that momentous event, yet watching that film I suddenly realized that Christ was on the cross because of me—my sins—what I had done, what I had failed to do. This was my epiphany. He didn’t die for billions, which was so abstract, but because of me. Suddenly, God was tangible. Everything instantly came into focus. An historical moment in the Bible became a living reality. Christ had died for me, and how arrogant was I to be anywhere but on my knees worshipping Him? I don’t know why God chose that moment to reveal Himself to me, but I remember exactly when it happened.
I started reading the Bible with Todd Hinkie, a youth pastor, and I realized, under his guidance, that it was not just a book of stories and obscure genealogies and laws, but a series of personal letters from God slowly revealing himself to man, to me. I spent hours in fervent prayer, repentant and grateful. In the summer of 1987 I knelt in prayer and accepted Christ as my Savior.
But for a year I postponed telling my parents. The moment of truth came after the car accident, when my mother questioned which God had saved me.
I prepared myself for the worst. I was a senior in high school and I had been accepted early admission to a unique pre-med program at Brown University; now I feared my parents wouldn’t pay my tuition. I thought they might kick me out of the house. I had even quietly secured a scholarship and a job at LSU just in case.
I told the truth, and as I expected, my answer set off an emotional bomb in the family. My parents blamed themselves for being bad parents, and blamed me for being a bad son, and then blamed Christian evangelicals for, well, practicing evangelism.
My father had practical worries. Given the poverty he had seen growing up, he measured success in material terms. He lived by the idea, expressed by Maxim Gorky, that no man could consider his life worthy unless his children surpassed his abilities and achievements. Spiritual interests, particularly something new like Christianity, were a distraction or a diversion from material success. My mom worried that I might have been manipulated, that I might be the victim of a smooth-talking, corrupt televangelist, or that I might be joining some cult.
Many Christians, born and raised in Christian families, take their faith for granted. For me it was a hard-won treasure, the result of a painful and deliberate process of accepting the truth of Christ. If
Christianity is worth risking family and friends for, it is worth practicing every day, whether convenient or not.
My path to Christianity was an intellectual journey followed by a leap of faith. It took me years, and at the end of it I concluded that the historical evidence for Christianity was overwhelming: Jesus had walked the earth and had performed amazing miracles in front of thousands of people. He claimed to be the Son of God, rose from the dead in front of witnesses, and His apostles willingly gave their lives for Him because they were certain of His truth.
That struck me as reliable history. But I also discovered that you can’t read yourself into faith. God is thankfully too big, too amazing to be fully comprehended by the human mind. That’s why, ultimately, you have to make the leap of faith. You need to trust God and accept Him, including all the mysteries.
My parents eventually accepted my conversion to Christianity. Looking back now, I can see they initially felt I was rejecting them. When they realized I still loved them, and respected and honored them and our heritage, they relaxed. They also discovered it was not just a fad, and that I still embraced the same values they had taught me as a child. Our relationship benefitted from the fact that my parents’ Hinduism proclaims there are multiple paths to God, and that there is but one God. It would have been harder for my parents if I had told them I was an atheist. When my children were baptized into the Catholic faith, which is where my spiritual journey
I started reading the Bible with Todd Hinkie, a youth pastor, and I realized, under his guidance, that it was not just a book of stories and obscure genealogies and laws, but a series of personal letters from God slowly revealing himself to man, to me. I spent hours in fervent prayer, repentant and grateful. In the summer of 1987 I knelt in prayer and accepted Christ as my Savior.
But for a year I postponed telling my parents. The moment of truth came after the car accident, when my mother questioned which God had saved me.
I prepared myself for the worst. I was a senior in high school and I had been accepted early admission to a unique pre-med program at Brown University; now I feared my parents wouldn’t pay my tuition. I thought they might kick me out of the house. I had even quietly secured a scholarship and a job at LSU just in case.
I told the truth, and as I expected, my answer set off an emotional bomb in the family. My parents blamed themselves for being bad parents, and blamed me for being a bad son, and then blamed Christian evangelicals for, well, practicing evangelism.
My father had practical worries. Given the poverty he had seen growing up, he measured success in material terms. He lived by the idea, expressed by Maxim Gorky, that no man could consider his life worthy unless his children surpassed his abilities and achievements. Spiritual interests, particularly something new like Christianity, were a distraction or a diversion from material success. My mom worried that I might have been manipulated, that I might be the victim of a smooth-talking, corrupt televangelist, or that I might be joining some cult.
Many Christians, born and raised in Christian families, take their faith for granted. For me it was a hard-won treasure, the result of a painful and deliberate process of accepting the truth of Christ. If
Christianity is worth risking family and friends for, it is worth practicing every day, whether convenient or not.
My path to Christianity was an intellectual journey followed by a leap of faith. It took me years, and at the end of it I concluded that the historical evidence for Christianity was overwhelming: Jesus had walked the earth and had performed amazing miracles in front of thousands of people. He claimed to be the Son of God, rose from the dead in front of witnesses, and His apostles willingly gave their lives for Him because they were certain of His truth.
That struck me as reliable history. But I also discovered that you can’t read yourself into faith. God is thankfully too big, too amazing to be fully comprehended by the human mind. That’s why, ultimately, you have to make the leap of faith. You need to trust God and accept Him, including all the mysteries.
My parents eventually accepted my conversion to Christianity. Looking back now, I can see they initially felt I was rejecting them. When they realized I still loved them, and respected and honored them and our heritage, they relaxed. They also discovered it was not just a fad, and that I still embraced the same values they had taught me as a child. Our relationship benefitted from the fact that my parents’ Hinduism proclaims there are multiple paths to God, and that there is but one God. It would have been harder for my parents if I had told them I was an atheist. When my children were baptized into the Catholic faith, which is where my spiritual journey
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