When an Arrogant Christian Responds Angrily to the World

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Circa 1990 – There are a few moments in our lives when we reflect with regret while wondering what life would be like if we had a do-over. The Peabody Hotel, in Memphis, TN, is one of those places where a mulligan would have been nice. Sigh!

The Peabody is a historic hotel, always in the top ten of someone’s best hotels to stay. In 2015, I took the family there because it’s cool. And, of course, I wanted to get a few ribs from Central BBQ. The customers snaked their way out the door and into the parking lot. I’m talking about Central BBQ, not the Peabody. So good. I can still smell them ribs.

Back to the Peabody

I was there for a manager’s meeting with Alcoa. Shortly after them buying out our little plant, they promoted me. I know you’re impressed, but I was the only employee; what could they do?

Hollywood was also there, filming The Firm, with Tom Cruise. I did not see him or the other stars. Of course, I was only “secretly” looking for them since I was a fundamentalist. We disdain movies. Ironically, we were in New Orleans this summer, and they were filming the third edition of Bill and Ted. I have not seen that series, but we did stand in the street for several hours, watching them shoot while trying to catch a glimpse of Keanu Reeves.

The niche of the Peabody is the duck walk that they have twice a day. The ducks stay in the “Penthouse,” which are cages on the roof. Every morning a guy in a tux comes down the elevator with the ducks, and they walk the red carpet to the pool in the middle of the hotel lobby. Onlookers gather on both sides of the carpet with cameras ready. In the afternoon, they do it all over again, as the ducks go back to their penthouse.

All the managers came for a national meeting, perhaps a couple hundred men and women. We toured the Memphis recycling facility and a processing plant. Those events were the okay parts of this three-day meeting. The rest of it, I would love to forget, but it’s etched, as they say.

In This Corner, the Self-Righteous

My agony had little to do with the trip, the people, or the work. It was all about me; it was my fault. As a fundamentalist with a pinch of self-righteousness, mixed with a splash of anger, let’s just say it was a recipe for disaster. 

To put it plainly, I refused to fit in. I could not have been more self-righteous, arrogant, stubborn, or angry. I had standards that nobody in my company believed or practiced. My peers were living an expected debauchery.

Wives were flirting with men and husbands doing the same. The alcohol was flowing, and the jokes were perverse. In one of the plenary meetings, they showed an org chart that had “God” under the title, CEO. It was supposed to be a joke, as the room was bursting with laughter. I was burning inside and was at my self-righteous limit. 

At one point, I went to my room after dinner, took out my giant-sized KJV Bible, Authorized Version, laid it on the floor, and started praying. I was begging the Lord to convert my pagan friends and give me the grace to play nice. He did neither. Perhaps it was because God did not come for the righteous, but sinners. My self-righteousness was red-lining that week.

It’s Feedback Time

As I was waiting in the lobby for the ride to the airport, I listened to the player piano. I also started a “Luther-Esque” styled diatribe to zip off to headquarters upon arriving back in Greenville. Rather than mixing it up with the lower echelon, I sent this letter to the President of Alcoa in Pittsburg. This President later had a cabinet position with one of our US Presidents. Boom!

It was a mean-spirited, scathing, angry, self-righteous indictment of the company, the people in the company, and my utter disgust with their attitudes and behavior. I said something about lewd women and shameless men. It was the low-point of my career. 

This “low point” was not because of their sin but because of mine. I was totally out of step with reality, my culture, expectations of pagans, and a sound methodology on reaching my culture. I couldn’t have been more arrogant. (Okay, maybe I could be more arrogant, but my soul can’t bear to think about it.) But they were wrong, and I was right; it was so clear to me.

Of course, they were behaving according to their worldview. My mistake was expecting my colleagues to be as “holy” as I was, which is quite the feat without regeneration. Yep, I was winning friends and influencing people. 

The President called my boss, a super-nice guy. He was a black fellow, and though he was perplexed, he did say I had a rhythmic, colorful, and compelling writing style. It reminded him of Jesse Jackson, and I kid you not. He was prophetic. Who knew that I would make a living as a writer. It just would not be with Alcoa Corporation.

