The evening began like so many since high school graduation in 1970. In search of the altered state. A week before Easter, 1976, the Bicentennial year, I knocked on my neighbor’s front door. Jim Hayes’ voice from the kitchen bid me enter and I walked back where he and his brother-in-law, John Trail, were sitting. Joining them at the kitchen table I took out some marijuana to roll a joint. Concentrating at the task at hand I paid little attention to the conversation in progress. I lit the cigarette with a deep breath and passed it to Jim. In his late twenties I believe, Jim was a pretty cool guy, very down to earth, gregarious and a pretty good friend. I had not met John before, but these two seemed decent friends. Jim partook, passed the joint to John, and we sat there in the late evening attaining a mellow mood. The two continued their discussion, one that was amicable and animated.
John had been trying to convince Jim of the merits of his conviction that Jesus really was alive, even at this very moment. He had been crucified, yes, but He did rise from the dead and was still living in the world. John expressed amazement that Jim didn’t quite believe him. "Why don’t you understand what I am saying?" questioned an incredulous John. I, on the other hand, began to pay close attention. It seemed to me that something peculiar was in the air besides the smoke.
As a child of devout Roman Catholic parents, who themselves were from the same stock, I was the second son to become an Alter Boy. Like my older brother before me I learned the Latin, the gestures, and all the ceremony involved in celebrating the Mass. As a third or fourth grader it was quite an impressive position to assist the Priest and I took it seriously--most of the time. Attending Mass every Sunday and Holy Day of Obligation with my family, serving as Alter Boy, saying the family rosary a week out of every year, attending a Catholic grade school, I learned quite a bit about the Catholic religion, the many Bible stories, and of course knew about God and Jesus, and the crucifixion. But I was approaching an age that would eventually take me through the late Sixties as a teenager, and those were years of open questioning and defiance of all things authoritative. The third eldest child among eight, I grew into a solitude in spite of a such a large family, feeling somewhat more comfortable walking in the woods by myself or with the family dog than spending time with friends, which seemed fewer in number as I rose through the grades of a parochial elementary and high school. And as I grew older I became more disillusioned with the Roman Catholic experience. A few events occurred while I was an Alter Boy to influence that disenchantment and coupled with my noticing a discrepancy between some people’s piety expected inside a church and their behavior outside, I disconnected intellectually and emotionally with the church. I came to feel that God was more present with me in the natural setting of the woods than in the man-made construct of a church building. So after high school, being permitted the freedom of my own convictions, I stopped attending Mass. I did however continue in my own version of spirituality believing in Nature’s God whom I felt was eminent if not imminent.
Not that I was a saint by any stretch of the imagination. Just ask my family or the friends I did have. I joined many of the disillusioned youth of the Sixties and could be angry, uncouth, and disrespectful. Though I considered myself to be a pacifist and sensitive I certainly made my share of mistakes. And during a two year stint in the U.S. Army from 1972 to 1974 some of those would risk my entire future. One in particular was a court martial that pointed to a prison sentence. Briefly stated, I was in the company of two friends who had moments before purchased 2 kilos of marijuana and were driving back into El Paso, Texas, when the city Police pulled our car over. Thinking ours matched a car reported in a recent assault on some young kids, we were stopped, searched , the drug confiscated, and a night was spent in the El Paso County Jail before we were released the next morning to the Military authorities. Needless to say this caused untold grief and distress to my parents, a feeling which can be re-lived by reading their letters to me from those days and months surrounding the Christmas of 1972. But I was insensitive to such grief even when my mother flew down for my trial, sitting behind me one late January afternoon. And foolish me, I wasn’t to realize just how fortunate I was, to be acquitted of the charges against me. The evidence was ruled inadmissible, thanks to my attorney’s objection based on the illegal search and seizure rule. Even afterward, oblivious to how close to the precipice I was playing, I continued the same behavior unimpeded, and indeed, perhaps with more gusto.
