Born Again

I grew up going to church. My family is Southern Baptist. We went to a small, country church. It was the church my dad had gone to growing up. There were a lot of people in that church whom I loved, and who loved me. Yet for all that, I never felt entirely comfortable and at home there

Every summer, there would be a revival. It would be hot and muggy, and some preacher from out of town would be brought in to preach fire and brimstone every night for a week. We’'d sit in the pews, sweating and fanning ourselves with the paper fans advertising the funeral home. Then we'’d stand for the invitation. If the week was getting on and not much was happening during the invitation, the preacher would really start to drag out the invitation. We’'d sing a verse of the invitation song (“Just As I Am” was a standard), then the preacher would interrupt to preach a little bit more, try to persuade the sinner out there that they needed to step forward and be saved. Maybe he’'d have us bow our heads and close our eyes, while the pianist played (this was a country church, no fancy organ here). You began to hope that someone would walk down the aisle, so that we could go home, because you couldn’'t really fan yourself while you were standing with your head bowed for the invitation. It wasn’'t polite.

Eventually, someone would give in and walk down the aisle. There were a few people you could generally count on to do so, even though they were already “saved.” You could always rededicate yourself, and some did, every year. I don’'t mean that as cynically as it sounds. I don'’t believe they walked down the aisle just to get us all off the hook. I believe they genuinely felt moved to do so. The whole setup is designed to make you feel moved to do so. A fiery sermon, with a heavy focus on sin, a prolonged altar call, a recognition of your sinful nature; the surprise is that there were only a few that did it every year.

I was not one of these. For one thing, my parents spoke with mild disdain for those people; we were “"once saved, always saved”" Baptists, after all! For another, I tend to be left cold by such manipulation.

I did walk down that aisle once. It was not during a revival, it was during a random Sunday in the spring when I was 10 years old. I have no memory of anything the preacher said that day. I doubt I was even listening. By then, I had learned the fine art of letting my mind wander while appearing to pay attention. Besides, that day, it didn'’t matter what the preacher said; I had already made a decision to walk down that aisle.

The decision had been made the week before. The previous Sunday night, I was in church as usual, and we had the usual Sunday night service. I don'’t remember anything about the service that night, except that when the invitation began, suddenly I felt an intense urge to walk down the aisle. I felt a chill down my spine, and blown away by the intensity of the feeling. I didn'’t walk down the aisle that night; I didn'’t do things on impulse much, even then, and I didn’'t understand what was going on with me.

I wasn'’t totally immune to manipulation, though. My big worry, as I rode in the car home, was that something would happen to me before I could get the courage to walk down that aisle. That staple “"what would happen if you died tonight?”" question of preachers working the altar call had had an impact on me. Finally, I decided I had to talk to someone about this, so I told my parents about my experience. They asked me a few questions, and suggested that I might want to go forward during the invitation the following Sunday. As for my fear about what might happen before then, the reassurance was “"nothing’'s going to happen, you’ll be fine.”"

So the following Sunday, when the preacher issued the invitation, he had us bow our heads and close our eyes, and I stepped out of the pew and answered the call. Suddenly I realized that I was not alone; there was someone else marching down that aisle with me. My younger brother, having heard the conversations between me and my parents about accepting Christ as your savior, decided he was ready, too. We were subsequently baptized together a few weeks later.

Despite my “conversion experience”, I still didn’'t really agree with much of what I heard in that country Baptist church. Eventually, when I was on my own, I rejected the religion of my childhood, and even for a while rejected God. The tradition of the path I follow now doesn’'t focus on a dramatic conversion experience, and I understand and even agree with that lack of focus. But that doesn’'t deny that what I felt in that small country church one Sunday night wasn’'t real.