The upper-brass began to strategize how to fire me. In January 1993, they shut down the plant. I was a stellar employee, with the second-highest-ranking plant in the system. After the Peabody debacle, the black marks started piling up on my record.

When the ignorant pokes the bear, there’s nothing left to do but ask how the bear wants his meal. 

From Part-Time Pop-Top Job to a Piano

RMlogo From Part-Time Pop-Top Job to a Piano

Summer 1986 – Our first recycling machine compressed the cans into 24-inch long, rectangular blocks (or something like that). We raked the cans from the caged wagon into a large pit. Then we ran them up a conveyor to drop into our compacting machine. The last step was a little door opening, and a block would come out. We stacked a hundred or so of these blocks into a large bale. We banded them together and used a forklift to place the bundles on a tractor-trailer. From there, we shipped them to Tennessee.

Now For the Good Part

Before making the cans into blocks, we ran them across a big magnet that would pull out all the steel and other items our customers tried to sneak into their bags to get more weight. They were sneaky. I used to say that they brought in everything but the kitchen sink. Then one customer tried to sneak kitchen faucet parts into his bag. Wet jeans and books were popular.

Then they went through a “pre-crusher.” This process caused many of the pop-tops to snap off and fall into a 55-gallon drum underneath. The steel and other debris, i.e., paper, cigarettes, and dirt, were also collected in the barrels. Once the barrel was full, I would haul it to the back and dump the debris on the floor. This process happened every day or two, depending on the traffic.

James, my non-smiling predecessor, taught me how to sift the pop-tops to make a profit. It was one of the ways we stayed awake. After he went back to Louisiana, I spent my first summer salvaging pop-tops. It worked like this.

Profiting from Pop-Tops

I had a frame, like a tabletop, which was on four wooden legs. But instead of a solid table, there was a steel mesh that sifted the cigarettes, dirt, paper, and other debris. I shoveled all the debris out of the barrel, and onto my makeshift mesh table. After filtering the junk through the mesh and onto the floor, the only things that did not fall through were the pop-tops and cigarette butts.

I scooped the butts and tops into another drum that was full of water. The butts would float, and the pop-tops would sink. I hand-scooped the butts from the top of the water and threw them on the ground with the other debris. I used the forklift to pick up the barrel of water with clean pop-tops and poured them back onto the wire mess table. I then sifted out any remaining debris.

Yes, it was a huge mess.

And it smelled to high heaven.

I then put the clean pop-tops in large, plastic bags, and stacked them in a corner. Each bag was five feet tall, which was significantly heavy when filled with metal pop-tops. I have no idea how many zillions of pop-tops I sifted and cleaned that summer. I do remember it being more than 600 pounds when we loaded them into the van to take to the recycler.

It took all summer but well worth it. We made over $300 cash from my part-time pop-top job, which we used to buy a piano.

My Affair with the Aluminum Can Begins

RMlogo My Affair with the Aluminum Can Begins

February 1986 – Dr. Clark, the dean of the Bible college, was a huge help. He gave me a recommendation for a job opportunity with a “mom-n-pop” recycling organization. I visited one of the two employees that worked there. Thankfully, it was only a couple of miles from the school, at the White Horse Road Fairgrounds.

The guy working there was a graduating senior who was going back to Louisiana in a few months. He was not an outgoing dude. I remember him telling me that Jesus never smiled, and we shouldn’t either. Boom! There you have it. Let’s just say that he was not a lot of fun to work with for the few weeks that we were together.

Jesus wept!

You’re Hired

The interview process was extensive and comprehensive: he said that I could have the job if I wanted it, but I needed to come down in May because he was leaving after graduation. All righty, then. His name was James.

The upside is that he worked there the four years of school. And, it gets better: he did all of his homework while at work. James said that they had two or three customers a day. It seemed like a remarkable opportunity. I took the job and planned to move to Greenville in May.

