THE ULTIMATE PEACE SIGN

Were you a part of the Jesus People movement back in the late sixties and early seventies? I certainly was. In fact, my convictions frequently got me into trouble with classmates and teachers alike.

"What's your sign?" was one question which my peers asked me. I invariably answered that I was a Christian and didn't believe in astrology. I wish I had said that it was the cross of Christ. That would have encouraged them to ask more questions or shortened the conversation. As it was, I feel I gave the wrong impression regarding being a believer as I seemed not to believe in anything fun.

I also had my mother cut off a peace medalian from the zipper of a sweater she had purchased. I felt it clashed with my convictions as a Christian because it, according to some preachers, was a pagen symbol.

Though I loved rock music, I drew the line at songs which openly promoted immorality or false beliefs. The Fifth Dimension's "Age Of Aquarious" was one song I hated above the rest. Whenever it came on the radio, I switched it off and waited until I felt the song had ended.

When I learned that George Harrison was singing about Crishna, I stopped listening to his "My Sweet Lord" song as well.

Additionally, I got into my classmates' bad books by standing with my head bowed for "The Lord's Prayer." Each morning during Grade eight and nine, Our teachers insisted we stand and listen to the scratchy record of that well-known Bible passage being played over the intercom. One teacher even praised me in front of the class for being so devout while everybody else fidgeted and shuffled their feet.

I caused quite a stir in English class when we held debates. When the teacher asked for topics to debate, I suggested that abortion  was murder. To her credit, our teacher allowed that debate topic. I'm sure it would be denied today.

I also handed out tracts during my high school years. Many students crumpled and tossed them back at me but I persisted for a while. The cost of those gospel messages soon became prohibitive since I was only given a little money from my dad to live on. Even so, I spoke up whenever the conversation turned to spiritual matters. Though my convictions got me into hot water,and still do today, I've found amazing peace in the cross of Christ. How wonderful that he cared and still cares for a nobody like me.

I wrote about my zeal for the Lord in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers cary the e-book and paper versions of this inspiring testimony of God's faithfulness.

"If you want something done, do it yourself." I've heard that many times before, yet it wasn't always possible to heed that advice. How I wish I had the technology I own now forty years ago. I'm able to write, edit, format, and print off whatever I want to and do it all at home. Back in 1973, I had only pens and paper. Being almost blind, my writing was hard to read. I was also a bad speller with no large print dictionary to help me.


I used to hand out Christian tracts at high school. Without exception, my peers crumpled up the slips of paper I handed them and tossed them back in my face. Not only did that hurt my feelings but those tracts cost money. My dad gave me only enough cash to pay the rent of my tiny basement room and buy some food. Clearly, I had to find some other way to supply myself with tracts.


Then I came up with a brilliant plan. The house church I attended had a spirit duplicator. If I dictated my tract's text on tape and gave that to Sister Roberta, she could type it out and print off a nice stack of tracts for me to hand out at school.


After getting permission from the church, I sat down one evening and rattled off my text into the microphone. The next Wednesday evening, I handed Sister Roberta the reel of tape and waited.


Having heard nothing from Sister Roberta after a few weeks, I walked to the nearest pay phone and asked her about the progress of the tract. She said she was too busy but she'd attend to it someday. A month later, I asked her the same question and received the same answer.


I learned a lesson that year. If it's to be, it's up to me. Rarely do people get excited enough to help somebody with their project. It's better to do what you can and hire out the rest if possible.


I wrote extensively about that house church in my newly-published memoir, How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity.  Please check it out at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm.

PUSHING A ROPE

Have you ever wondered why certain religious individuals won't take 'no' for an answer? Many believe that it's up to them to 'save' people. To them, rejection of their message only indicates that the message didn't get through.

I was one of those 'pushy' people back in 1973. I believed it was up to me to convert people. Now I know better. Scripture actually says that the Holy Spirit is the one who opens the minds of those who hear the gospel.

In my How I Was Razed memoir, I wrote about how my wrong-headed desire to share my faith upset the caretaker at my high school.

