After my last post I thought it would be appropriate to retell the story of my conversion from atheism to faith.
I love to sing. My mother sang to me when I was a little crawler back in Kentucky. I sang nursery rhymes in kindergarten on the swings. I sang along with the radio when Michael Jackson was part of the Jackson Five. When I was ten, I sang Englebert Humperdinck songs in the basement to a broomstick microphone. When no one was around.
When I was in college at Western Washington University I decided to get serious about music. I had been a starving art student for a time, but my minimalist professors, who alternately painted brown Xs across white canvases and white Xs across brown canvases didn’t inspire me much. So I switched to studying music, about which I knew next to nothing, but thought was really cool.
Despite my thorough lack of musical knowledge and skill, I somehow got admitted into the music department and became a jazz studies major. Music gave me purpose, direction and drive. After a couple of years I learned to play guitar and sing well enough to join a dance band and play in night clubs. I sang Chuck Berry, Ray Charles, and top-forty tunes. I also sang Handel’s Messiah in the university choir.
The choir director was a cute, young graduate assistant named Arden Steves, who called herself a Christian. I sang at her from the back of the bass section. I was an atheist, an unbeliever. I agreed with Karl Marx, who said that religion was an opiate for the masses. I thought Christians were weak-minded people who used religion as an intoxicating crutch. I didn’t like their songs much, either. I’d rather sing the blues than Amazing Grace. I didn’t really know what grace was anyway.
One day, when I was feeling like a miserable existentialist, I asked Arden about her religious beliefs. She told me about her faith in God and her desire to live a life of purity. Her sincerity stunned me. We had music in common, yet we were worlds apart.
I started to consider the possibility that God might really exist. It was exciting. Yet, if He had been paying attention to my immoral behavior during the past decade, I was in serious trouble. I decided to stop partying, just in case, which cost me most of my friends.
I prayed one night for God to give me the desire to seek Him if He was really out there. I’m glad my roommates weren't listening, because I felt like an idiot, talking to the ceiling. Yet soon I was reading books by C.S. Lewis, Josh McDowell and R.C. Sproul, which Arden recommended. I bought a Bible, and we read through the Book of John together. I went to church with her to “check things out.” I didn’t like the music much.
The more I read the Bible, the more convicted I felt about the sins of my youth. The idea of forgiveness in Christ sounded appealing. Still, I resisted conversion, because I wasn’t sure whether I was more attracted to Christ the Messiah or to His pretty little gospel messenger, Arden. We had been seeing a lot of each other as performers in the university’s production of Music Man, and had grown close enough to talk about hypothetical marriage, as if it was a thing apart from us that could be viewed objectively. I admired her sincerity of conviction, which included her refusal to marry a non-Christian. Since I was one of those, I gazed across a chasm, it seemed.
As things worked out, Arden flew out of town in August to take a teaching job, and I joined an international dance band (we played in Canada, just across the border, big whoop-dee-doo). We said we’d stay in touch.
With Arden gone, I wondered whether I might just blow the whole faith thing off and return to my former, existential party life. One weekend when I didn’t have any dance gigs, I decided to go to Arden’s church again. The brakes on my beater van were shot, and I could only stop by frantically pumping the brake pedal, so I had a good excuse to skip. Still, I felt I should go, to see if I was really serious about spiritual things independent of her. Five intersections with traffic signals stood between my rental house and the church. I prayed this goofy prayer: “God, if you want me to be at church today, I need green lights all the way there.”
Off I went, slow and steady through five green lights until I rolled safely into the church parking lot. Amazing. My skeptic’s mind told me it could have been dumb luck coincidence, but I had a sneaking suspicion that God had perfectly orchestrated the laws of physics, the flow of electricity, my choice of speed and time of departure, along with the choices of other drivers, to clear my path to that church and let me know He was in charge of such things. I remember thinking, “Nice, work, God.” “Hey, but can you do ten lights in a row?”
While I was at church I enjoyed myself a lot. With Arden not there I could stare at people when every head was supposed to be bowed and every eye was supposed to be closed, like an infidel spy. It didn’t seem like an opium den for the masses. I was impressed by the sincerity and joy of the people in the room. I don’t remember the sermon, but I know it gave me an appetite to hear more. It didn’t matter that I hit red lights on the way home and had to pump the brakes like I was trying to kick a hole through the floor board. I felt I had received a small blessing from God that day. I determined to go to church as often as I could. I would fix my brakes.
I’m not sure exactly when I entered the kingdom of God, but I think He arranged it like he did the green lights to church, and left me wondering how it had happened. I kept reading and questioning, examining my presuppositions, and grappling with the concept of grace. At some point in the fall of my 25th year of life, I simply surrendered, and trusted what I read in the Bible, even though I didn’t always understand it. I began to sing to God in my heart. I was a sinner saved by the blood of Jesus. I wrote to Arden about it and she said she thought I was a Christian. I was okay with the label. I was one of them, one of Christ’s.
Soon, I made a public profession of faith at church that I had accepted Jesus as my Savior and Lord (Romans 10:9). For me there was no recited sinner’s prayer, no dramatic moment of decision, just a confession. God had done everything. I was a recipient of grace. Amazing. I quit the dance band, married Arden, and moved to Alaska.
I went back to school to become a teacher, but continued to be an active musician. Arden and I began having children. We sang in church choirs. I performed special music in church and in the community. I was a professional soloist for weddings, funerals, fund raisers, and private parties, which were much better than the lousy night club gigs I’d played back in my dance band days. As our five children grew up, we taught them to sing parts so that we could perform as a family choir. Then, when they were old enough to play instruments, we formed a family band called Homemade Jam. We have produced an a cappella Christmas CD, which was recorded in our home studio. Our oldest daughter has since married and moved away, but the remaining four children help me lead worship at Coram Deo Church in Grants Pass.
I plan on singing and making music as long as I can. I think the Bible commands it. “Make a joyful noise to the LORD, all the earth; break forth into joyous song and sing praises!” (Psalm 98:4) My family has chosen Colossians 3:16 as our musical theme verse. “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God.”
I thank God for his wonderful redeeming work in my life. He, not music, has given me purpose, direction and drive. What a privilege it is to use music to glorify Him. I think the last psalm in the Bible (Psalm 150) says it well.
Praise the LORD!
Praise God in his sanctuary;
Praise him in his mighty heavens!
Praise him for his mighty deeds;
Praise him according to his excellent greatness!Praise him with trumpet sound;
Praise him with lute and harp!
Praise him with tambourine and dance;
Praise him with strings and pipe!Praise him with sounding cymbals;
Praise him with loud clashing cymbals!
Let everything that has breath praise the LORD!
Praise the LORD!
Last year I began writing a practical workbook for beginning speech students, hoping to finish smartly and in due time. But as I labored away, new ideas kept creeping in to make it a larger work. I considered speech for all of life.
.png)
.png)
“So how is it being a bi-vocational pastor?” I’m asked by folks who know that I’m a homeschool dad who teaches public school students during the week, and preaches sermons to the saints on Sundays.