The Transition

My wife could not quit her job until the summer, or that is what she told me. I found out afterward she had a relationship with a guy—possibly from Ohio, whom she met while he visited our plant in Monroe. I will never know for sure the real reason she had to stay, but that’s okay; it’s murky water under an old bridge.

Both of us worked for TransAmerica Delaval. I’m not sure if that company still exists today or if it continues to be part of the TransAmerica Corporation subsidiaries, headquartered in San Francisco. She did quit her job in mid-summer and moved down with our two children.

I lived in a small apartment during this transition time, which was across the street from the church and school. I walked to our church meetings, which was nice. We did find a house a few miles away, but it was not going to be ready until later in the summer. The gentleman who rented it was named, Mr. Pepper. We called him Dr. Pepper. I liked him.

I did feel the pressure of finding a home quickly because our life was changing so rapidly. I thought it would soften the “transitional blows” if we had a nice place to live. The house we found was much more than we needed or could afford. It was huge. At the time, it felt right, and I prayed that we could swing it. (I made it right in my head, which is what a person does when ignoring the Spirit of God.)

We moved officially in mid-summer. I had been there already for two months, working, attending church, and settling into the new situation. We were making $20 per hour combined at our jobs with Delaval. After we quit and moved to Greenville, I was the only one working at $5 per hour. That can’t go wrong, right?

The Aluminum Can and Me

As far as the job, James was right; it was ideal that first summer. I had tons of time and only had to fight to stay awake during the day. But it got better. Within two weeks of starting, the owners sold the business to the Alcoa Corporation. We became a subsidiary, officially dubbed the Alcoa Recycling Company.


Alcoa bought the company during the ’80s because they were trying to raise the recyclability of the aluminum can. This small plant became a marketing tool. The recycling rate was under 50% in those days, and only a few folks were on board with recycling in our country. By 1993, when they closed the plant, the recycling rate was over 70%. We had worked ourselves out of a job. Regardless, it was a fun job. I worked there through college and into 1993 until they closed the plant due to downsizing.

My job was to receive aluminum cans from the public and to raise awareness about recycling. It takes 24 of them to make a pound, and the going rate was between .25 and .65 cents per pound. The price per pound varied due to market trends, as well as competitive pricing with other recyclers in the area.

Alcoa began to promote more, and I became busier, but never so busy to where I couldn’t do my homework at work. And they were okay with it as long as I did my job. It was low-key and low expectations.

Jesus smiled.

Feeding the Goats

In addition to our little plant, we also owned eleven Golden Goats and Can Banks. Think ATMs. These machines were set up around the upstate where folks could bring their cans, place them in a Golden Goat, and receive money in return. Think soda machine, but backward. You put your money in a soda machine, and it gives you a soda. People would put their cans in a “goat,” and it would spit out coins.

Two or three times per week, a big, caged wagon about the size of a tractor-trailer would come with several thousand pounds of cans, which we unloaded by shovel, crushed, and blew into an actual tractor-trailer that we shipped to Maryville, TN.

I had no idea that in seven years, I would lose a home, job, wife, and children, and be picking up aluminum cans on the side of roads so I could collect a few coins to buy a burger. The times were changing.

Moving Deeper Into Fundamentalism

RMlogo Moving Deeper Into Fundamentalism

In February 1986, my pastor, wife, and I took a road trip to Greenville, South Carolina. It was a cloudy day. And, no, I don’t believe in signs, though that could have been one. I hardly spoke during the 2.5-hour trip. My soul was unsettled about uprooting my family and moving away from all we had known.

As we made our way to Greenville, I said something about the sunlight piercing through the clouds. It rendered what many artists and anyone with a camera want to capture. There were several “fingers” of light breaking through, reminding me of my favorite Artist. Gotta give it up for the Lord; His handiwork is phenomenal. Gerald saw it too.

And that pretty much sums up the conversation. Though I could not articulate what was going on in my soul back then, I now know. I was struggling with faith in the process of what we were about to do. I’m a small-town boy with a redneck’s heart. Moving to the “big city” was not my dream. As I was learning, the Lord was deconstructing and rearranging my dreams.

