Sin Stained Shards or Shimmering Stained Glass?

This week, I thought I would tell you more of the “story after the story”: the account of how my conversion really began to take root. As you may recall from last week, I was walking down the sidewalk back to the house when I heard a voice say “Even when he gets stoned he listens to the good voices.” And, if you remember, my response to this irksome ire was “Shut up,” to which it menacingly spewed: “You’re not GOD, HUMAN!”

But, be this introduction as it may, I have just unwittingly told a hell spawn to shut up and it is now expressing its great displeasure at being ordered about in this way by a mere human, of all creatures.

I hurried along the sidewalk, all but running to get back to the house, an angry hornets’ nest assaulting my mind with its incessant tumult. Jimmy and Leann were off running errands someplace when I got home; I did not have the option of unloading my newfound reality on them. So I did what I frequently did then when I was severely stressed out: I went downstairs to play some music in hopes of calming my nerves. At the time, I spent more time playing my keyboard than my guitar and as my fingers reached for the keys, I once again felt the electrical energy flowing through my Ensoniq® ASR-10. I had grown uncommonly sensitive to even the slightest disturbances in the environment around me, which manifested itself in unusual ways, in this case a sort of tingling as my skin drew within a few feet of my keyboard. It was as though the electrical current offset my own neural pathways, displacing their electrochemical signals.

As I began to play, everything sounded dark and sinister, evil seeming to shriek from my studio speakers, taunting me, toying with me, intent on gaining its revenge. I couldn’t pluck a key without a dirge of death coming out, the notes all blending into a diabolical cacophony fit for the very kingdom of hell. I was so distraught I wasn’t playing well and kept making foolish errors. Whenever this happened in the past I would curse, the most vulgar language vomiting from my lips. But, for what it was worth, I was now a Christian and I was trying to curb my habit of profane and vulgar speech. When I would make an error, a curse formed in my mind, just as I would normally have phrased it. However, though at first it was confusing, I soon realized this was not me that was cursing: this was not my voice! It would seem my newfound companions were impersonating my usual inner thoughts: my self-talk, if you will. I was soon freaking out so badly, I was beside myself, the acrid, permeating presence of evil suffocating in the room around me, making my eyes all but water.

Realizing the futility of this, I scrambled up the stairs, picked up the phone, and dialed my long-suffering mother, practically hyperventilating, I was so severely shaken. I had managed to anger my “friends” royally and they seemed to be enjoying themselves, for they were clearly getting under my skin. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have felt a bit strange admitting to my mother that I had just got done smoking dope, though by now I had come clean with my parents. The last time they had been down to visit, my mom had begun to suspect something amiss, for my “friend” (a customer/runner of mine who packed a .45 in a holster around his ankle) wasted no time in clearing out, not to mention that in the scramble to “disappear” all the dope and paraphernalia, I had inadvertently left one roll of cash (of several) lying out, totaling somewhere between $500 to $1,000 dollars. This looks rather suspicious when your folks know you have been unemployed for the past three months, though I did not find this out until much later—they never said a word at the time.

My mother’s voice was calm and she gave me the best motherly advice she could. I honestly do not know what she said now, though I do know there is something to be said for talking to a fellow Christian. I told her I expected that they would try to foil my attempt to get myself spiritually oriented again, and sure enough, I had no more begun to relate my story than the doorbell rang. I told her it was one of my customers and I felt I should deal with this sooner than later, so we said our good-byes and I answered the door. My clientele would have to learn that I was now officially out of business and why.

I prayed that the attempts of the demonic forces would be thwarted. Before long, I was surrounded by three former customers, relating to them the very story you have just been reading, with one exception: It had just happened and I was still a little freaked out. Let us just say that in that evening, three customers sitting in a basement heard their drug dealer tell them about the reality of demons, God, and the change he had made in his life. Word leaked out very quickly that I “wasn’t cool” anymore and in an amazingly short time, the steady stream of persons in and out our doors evaporated, leaving not so much as a residual trace in its wake. Leann was never so thankful, because she had three children; her roommate downstairs attracted company she (wisely) did not trust very far.

