Stepping into the Light

This is the final in a four post series on my history as an atheist. All four post are excerpts from my new book, Stepping into the Light: You're a Christian, what now?

Sometimes God has to let you sink into quicksand, with no one else around to help, so you will know without a doubt who pulled you out. I got stuck in a sordid personal situation beyond my strength to handle; suddenly I saw no option but to try talking to God, and He sorted out my predicament just like magic. That happened to me at the age of twenty-two. Once again I believed in God.

Like the ancient Jewish exiles released from Babylon to rebuild the Temple (read Ezra 3 and 4), I gave praise for a little while but only showed willingness to go so far. I started reciting thanks before dinner and a little rote prayer before sleep (after I got in bed, never on my knees), but Lord, don’t ask me to think about Jesus or listen to any of those narrow-minded evangelists or do anything to make a fool of myself.

You may not have gotten the picture yet, but I possessed a very hard head. It took me twenty-two years of contemplation to come to the conclusion that I needed Christ in my life. One reason it took so long may be that in a way I worshipped my earthly father, and it scared me to do anything that would imply that he was fundamentally wrong about anything.

I didn’t mind attending church once in a while, but I doubted I would ever accept the whole Jesus as the Son-of-God-and-Savior thing. I mean, really, it doesn’t seem very logical, does it? And I had always been one to trust logic over hopes, dreams, and fantasies. I wasn’t even sure about God the Father every day, let alone the Son. All the time, Christ kept calling me to Him. I could not understand why I cried every time I entered a church, and why each time I heard CeCe Winans sing, "All to Jesus I surrender, I surrender all," I broke down like a lost child.

For a long time before I recognized it, I felt the pull of our Savior’s love. Once, around 1977 or so, while still counting myself an atheist, I stopped in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in New York to enjoy a cool respite during a long trek on a hot day. As I rested in the cavernous and nearly empty church, I watched two or three people apparently praying across the room. "I wish I could believe in you," I whispered to no one I knew, "but I can’t." My tears surprised me and then turned into stifled sobs.

About twenty years later, my late husband Jae and I drove down the road from our rented home in Nashville to visit a church where I knew one of the associate ministers. As a guest gospel group performed songs that touched my soul, I wept.

The altar call came and, unexpectedly, I felt the urge to answer. Of course, I resisted. However, I sensed someone or something telling me to get up. No, I thought, I don’t even know what they’re doing. I won’t make a fool of myself. Look at those other people acting crazy. "Get up," I heard. No. Then I literally felt a huge invisible hand grab my collar and pull me out of my seat.

Jae asked, "What are you doing?"

"I have to go up there," I said, clambering over him.

When I joined the crowd at the altar, one of the ministers touched my arm and asked me what I wanted. I stammered something like, "I want Jesus—I want to do better—I—I don’t know." The minister told me I needed to pray and figure out what I wanted from Jesus. I slumped back to my seat, glad for the noise of folks caught up in the spirit, to cover my bumbling.

When I returned, Jae wanted to know, "What happened, are you saved?"

"No, I’m not saved," I answered. "I don’t even know what that means."