I’d like to hover over a relatively brief period of time, between when my step uncle sent me those books and when I decided to – or realized I already did – believe in Christ. It’s a chapter worthy of isolation and emphasis, and I don’t want to gloss it over.
I mentioned before that he sent me two books. He actually sent me three. The first one I read was Unashamed, by Lecrae. It was a good book, but it wasn’t really what I was looking for. Make no mistake, there are many who have been and will be blessed by that story. I certainly appreciated his struggle. His battle against himself, against the culture he was in and the world he was surrounded by, was real. So was his courage in sharing it.
Ultimately, though, it was a book about how he felt, and that wasn’t what I needed. I wasn’t struggling against myself. I wasn’t wrestling with my own inadequacies before God, or any feeling of being unworthy. Remember, at that time I would have confidently stated that I was a pretty good guy. Aside from the typical regrets we tend to collect as we age, I was content.
No, what I was trying to address was my skepticism.
The next book I opened wasn’t the Bible. Not seriously, anyway. I needed to fix my head space in order to appreciate those pages, and I just wasn’t there yet. What came next was Josh McDowell’s More Than a Carpenter. As I write this, I have yet to find another single resource that better captures and answers the heart of skepticism so many possess. Sure, it isn’t all-inclusive. That’s fine; I don’t believe most doubt has intellectual roots that run so deep, to be honest, and we’re well served in finding solid ground before tackling some of the deeper philosophical issues anyway.
I devoured that book. This is probably to my discredit, but it was the first time I’d ever encountered a Christian defense that was so thoroughly grounded in facts, in data and critical thought. Not that it stands alone; if you’re reading this, you’ve probably already found many similar resources on the internet. I strongly believe that one of our biggest obstacles is finding ways of reaching people with this sort of information, because they are not always seeking it out.
More Than a Carpenter allowed me to open my Bible and be certain that what I was reading was exactly what the authors intended. It gave me confidence that, at least historically, those events were true and accurate. To approach the idea of Christ – and frankly, of God – in good faith for the first time in my life. It was starkly evident that any attempt to attack its credibility was at best misinformed, and at worst a deliberate application of dishonesty. It followed, for me, that the motive for any such attack should be subject to the same level of scrutiny – with the same amount of rigor – as the message itself. This is a rough realization when you’re in the middle of your thirties and your rear-view mirror is full of derisive commentary about the silliness of it all.
I wish I could tell you that I read one beautiful verse and it opened up the majesty of creation before me, or that I engaged in a relentless study of Scripture that traveled from cover to cover and scoured every mystery in between. That the Lord whispered in a still, small voice and it all became so clear to me. The reality is far less exciting. I worked through most of the Gospels, gradually developing an appreciation for Jesus and a belief that what He taught seemed to be, inarguably, the right thing to do. Then I put it all on the back burner.
That isn’t entirely fair, I suppose. That next year got a little hectic. I deployed again; while I was gone, we bought some land and relocated my mom. Shortly after I came back, we sold our house and piled seven of us, including my mom, into a too-small rental while our new home was being finished. It was rough. It probably cost me ten years of my life, certainly of my sanity. Somewhere in the midst of it all, though, I realized I’d bought in. The angle of my reflection had slowly shifted from skepticism to an appreciation of principle and, eventually, into a rueful concession of belief.
One morning in August of 2020, I filled the silence of a drive to work with an awkward and cringe-worthy attempt at prayer. It was my first conversation with Jesus, and my first time admitting out loud that I was a Christian. I had no idea what I was doing or how to be about it, but it felt like the right thing. If I’m being completely honest, I was also checking a block. I was more than a little convinced it was a technicality that I had to get through to make everything official. And that was that. Ish.
Meanwhile, my Bible was starting to collect dust on my nightstand.
