For as long as I can remember, I’ve feared God. An Old Testament, “sinners in the hands of an angry God” kind of fear. In very important ways, this fear served me well. I am convinced that my fear of God kept me from some of the excesses that consumed some of the people around me. It was the reason that I never really drank, that I avoided drugs, that I never stole, that I experienced sex only in marriage, that I attempted to avoid lying. I’m even fairly certain that this fear is what led me, at least initially, to excel academically. I wanted to do right, because I was afraid of the immortal consequences of doing wrong. In my view, God gave us a list of rules to follow, and I was going to do my utmost to follow them.
I believed in God. But I didn’t have faith in God. I didn’t love God. I simply feared Him, in the same way that at various points the princes of Assyria, Persia, Egypt, and Babylon sometimes feared God. I acknowledged His great power, but I stopped short of truly submitting to all of His Word. At best, I was like the Old Testament Jews who thought that they could find salvation in the Law. If only I could apply the law diligently enough, if only I could learn it well enough, if only I could be disciplined enough. . . then I could avoid His wrath. (Clearly, I had not yet read Romans!)
Proverbs 9:10 tells us, though, that the fear of the Lord is only the beginning. My salvation story still had a ways to go.
Something changed a bit when I was 21. My fiance’ and I attended one of those holiday theatrical productions sponsored by a local church. This iteration featured a scene in which those icons of Cajun stereotypes, Thibodeaux and Boudreaux, fidgeted outside of the Pearly Gates, waiting to see if St. Peter would find their names in the Book of Life. Thibodeaux was in, no sweat. But Boudreaux had to wait. . . had to wait a long time. . . before, at the very bottom of the very last page Peter found his name. Boy did they celebrate! They hugged each other, slapped five, and sprinted into Heaven.
I remember wanting that. I remember a stirring. I may have even responded to the altar call - my memory there is fuzzy.
But I don’t think I was saved yet. Over the course of the next 20 years, we attended church. We brought our kids to church. I taught Sunday School classes, led a men’s ministry, and even preached a sermon or two (the absolute hardest thing I have ever done). But, internally, I was struggling with faith. I wanted faith badly. I prayed for faith. I read about faith. I searched for ways to reconcile reason with the biblical record. But I was lead solely by the Head, and the Belly and the Chest could not break through my intellectual skepticism. I called myself a Christian, but I had not submitted to Christ.
This struggle continued into my 40s. Then, the wheels came off. It was really two things that brought about my ultimate crisis. First, my teenage boys started doing teenage things. I thought I had done everything right. I had been an attentive father. I had coached all the sports. I made one-on-one time for each of them every week. I read them the stories. I was actively involved in their educations. I knew their teachers by name! I was home for dinner at night.
None of it seemed to matter. I lost all control. No, that’s not right. It was even scarier. I began to realize that I never had control to begin with.
I fought that realization as hard as I’ve ever fought anything, and I tried to grip even harder. This led to my second crisis. The challenges of our teens’ troubles became a burden to my marriage. Wait, that’s not right, either. My need to control everything, including our responses to our teens’ troubles, became a burden to my marriage. I couldn’t control everything, so I tried to control something. Anything. Stuff that I had no business controlling.
My wife called me on it. She was right to do so.
And then I gave up. I don’t mean I quit caring. I cared - still do care - a lot. I mean I stopped entertaining even the pretension that I could control anything. I couldn’t control my kids; I couldn’t control my wife; I couldn’t control my work, my health, my career. Anything.
I acknowledged, for the first time, my weakness. I acknowledged, for the first time, the pride that made me think I could ever follow the law, the blueprint. I acknowledged that I couldn’t save my kids and that I couldn’t save my marriage. I couldn’t save myself. I was lost.
I bowed in submission to God. I asked Him to take the burdens and to cleanse me from my sins. I didn’t ask Him to take control, because I knew that He was already in control. I simply accepted that He had control all along.
Bowing is probably a bit more prosaic than it actually was. As I recall, I collapsed in tears on my bedroom floor and begged for mercy.
That was about 10 years ago. I got re-baptized. I re-committed myself to my wife. My relationship with my sons is as good as ever.
I’m always uncomfortable when I hear about people who were saved when they were children. It’s not that I don’t believe that God can and does save at all ages. It’s just that my experience was, has been, nothing like that. Mine has been a process. It was a long process, and I’m thankful that I lived long enough for it to get to this point. Of course, God could have chosen to save me in any way that He wanted, but I’m certain that I would not have been saved without the trials. I’m thankful for those trials (but I never want to experience them again!). I’m assured that my dance in front of the Pearly Gates will culminate with some high fives.
But it’s a process that continues to this day. Don’t get me wrong. I know I’m saved and that my salvation persists. But even today I feel like a work in progress. I still have moments of doubt. There are still things my brain can’t comprehend. I don’t get the Trinity. I don’t understand the origins of evil. I want desperately to reconcile science to revelation.
The difference is that, today, I believe. I have faith that all of these mysteries, and many others that I could name, have an answer and that the answer rests in Jesus. I think the biblical term for this process is sanctification.
Proverbs 9:10 ends by saying “the knowledge of the Holy One is insight.” Insight is defined by the Oxford Dictionary as “the capacity to gain an accurate and deep intuitive understanding of a person or thing.” Before I was saved, when all I had was fear, I had the beginnings of wisdom, but I did not have insight. Now, through thanksgiving and faith, I have reached the point from which I can realize a deep intuitive understanding of God.
I am no longer afraid.