My lifestyle, the regular use of recreational drugs, continued after an honorable discharge from the service, and while living at home, and on the evening I walked into the kitchen of Jim and Lucy Hayes. The list of illicit substances I consumed included the ubiquitous pot, and occasional use of hashish, mushrooms, and chemicals like THC, acid, and methamphetamines. And of course there was always the alcohol. Grateful to be home from the Army I was still a fairly angry young man making life somewhat uncomfortable around my folks house. The face I revealed to my friends, however, was entirely different from that displayed for my parents and family. Sullen and balancing a chip on my shoulder around home, I was mostly carefree and cheerful among my friends as we shared drugs and alcohol and partied in our celebration of life as we knew it. Pretty much your average American kid. And I was oblivious to any affect that my disposition might have had on my parents. They maintained an attitude of strained if respectful toleration combined with prayer hoping for a miracle to shake or wake me up.
In the early months of 1976 I remember thinking to myself as I was upstairs in my room preparing to go out for the evening, "There’s something missing in my life." It was almost audible. I still remember vividly to this day the moment that thought occurred but I dismissed it and joined my friends for the night’s festivities consisting mainly of goofing around and getting high. I thought I was a reasonably happy young man with a good job making good money, with good friends, and a family that loved me. I had come through a lot of trials and thought I had grown, even matured, with them.
Then, a while later in March or early April as I was sitting at our kitchen table I picked up a copy of the Reader’s Digest. Opening to an article titled "The Real Meaning of Easter," I read it with a benign curiosity. The substance of the three or five page article was this. Easter could mean one of several things. It could mean that in reference to the resurrection of Jesus Christ that his thoughts, ideas and teachings could live on in his followers just as the philosophies of the poets and the ancients such as Socrates and Aristotle live on with their devotees. Another one or two possible explanations followed in similar fashion to suggest interpretations of the Easter event two millennia ago. The conclusion, though, was that the event occurred just as it is reported in the Bible. That the man Jesus was crucified to death, was buried in that tomb, and three days later actually walked out alive. I finished reading and thought, "interesting," but I left on the table both the book and the reflection.
None of this was in the forefront of my mind as I visited with my neighbor that Easter weekday eve. It was merely one more night in a long series. And then I started listening to John Trail’s contention. It was simple: Jesus really was alive and living in the world today. It wasn’t just a fable or a nice moral story, it was also a physical reality. Picture this: three young men siting around a small kitchen table, in a tiny, now smoky kitchen, one vociferously attempting to convince a second of the simple merits of his belief in Jesus, and all three stoned on pot. Is that not ironic? Jim sat there appreciating his brother-in-law’s conviction but was resolute. It wasn’t for him. I didn’t think of it at the time but I could appreciate his apprehension. The same thing happened to me while a soldier at Fort Bliss in El Paso. One of my fellow drug-heads recently had a similar Epiphany and tried to reason with me with just the same message John was now using. I, too, politely left him to his own judgment, claiming that was fine for him but not for me.
On this night there was something different. I heard no voices, I saw no visions. I made no utterances nor changed appearance. Indeed Jim and John were insensible to my silent musings just then. But suddenly, very suddenly it all made sense! I had read about Jesus, I heard the Gospel stories, and I thought that was all they were. Stories. But now, it all made sense. Jesus was real! He did die and was raised from the dead. He is alive! And if he is alive what does this mean to me? The Son of God was alive right this very moment and wanted to tell me something. Very suddenly I realized just what it was that was missing in my life. It was a living and personal relationship between the Creator of the universe and His creation. Very aware of the nature of the known universe, having loved astronomy since a small child, being awed with every walk under the starry night sky or exploring it through binoculars and telescope, or when leafing through picture books of galaxies and planets, very suddenly that evening I was introduced to it’s Creator; and it was awesome! It only took a few seconds for all this to flash through my mind and heart while the discussion continued between my companions. I never said a word; they talked while I thought. It had been less than half an hour since I entered the house.