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I offended the cleaning staff too. Since few students wanted my tracts and I often received taunts from my peers, I assumed that pasting the messages onto the door of my locker would be a more effective way to let people know about Christ. When I came to school the next morning, somebody had removed all the tracts. I replaced them but those vanished too. "What do you think you're doing? Don't you know that's not allowed?" the cleaning woman demanded as I pasted more tracts on my locker's door the third day.

"Isn't it? I didn't know that."

"You're not allowed to paste anything on your locker. It doesn't matter what it is. That's the rule."

"I thought it was just some mean kids who were taking them off."

"No. We have to remove them and it's a lot of work too. Imagine how ugly the place would look if we let you kids paste whatever you felt like on your lockers."

"I'm sorry about that. I didn't realize."

As I shuffled toward my next class, I hung my head. My evangelical zeal resulted in wasted tracts and extra work for the cleaning staff.

The rule extended to lamp posts by the school as well. Someone had removed the tract I pasted on it when I looked for it the next day.

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How I Was Razed is the testimony of the way I was mislead by a cult church, how I turned my back on God after I felt he perennially failed to heal my eyes, and how he graciously brought me to my senses.

My previous books are now available for purchase online by clicking here. You may click here to e-mail me directly as well.

Remember tracts?

Forty years ago, Christians used slips of paper with short messages printed on them to spread the gospel. These were called tracts. This practice has largely died out, though some persistent believers still hand these to people on the street. From my upcoming How I Was Razed memoir, here is how I became involved with this evangelical fad.

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Though Thee Church wasn't overtly evangelical, some members encouraged me to share my faith and hand out tracts. Linda and I rode the bus downtown late one January afternoon. "Here's some tracts. Just walk down the street and hand people one," she instructed. "I'll be close by if you need any help with questions."

"I've never done this before. Is that all I have to do?"

"Sure. If the spirit lays something on your heart, say whatever he tells you. Don't be afraid. Remember that Christ promised never to forsake us." Most people I approached ignored my proffered slip of paper. When I held up one with the words "NOT TOO SHORT" on it, One sour-voiced old man said, "Not too short of money I'll bet." That stung since I was all too aware of people's misjudgment of us Christians. By the time I thought of a civil reply, the man was gone.

being insulted was not the only cost of handing out tracts. Sister E took me to a Bible supply store one winter evening. As I inspected the various packets of handbills, I felt shocked at their high prices. "I didn't know these things cost so much," I confided to her. "Well, it does cost money to print these messages. You can't expect to get them all for free, you know."

"But, they're such little pieces of paper."

"If you don't want to buy them, then don't. Just make up your mind and get what you can afford."

A tug of war raged in my mind as I pondered the colourful stacks of messages on the shelves. Because of my poor vision, I attended a junior high school in Edmonton that had counsellors tasked with reading book assignments onto tape and assisting us with test papers. The pittance Dad gave me to live on was not much better than a child's allowance. I had to choose between buying the occasional chocolate bar or tracts. I compromised and bought the least expensive bundle of handbills.

Not knowing any better, I decided that the Greyhound bus depot would be a good place to "witness." On one of the Saturdays when I stayed at Jay and Linda's, instead of going home, I thought I'd evangelize the passengers. I walked up to several people and held out a handbill but none of them took it. "Would you like to read this?" I asked an elderly lady. "Don't take it," a middle-aged woman with black hair ordered. "Don't take it?" the grey-haired woman asked, sounding baffled. "It's just some religious stuff," her minder snapped. "What's this you're handing out?" a man in a green uniform demanded as he stood behind me. I mutely handed him a tract. After skimming through the front paragraphs and glancing at the back, he returned it. "You're not allowed to hand these out here. It's against the rules." I left the depot feeling dejected. "Lord Jesus," I prayed under my breath as I walked down the sunlit streets to my bus stop, "I'm just trying to do my best for you. Please help me find somebody who I can save."

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Each Friday, I publish excerpts from my books on this blog as well as on WordPress. Please also visit the InScribe writers group page and check out When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies) as well as Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School). Have a nice weekend.