snickering a bit more loudly --- about what, I didn't have a clue. After a while, the pastor asked us to step outside with him, where he proceeded to explain that, while we were welcome at the church, we would have to behave properly. I was sufficiently embarrassed to where I never misbehaved in church again. Jimmy, however, went on to do time.

The only other "religious" associate in middle school was a Catholic kid who lived in the neighborhood. He, Jimmy and I roamed the community, camped out and participated in my first (and only) experience at vandalism. Back in those days the fruit market owners in small towns were very trusting; they left their goods set out all night, unprotected. During one of our campouts, we roamed the area and came upon the stand. Being hungry, we helped ourselves --- then proceeded to smash fruit --- bowling with cantalopes, launching watermelons and firing tomatoes. (I'm embarassed even now to write about it.)

We didn't destroy many, just enough to qualify as vandalism. Well, Jimmy D. bragged about it to the girls living behind my house. They told their mom. She called my mom. I was called on the carpet. My mother threatened to haul me down to the store owner to personally apologize. She didn't do it because she didn't particularly like the neighbor lady poking into our business. She should have busted me. But I was humiliated enough that my teenage life of crime ended right there.

The purpose of this side story is that, after the incident, the three friends discussed our involvement. Jimmy D. was fine, because he knew just how many times that you could go before the judge before you were finally sent to juvenile detention. The Catholic boy was fine, because he was taught (or so he felt) that you could do anything you wanted, as long as you went to confession and made it right. I wasn't fine, because I had disappointed my mother. And it hurt.

First Impressions

Downey Memorial church was located in Union Park, Florida, just east of Orlando. Interesting thing about "memorial" churches. Their purpose is to provide a place to worship God, but they are dedicated to the people who started them, or who paid for the building, did something heroic or was a pillar of the community. Church wings, pews and hymnbooks are likewise dedicated, thus shifting the focus to man, rather than The Man (Jesus).

Downey was a non-denominational church, and my dad took me there regularly. I was age ten or eleven. My mother rarely went to church, except on Easter or Christmas, and on those occasions she would wear a large, flowery hat that blocked the view for anyone several pews back. My dad taught Sunday School there, and I was in his class. One event I remember in particular was the day he brought saltine crackers and grape juice in order to teach us about communion. He said the saltine crackers were like the unleavened bread that Jesus ate --- I guess because they were flat. I don't think that I was allowed to participate in the real communion until sometime later.

The preacher was a nice fellow with a young family. He lived at the edge of a small lake, and the church would hold baptisms in his back yard. My dad and I went to visit him once, and he was out back, in the lake, taking a bath. He wasn't naked (Thank the Lord!), but was all soaped up and proceeded to rinse off. I remember thinking how icky it was seeing an area that held sacred events now polluted with soapy water.

The small church was quite popular and quickly outgrew its capacity. So I participated in my first building program. Well, not really. I just hung around there. Unfortunately, my dad never taught me how to do things, whether they be fun things (like scuba diving), or work things (like hammering, sawing, etc.). I could only watch. I did, however, enjoy hanging around the work site of the new building after dark, talking with my friends --- boys and girls. I think I was just beginning to like girls, but I wasn't really smitten until high school.

The new building was very nice, but the congregation now seemed small. In fact, they were shrinking in numbers. I remember my dad saying that the cost of construction was so high that more "money sermons" were needed, thereby discouraging folks who felt that more attention was given to their wallets than to their souls. I'm sure that I attended every Sunday, but I can only recall one Sunday in particular, when a fellow two rows up started jerkng, foaming at the mouth and writhing on the floor. It was really quite unnerving, but a couple of guys hauled him out of the building, and he appeared to be fine later. I don't think anyone even prayed for him.

I would return to that church six years later to sing a solo.

Born Again Again

My trip began on July 31, 1947. I didn't plan it; it just happened. I gasped for air, and the rest, as they say, is history. This blog was not intended to be an autobiography, but may take on such an appearance. Nobody (except for one or two) cares a whit about the story of my life. It certainly wasn't noteworthy or glamorous, and it had its share of much wasted time and numerous mistakes.

What I do want to capture, however, is the course of my spiritual journey --- how I came to believe what I believe now. Everyone has a spiritual journey, some more noticeable than others. But mankind has struggled with religion since the beginning of time. We never seem to give up in our search for the real truth, that which will give meaning to our lives. I think I have found it, but not until recent years.

My Italian wife had an aunt who, upon meeting someone for the first time, would ask, "What's your story?" (Meaning, "Tell me about yourself.") So, here's mine.

My first recollection of anything religious was as a young child, age 3 or 4, living on 12th street in Hickory, North Carolina, where I was born. It seems that I was taken to Sunday School in a brick building nearby, but I recall nothing of what I observed. I also seem to remember having a pet dog, that got run over just in front of the church.

Maybe the trauma of that event blocked out any other memories of church, because I don't recall anything else related to church until I attended my first funeral. I may have been about 6, and my mother took a quick swipe at my dirty face with a smelly washcloth just before the funeral.

The deceased was my grandpa, on my Dad's side. I only have two memories of him. One is that he would always be waiting for us on the front porch, whenever we drove up. And, he would wind up the old pendulum wall clock just before bedtime every night. That clock is now decorating my living room, but has since stopped working.

At the funeral my mother lifted me up to the coffin and encouraged me to touch my grandpa's face. It was cold and leathery. But I wasn't afraid, and I recall nothing else of the funeral.

It is interesting that, at age 60, you begin to feel somewhat isolated, when you have no parents or other relatives to help you with the details. I don't know what the official age is when you're considered to be at the "other end" of your life. But, thank God for family. With family you're never alone. Which is why we should consciously include those who have no natural family close by, who need to feel the warmth of your own household.

Next stop on my religious tour was at age 8, when my Air Force family moved to Orlando, Florida. I was in vacation Bible school on the air base, and one of the projects was a paint-by-number painting of David defeating a lion that had been attacking his sheep. I was very meticulous in my attempts to add color to each section. But since VBS only lasted days --- not weeks --- my teacher helped me finish it. So, I honestly don't know how much of it is my own doing, but it still hangs in my family room to this day.

Within a year we moved from adjacent to the base to the east side of town, and my Dad starting taking me to a small, independent church. It was at this point that my religious observations began to develop.