I had become something of a missionary. The events in my life you have been reading about these past two weeks was a daily drama played out before the startled eyes of my roommates, who understood only a fraction of what was going on within my mind. Whatever the case, they knew I suddenly seemed to have a preoccupation with God and the bible, even before I actually committed my life. In fact, late one night in his drunken haze, Jimmy asked me how to become saved. His voice was anguished and I could tell he was troubled. I personally didn’t want anything to do with it and told him so, but nonetheless, my best friend had asked me to tell him how to get saved, so I told him, walking him through the steps of a prayer I wasn’t ready to pray for myself, saying words I didn’t mean so that he could mean them. When he had finished repeating after me, he said he felt warmth spread over his body and a great burden roll off his chest: he said he had never felt so clean and so pure in his entire life. In fact, for several days he babbled about this sense of peace that stole over him and was at a loss for words at how to best describe it to me, though I wasn’t interested in hearing about it.

The events that led up to Jimmy’s decision had much to do with a friend he had made on the construction site, a wayward pastor’s son who used to shoot methamphetamines with him. This individual was not a Christian, though believe he did, at least on an intellectual level: he realized, as I now had been taught by God’s mysterious messenger, that Christianity was true, though neither of us was willing to take that plunge. (Do you realize the cost? This means your entire life is uprooted, and now you are forced to rebuild everything from the ground up: years and years of a deeply ingrained lifestyle—your circle of friends, your habits, your ways of conceiving the world—all toppled to the ground in an instant over one “simple” decision.) After a theological conversation with his friend, it seems Jimmy had a vision of the flames of hell, which shook him up really badly. He was wild-eyed when he told me of it, though, in a twist of irony, I wasn’t to be bothered by it in the least, brushing it off as though it were a crumb on my shirt.

That being said, however, we were all pretty shook up in those days. Jimmy started cracking a little himself from the constant stress of seeing his best friend go down this road, and Leann was beside herself because the two men in her life are hearing voices and talking crazy things about hell, God, demons, and angels, which was not at all like them. Our next door neighbor, a Christian woman going through a divorce, would sit with her for long hours out on the porch steps and they would share their sorrows. This woman helped Leann understand the spiritual warfare that was unfolding before her eyes. In sum, three skeptical adults in a household of unbelievers had suddenly had every conception of their world turned on its head. No longer could we claim to be agnostic or unconcerned about the reality of the spiritual realm. Charles Williams’ novels are probably the closest thing in fictional literature to the nature of our spiritual awakening—in them, spirituality is portrayed as anything but mild—though I think I was the only one of the three whose awakening truly took hold and sprouted roots that began probing deeply into the soil of my soul. Jimmy was later to recant, once the crisis had passed, and, for all the insanity she lived with, to the best of my knowledge I don’t think Leann has ever seen the need for a Savior.

I have recounted some of these details in previous newsletters and articles, included to the right in a text box containing hyperlinks to their approximate chronological sequence, regardless of the date they were penned. For this reason, I will leave out some of the specifics mentioned elsewhere, though there is a great deal of overlap. Perhaps some day they will find themselves reformatted in one continuous string of sequential details, the overlapped sections fitted together into one seamless whole. That is the problem with trying to read them as they appear to date, because they jump around in time a bit: the first half of one article might fit before the second half of another, but the second half of the first might fit at the end of both.

Be these things as they may, my dyed black ends had begun to grow out somewhat exposing my dishwater brown roots, so I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, the band separating it neatly between black and brown. I pulled out a pair of slacks and a dress shirt, slapped on a narrow leather tie after a few unsuccessful attempts at threading it correctly around my neck, shined my smart leather shoes to a luxurious shine, and headed out the door. A few days prior I had bought a parallel bible (KJV, NIV) at the used bookstore at the gentle insistence of my parents, and tucking it under my arm, about two weeks after I had first accepted Christ, I climbed in the car and drove the short distance to the church right down the street. Despite the hair, I looked dignified and refined: my clothing was classy, suave, and sophisticated, even if I do say so myself.

My shoes “clickety-click-clicked” their way down the sidewalk, the way such thin-soled business shoes always do, and I was soon swept up in the handshakes of the members inside, who extended a warm welcome and seemed genuinely pleased to see me. Settling down near the back, as has always been (and still remains) my custom whether it is the sanctuary, classroom, or any other public setting, I soon found myself singing songs I never thought would course through my lips. Midway through this, I suddenly thought to tell her or God one, “I’m here,” feeling pleased with myself like a little boy seeking affirmation.

