White Collared Thief in a Big Black Cadillac
The year was 1961. I was 12 years old, living in a small town in Kansas. I sat on pew with my Grandmother. Scattered throughout the sanctuary were a few other children, but mostly old folks. The Baptist pastor of our church had asked the congregation to bow their heads as he gave his end-of-sermon invitation as was his tradition every Sunday. I had heard his plea to ‘Come to Jesus’ many times, but this time was different. My heart began to pound and I felt as though someone was trying to lift me to my feet, but I resisted.
The following week, I thought a lot about standing with God. As Sunday approached, I had decided that I would answer the call to give my life to Christ.
I heard little of what the pastor said that Sunday. My focus was elsewhere. I waited, not in fear, but in anticipation of the altar call. My heart began to race as he ended his sermon. In stead of asking us to bow our heads, he stepped over to an easel on which the rendering of our proposed new church was displayed. The pastor said that he had some disappointing news. “We have altered our plans to build a new church. Instead, we will remodel this one,” he remarked. Having said that, he abruptly left the sanctuary. The congregation sat silently, seemingly stunned. I looked to my grandmother who had sacrificed her time and what little extra money she could find to see the vision of the new church come to pass. Her head was bowed.
I rushed over to the window. I saw the pastor get into a brand new shiny black Cadillac and speed away.
In the following days of the new week, I thought a lot about Jesus and the decision I was prepared to make. However, as the next Sunday rolled around, I had made the decision to put the whole God/Jesus situation aside.
Saturday afternoon I told my grandmother, “I’m not going back to church.” I don’t think I could have said anything to hurt her more. I think she was fighting back tears, but she said not a word.
Live to See Another Day – Eternity
When I turned 17, I moved to Los Angeles. By the time I was 25 years old, I had come face-to-face with violent death on three separate occasions and ‘somehow’ survived.
I had not stepped inside a church since that Sunday when I saw the pastor drive away in the building fund money. It was now my mother who invited me. Now that I was an adult, I enjoyed her company. Nevertheless, I hated every minute of the church service. The pastor was preaching about being ‘buffeted’. To illustrate his point, he stepped to the wall behind the pulpit and began to bounce his large body against the cinder block. I thought that was comical; in a foolish sort of way.
I didn’t accept any more invitations to return to church with Mom. Now my older brother was inviting, no, pestering me to attend his church with him. We had been very close as children and into adulthood, but now his ‘Jesus’ fanaticism was pushing me away. So, I made him a deal. “If I attend church with you one time, will you promise to stop inviting me to church and preaching to me?” He was/is a man of his word, so when he agreed. I agreed.
There was a visiting minister at my brothers church that Sunday. My brother began to apologize even before the man had opened his mouth. The minister was different than any others I had seen. He didn’t preach a fiery sermon. In stead, he quietly told a story about a near-death experience he and his young daughter had just had. He calmly related how they were driving down a street I was familiar with. He said that an approaching car traveling at a very high speed lost control. It spun around several times in a direct collision course with them. The minister said that if he would have turned to the left to avoid the car, he would have driven into approaching traffic. If he would have turned to the right, he would have plowed into parked cars. With only a breath away from impact, he whispered ‘Jesus’. “It was a miracle,” said the minister. “It was as though a mighty hand grabbed the car, instantly halted its momentum, and removed it from our path.”
The minister calmly referenced some Bible verses as proof that God still performed miracles. He then invited anyone who wanted to know this God personally to raise their hand. My heart began to beat as it had when I was that 12 year child. It seemed as someone was trying to lift my arm. The feeling was so real that I looked to my brother to see if he was trying to help. His hands were folded in his lap and his head was bowed. This time, I didn’t resist.
I get this question a lot, actually, and I used to get it even more when I used to work for one of the major worldwide Christian denominations at one of its missionary agencies.