Still saying little I excused myself and walked back to my house, went into the dining room to where our family bible was sitting mostly unused on the shelf. I took it down and opened it to some place in the Gospels and started reading. I can’t describe the impact of reading those pages with new eyes for the very first time. It was a sensation too deep, too moving for words. I had read out of that book before, maybe once every year or two, out of a mild curiosity, and never at any length. But that night it was completely different. The words were alive. Their meaning was clear and I understood the message in the writing, and just who was revealed in there, and that they were directed at me. I was numb with wonder. The dope smoker, the profane, the angry young man, was face to face with his maker, and he was telling me how he cared for me. It was not an event to be taken lightly. This time I couldn’t say, "So what." I couldn’t shrug it off saying it’s not for me, because it was immediately for me! God was touching my heart and the consequence was inescapable and unalterable. I closed the book, returned it to the shelf and went upstairs to bed. (All of this is still a vivid memory as if it happened last week.) I got ready for bed and then knelt beside it as I had done as a little boy but with the wonder and awe still pulsing throughout my being. In brief whispers I capitulated, exclaiming, "You made the universe, you can do anything with me." And I asked Him to take me and do whatever he wanted with me. I told him, "I am yours." A burden with which I had long lived almost unnoticed was perceptibly lifted from my shoulders as I climbed into bed that night and I slept the peaceful sleep of one who’s life had inexorably and permanently changed in the twinkling of an eye.
I don’t remember what I did in those next few days except that I did continue almost constantly to read the Bible. First the large, heavy one in our dining room, then I bought one for myself. I took it to work and read it in every spare moment. I read it at home after work. I started at the beginning of the New Testament and finished weeks later at Revelation. Then I started at Genesis and finished the Old Testament almost a year later. And then I read it all again. And then again. I was hungry, starving really, to fully come to know him, and there was no other place I could read his own words than the Bible. And I just had to know what he said. But I knew that they were his words, and they were alive and speaking to me, revealing to me who and what he is and what he has done and what he will do. I knew I was very much a sinner. That much was obvious to me, and painfully obvious to certain others. And because of that Jesus came to pay the penalty for my own sin, and died on the cross and rose from the dead with the power that could raise everyone from their own death if they would accept the gift. It was the gift of faith offered that night I had accepted gratefully and was rewarded by having him live inside of my own heart. How awesome. The more I read the Bible the better I could give words to what had happened to me. I understood what Jesus told the Jewish Scholar, that unless he would become born again he couldn’t see the kingdom of heaven. The learned man was like me before the young soldier, it just didn’t make sense, being born out of his mother a second time! Talk about sounding stupid. But now I understood.
My folks didn’t quite understand but they plainly saw a change me. The following days revealed a different John walking around the house. I don’t recall saying anything in particular to them about that night but I did tell them that I wanted to come with them to Mass that Sunday. It was Easter Sunday. My parents were beside themselves with joy as you may imagine. But they restrained themselves wondering what was going on. It was the first time I had been to church in years, actually, since high school or shortly thereafter. I think we slid into the first pew that morning and I was reveling in the fact that as we all were celebrating the risen Lord, I was also celebrating my own resurrection. It was bliss. My youngest sister took note of my altered behavior, too. After some time, Mary Lou came to understand personally what I went through and came to grips with the struggles she had been dealing with surrendered herself to God. After everything mom and dad went through with me, particularly those Army years and the many anxious days, they now could at last have some measure of peace. They could cope with me around the house now without the chip on my shoulder and the scowl on my face. With me actually talking to them!
I must have gone to Sunday Mass two or three times before I detected something lacking. Yes, we attended to worship God and celebrated the sacrifice Jesus willingly made for my salvation, but my craving for spiritual nourishment was not being met. After only a few times back at Mass, the repetitiveness and the seemingly cold rigidity became evident to me. The performance seemed rote and mechanical. Sermons were devoid of spiritual insight and it was like a social studies class; get along better with your fellow man, be good people, do the right thing. Previously I had thought that I was a good person doing the right thing. I mean I hadn’t robbed banks or killed people; I had tried to follow the Golden Rule, so I was good, right? But apparently that was not good enough. My reading of scripture showed me that no one was good. That was why Jesus died for everybody, because "all had sinned and had fallen short of the glory of God." So I realized that I wasn't going to get a very in depth training of the things of God. I needed to find somewhere I could learn more deeply, to expand on things I was reading and learning in the Word. My Bible reading needed to be accompanied by discussion and teaching.