“I know,” came the reply. And along with these simple words, a wave of warmth and joy washed over me and I was enraptured, ecstatic. I had not felt this good in years and I determined that I would come back every time the church doors opened. I soon discovered that not only did they have a Sunday night service and a Wednesday service, but they also had a prayer night on Tuesday. I made plans to attend all four services a week. So, after shocking Jimmy and Leann with my talk of how glorious the whole experience was, I returned that evening feeling refreshed, invigorated. (This section overlaps with my account in A Cup of Cold Water And So Much More.)

It came time to go to the Tuesday night prayer meeting, and I walked in, found my place behind a pew, and started trying to pray. However, the other people around me kept distracting me, and what is more, this church was a charismatic one where many people were praying in tongues, which I found rather unsettling. Growing up, the church I had attended was much more quiet and laid-back, but I wasn’t one to get hung up on particulars and resolved to put such thoughts out of my mind. However, as the expression goes within Christian circles, my “prayers were bouncing off the ceiling,” and when I finally got up to leave, I was angry at God and vowed I would never come back to a Tuesday night meeting again. Wednesday night went quite well, though I didn’t feel as enraptured as I did that previous Sunday. Still, I decided I would continue attending three times a week: I felt I got more out of the messages than the private prayer.

One thing that my conversion had wrought in me was a redoubled interest in reading. This was another thing that stunned Jimmy and Leann, because I seemed to turn into a bookworm on them overnight. Truth be told, I was simply unthawing and returning to my normal state, but, despite the fact that they frequently commented on my (to them) broad vocabulary, they had never actually seen me take much interest in reading. I also began to take an interest in polishing some of my poetry and short stories, beginning to make use of the college’s computer lab for this purpose, since I did not have a computer of my own. (I had learned from my wife, while still a married man, that even though I was not enrolled in college and had no interest in doing so, I could use the SMSU labs without fear of incrimination. She knew this, of course, because she had long been taking college courses, her lively intellect tackling the toughest subjects with uncommon ease.)

The following Tuesday, I had some corrections to make, and, as soon as I had my papers and computer disks marshaled together, I hopped in the car and set out on my sojourn. As irony would have it, the church was along my route and it was about ten minutes to seven, the starting time for the prayer meeting. Going to the meeting hadn’t even entered my mind, but I suddenly felt a very strong conviction that I was to stop in and save my computer interests for another day. I reluctantly agreed, but I informed God, “It had better be better this time!”

I pulled up, and walked through the doors, kneeling down behind my pew amidst the murmur of voices, some in English and others sounding like infantile gibberish. I expected the heavens to open and the glory of God to pour down from the skies, but, to my great disappointment and anger, my prayers once again began to bounce off the ceiling. I got up and went to the bathroom and was about ready to leave when I decided to give it one last try. I once again knelt down and in my desperation and frustration, I demanded to know why my prayers weren’t being heard.

To my horror, I was told “He needs to cut his hair . . . and the hair on his face.” I had been wrestling with God over this issue for some time, annoying Jimmy so badly he threatened to hold me down and cut my hair off himself so that he wouldn’t have to listen to me. I had read this alternate translation in the gloss of the NIV concerning 1 Corinthians 11: 4–7:

Paul—and now God himself—was telling me this was not negotiable. Yet my hair was my identity and I was sick at the thought of cutting if all off. You must understand. Ever since I was little, I had always wanted long hair and I had always worn it this way all of my adult years. To take it from me was to take the only thing I had left that made me “me.” I did not want to look like a politician or a televangelist: I could not understand the societal mores that suggested that only a clean shaven man had a place in upwardly mobile society. Why must I look this way to find a respectable job or to be taken seriously? What did my hair have to do with anything? Still, it was quite clear that the reason my prayers were bouncing off the roof was that “He needs to cut his hair . . . and the hair on his face.”

So, after agonizing with myself, I finally surrendered and prayed, “Okay, if you want me to cut my hair, fine, I will cut my hair. However, I do have one request from You. If I am going to cut my hair, I want it to look neat and well-trimmed. Tell me the name of a barber shop or beauty parlor, and as soon as I leave here, I will get a shave and have my hair cut before I go home.” I felt a little ill, pictures floating through my mind of this “geeky-looking,” gaunt-faced individual peering out of its clean shaven reflection back at me in the mirror in the morning, but it felt good to finally feel the sense of release from my struggle with God.