Tabernacle Baptist College

We had an appointment at Tabernacle Baptist Bible College (TBBC) on White Horse Road. Dr. Jerry Clark was the Dean of the college. They were going to provide us with an overview of the program and a tour of the campus.

We took exit 44 (White Horse Road) and drove the five miles to TBC and TBBC. The church and school were on the same property. The church building stood prominently alongside the road. When Dr. Harold B. Sightler and others bought the church property in the 50s, White Horse Road was a narrow street making its way toward the mountains of North Carolina. In ’88, it was a six-lane highway. The only thing that separated the church building from the highway was the sidewalk. Literally. You could stand on the road and reach over the sidewalk to touch the building.

That day, we saw the church building, the college campus, the children’s home, and the widow’s apartments. You could be part of that ministry from cradle to grave. The radio station was still in Pickens County. We also saw a few church-owned homes where some of the students stayed.

Dr. Clark was in his forties. He was wearing a suit, of course, and every hair on his head was in place, held neatly with hairspray. I’ve never seen him in any other clothes, and his hair was always the same. We used to joke that he slept that way. (That might not be a joke.) I suppose there is something to say for consistency, though I’m more into comfort these days than maintaining a self-imposed or anticipated image.

The Fundamentalist Way

Independent Baptists are fundamentalists. Think conservative regarding their social practices. They model a lifestyle that mirrors how most people lived in our country during the 40s and 50s. They are always consistently 30 to 50 years behind the current times and trends.

Their music had a Lawrence Welk vibe. (You can Google L.W.) They mostly wear long or short sleeve dress shirts to their church meetings, and nearly anywhere else. Lots of suits. The ladies do not wear pants in public, though some will wear them in the home. The closest they come to “pants on women” would be culottes, which I call Baptist britches for women.

Their conservatism is mostly preferential rather than biblical. The fundamentalists have a skewed view of worldliness, believing it to be “in the world” rather than in the heart. (See James 1:14-15). Thus, they react to what they see in the culture by doing the opposite. Ironically, if you played their music from the 1980s in the 1880s, it would be scandalous. If you remove the words, it’s barroom music, which I always found humorous (and instructive).

They have a “chronological conservatism” that adjusts according to the times. It keeps them distant from and out-of-step with their culture. Biblical conservatism, however, transcends cultures and eras; you can dress with the times and engage the people but continue to be different from them.

By having a chronological conservatism, you can show your differences by what you wear, which is similar to the Amish culture. It’s an external display of what they represent. The worse case of this is the Pharisees, who wear their religion on their sleeves. I was a fundamentalist from the point of regeneration until my life fell apart. More on that later.

I trusted and practiced all of their ascetic beliefs. The truth is that I did not know any different. When God regenerated me, I did not know any Scripture, including John 3:16. One of their core tenents is strict adherence to the 1611 King James Bible (KJV), which is a translation from the original KJV. Yes, it’s ironic, but there are a lot of ironies within this movement.

Though I don’t hold to most of their religious practices any longer, I do love these people and fondly look back on those days with appreciation. It is my heritage. I learned about God within that movement. The things we did were some of the happiest of my religious experience. I was appropriately dumb, innocent, hungry, and teachable.

We chose to move and set-up camp in Greenville, South Carolina.

I Surrendered to the Call and Became a Preacher

I went down front convicted and crying—slobbering all over the altar, which was the steps that led to the platform. I do not remember everything I said to the Lord, but there was a sense of anti-climax. I had already prayed all I knew to pray days and weeks before.

I got up from the altar, in tears, and approached “Brother Gerald” and told him that I believe God was “calling me into the ministry.” This way of becoming a preacher is the fundamentalist formula to go into full-time vocational ministry.

Gerald was standing on the platform since he was giving the “altar call.” I was facing him, with my back to the congregation. He smiled big and said, “Tell them,” as he pointed to the people. I turned around, and through blubbering words, I told them that God had called me into the ministry. This announcement was the first time that my wife had heard about our new future life. Whoa!! What could possibly go wrong that? If there were idiot pills, I would have overdosed.