Ironically, it would be Lucy, Jim Hayes’ wife, who would direct me. Not too long after that amazing night in their kitchen I mentioned to her what happened. It turned out that she had been born again after her marriage but was not permitted to discuss it with Jim's friends. She suggested that I visit a number of churches to find the style of worship and instruction I might appreciate. And she told me about the one she attended. It was the First Baptist Church of Wayne. After visiting there one Sunday I felt that it was a place that could nurture me as a newborn Christian. It would teach me things, allow discussion and speak of things right from the Bible, using the Word itself as the text book. It allowed frank and probing discussion of spiritual issues and was not dogmatic about things that they felt were not essential. Those things that were essential were the same things spelled out in the first creeds of Christendom common to all the mainstream Christian groups. It was by no means a perfect church. I would come to realize that as long as people constituted a church it would have problems, especially with me in it. But I was accepted for who I was and embraced as a child of God. It kind of felt like family. Eventually, as the years flew by I would attend a variety of denominations like Baptist and Presbyterian.
That is how my spiritual pilgrimage began. I voraciously devoured everything I could read about our Lord and the Spirit. I read textbooks, commentaries, lexicons, theological works from both Catholic and Reformed perspectives, studied reference works on the Old and New Testament books and of the early Church Fathers, read novels and catechisms, attended the Detroit Bible College and a Christian liberal arts college, and enjoyed the fellowship of believers who had been given a personal relationship with God, those who had made a choice to accept his free gift of salvation. It was those people from every language and nationality I came to realize was the church universal, the catholic church. Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, Catholic, the label wasn't important, it was the relationship by which we were defined. It would be with these individuals one day I will share an unimaginably delightful worship experience before the very face of God in our real home, heaven. The journey is 27 years old so far but that is a mere blip in time compared to an eternity in God's presence. My challenge is to keep from being so heavenly minded that I'm is no earthly good. When I consider the final shedding of this mortal coil with all my continued faults, frailties, and blemishes, compared with being showered in the radiant majestic presence of God himself, it is difficult not to wish to be taken home. That isn’t intended to be as morbid as that sounds. Paul chooses other words when referring to his own approaching death (not that I'm approaching death!) at the hands of his enemies. "But I am hard-pressed from both directions, having the desire to depart and be with Christ, for that is very much better; yet to remain on in the flesh is more necessary for your sake," as he confides to his Philippian friends.
But now this will sound preachy and that’s not what I intend. All I can do is explain what God has done for me. Just like Jesus told a man possessed by spirits that he had healed, when the renewed man rejoiced and wanted to follow and stay with Him but Jesus told him to go back to his own town and tell them what God has done for him. My telling my own story is all I can do. God does the rest. Just like my listening to John that night.
As an aside, I can enjoy movies like the Matrix because I can view them as allegories of the spiritual and natural world. Besides being superb science fiction (in my opinion) this film wonderfully depicts the veil obstructing the view of a very real spiritual world existing right in front of us. The question becomes, how is this veil removed? Is it something that can be worked for? Do this and this and obey these rules and you will "see." Or is it a translation from one level of existence to another, from being born once to being born a second time. In the Matrix an abrupt transition occurs that the central character, Neo, could never achieve on his own. He could, however, accept the gift that would facilitate his translation by accepting the red pill. (OK. Don't push the parable too far, they all break down somewhere! Their intention is to make a point.) It was the same with me. The dichotomy: my knowing about God was not the same thing as knowing him.
So if you're still with me after all this time I'll stop here. But my journey continues. The road has been both great and not so great. It's been smooth and it has been bumpy. It's been--well, like life, with all its ups and downs. But I still think daily how incredible it is that He lives in me. And wants everyone to feel the joy of knowing Him living day-to-day with that reality.
John Schneider
April 14, 2000