As if by magic, the name “Clip N’ Snip” appeared in my mind, and I thought to look it up in the phone book as soon as I left so that I could call and make an appointment. I knelt in silence, feeling the sweetness of surrender even as visions of my new, clean-shaven appearance danced through my numbed brain. After a moment, I was told, “He can keep the hair on his face.” I breathed a great sigh of relief and said, “Thank you!” I wasn’t presuming to ask for anything, and at least a beard would afford my face a little dignity. No sooner had my prayer of thankfulness left my lips than I was told, “. . . and he can keep the hair on his head as well.” Like Abraham with his son Isaac, when I was finally willing to surrender the thing I was being asked for, willing to do the thing I was loath to do for the sake of God, he gave it back to me. Incidentally, I am convinced God has a sense of humor, for “Clip N’ Snip” is not a real place: Snip N’ Clip, however, is very much a real franchise, as I found out later.

I was filled with gratitude, thanking God so much for giving me my hair back. But the words I heard next, I will always treasure. Among the few audible words God has spoken to me, what do you suppose he said? “He is my son.” Now how is that for a welcome into the family? Should you wonder why there were tears in my eyes?

Allow me to digress a moment and look at this passage from 1 Corinthians, lest someone say my experiences are clouding my better theology. I was later to learn in my studies that Corinth was a place of great carnality. To call a woman a “Corinthian girl” was to insult her in the most vulgar of ways, the way referring to a woman by a crude name for her genitalia would debase a woman today. Temple prostitutes were common, as having intercourse with a prophetess or prophet was seen as a sacred consummation of fertility rituals. The way one could identify prostitutes in this culture was by the length of their hair: a “gigola” wore her hair shorn, a gigolo wore his hair long. Hence, in this very pagan culture, Paul was saying, in effect, come out and be separate: have nothing to do with the appearance of evil.

Despite my interest in polishing my extant writes (which, interestingly enough, are not represented on the web except for the poetry), I did not pick up a pen again for some time. One day, several years later, I was feeling like I had done so little to thank God for all he had led me through. I asked him if there was anything I could do for him, and that was when he told me, again in an audible voice, “He needs to write a book.” I understood that this meant I was to set into writing the testimony of what had happened to me, though it would not be until I was enrolled in my business clerical course in Utah that I completed what is now the first chapter of my autobiography. By the time I was terminated for conducting bible studies, most of the manuscript was completed as it appears on the site to this day, but this is getting ahead of my tale.

On the trip home from Utah, I gave my manuscript to a girl I met on the airplane, so all I was left with were the files on disk. I did not own a computer, and my parents’ computer dates to about 1987, if I am not mistaken, which means it uses a dot matrix printer and has only a five- and a quarter-inch drive: back in the days where a floppy disk was truly “floppy.” It was some time before I had computer access to begin working on it again, though I saved a hundred dollars a week until I was able to by a new computer with cash in hand. When I got it home, I immediately began making corrections, hashing out more of my story. I printed out copies and passed them around to almost anyone who was even remotely interested, handing out over two-hundred printed copies by the time I enrolled in college. I wasted no time in setting up an e-mail account and daydreamed about having an Internet site of my own to gain more exposure for the autobiography. It wasn’t about money for me, of course: it was about the statement, “He needs to write a book.”

I taught myself HTML off the Web and soon learned I could have an Internet site hosted for free. For several months I worked to convert the entire book, chapter by chapter, into HyperText, learning more about web pages in the process than I probably would have with a thousand college courses on the subject. In my days of teaching the teen class I’d written a number of articles, and then, after stepping down from that position, I continued to write articles and pass them out to the church, so I posted these on the site as well, along with some of my better college papers. (These older articles can be found on the Misc./Archives page.) Finally, I was ready, and I burned the files, carrying them to college with me on CD-ROM, and, in one fell swoop, one moment there was nothing, the next minute Mr. Renaissance was born, though still having a bit of umbilical mess to dredge up, the way any new enterprise always does. Ironically, however, I have never finished my book and may not ever (though today’s account is a step in that direction), but “He needs to write a book,” was the incentive that launched me back into writing, turning me into the author you have come to know so well.

Archive note: See also the discussion forum post Stained Glass regarding this newsletter.

Perhaps my account today has shown you a much different side than what you had previously envisioned. No doubt your first impression of Mr. Renaissance when you stumbled across it was a bit different from the one related here. But, assuming that you must have found it favorable or else you would not have subscribed, this just goes to show all the more that God is in the business of picking up hopelessly shattered lives and creating picturesque stained glass from the broken shards.

“I will be his father, and he shall be my son. If he commit iniquity, I will chasten him with the rod of men, and with the stripes of the children of men: But my mercy shall not depart away from him.”

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