The place erupted as everyone was grinning from ear to ear, shouting the praises of the Lord. I don’t remember what happened for the rest of that church meeting, other than pumping a bunch of hands and relishing in the aftermath of released angst. After most of the people left, I was sitting on the altar (steps) with (brother) Gerald. I asked him what I was supposed to do now. I never considered the next phase.

A Call to Prepare

I had focused my energies on surrendering. It never occurred to me that there were things to do afterward. Gerald told me, “A call to preach is a call to prepare, son.” Well, amen! I needed to go to college for training. There were two preacher boys from our church that had surrendered years earlier. I was the third one in ten years. One was in the pastorate already. The other one would be graduating that year. They went to a fundamentalist Bible College in Greenville, South Carolina. I had never heard of Greenville, South Carolina, even though it was only 135 miles away.

On the way home that night, I asked my wife what she thought about what I did. She said she was glad that I “surrendered” because I was making things unbearable at home. I did not know how the pressure of “the call” was hurting her or our home life. She was excited, though both of us were clueless.

My First Evangelistic Stop

Before arriving home, I decided to stop by my mother’s home, which was across the field from our double-wide mobile home. I wanted to witness to her, which meant to tell her about Jesus, hoping God would save her. She was not “living for the Lord,” and I was concerned for my family. Mother told me she had an experience with God a few years earlier.

She said she was standing at the front door of her home, looking toward the front yard when she saw the ground rise and the sky come down. Then something happened, the details of which I don’t remember. Because of that experience, she knew she was a Christian. I did not respond to what she said. Maybe I should have.

I went home and pondered all the events of the day in my heart. My life had just changed, and I had no idea what God had in store for us or the costs involved.

The Subjective and Ignorant Call of God Into the Ministry

I continued to work in the church through the summer and fall of 1985. I couldn’t get enough of it. The more I did, the more I wanted to do. The church was the world’s greatest playland. My career at Delaval—the machine shop—was going well too. God was showing favor there as I was becoming more involved in committees and training. It was an excellent job for me.

I told Cal Pearson, one of my bosses, that I couldn’t foresee me doing anything else in my life. But I did add that if I do grow weary of the job, I will leave. Of course, I could not possibly imagine that happening. My comment to Call was instructive because it was less than a month later when I noticed there was a drawing of my heart from Delaval. It was out of the blue; I was growing weary of my job. It was amazing.

There was no script for what I was going through, and I was unprepared for the unexpected. The work that I loved doing was becoming taxing and frustrating. Shortly after talking to Cal, I wanted to be somewhere else though I didn’t know where that would be. The only clue I had was that my heart yearned to do more work for the Lord in the context of a local church. These thoughts brought fear and angst.

The Call of God?

Simultaneous to my soul troubles, some of the good church folks hinted that God was calling me into the ministry. “Going into the ministry” is a term from the Independent Baptist movement of churches that meant if a male, Christian had zeal and a desire (burden), God was calling him to full-time work. The three options are pastor, missionary, and evangelist. Yeah, weird, right? But it wasn’t then.

Their approach to pursuing the ministry is not wise even though men do it all the time in religious cultures. Some of the things missing in this equation are a lack of assessment of the person’s gift mix, character, and a season for the outworking of his gifting. And, of course, how he loves and leads his family are critical data points. Discerning these things did not happen. I received no counsel. The irony is that I was merely acting out the gospel in my life as I was learning from Bible reading, preaching, and modeling what I saw other Christians doing.

In retrospect, God was not calling me. Living out the teaching of the Bible should be typical for all believers. If you grow in your understanding of the Bible and live it out, you’re transforming into an expected Christian life. Reflectively, I see how my life was counter to the nominalism in the church. I was the new, shiny thing, and the people were ignorantly excited about the zealous Christian in their midst.

This kind of ignorance is the false continuum that says if you have zeal, God is calling you into the ministry. And the good Christian folks were not shy about stating their opinions regarding my vocational future. Their “encouragement” became a sinful temptation to me. I did not want to “go into the ministry.” I was terrified of this notion.

But their not-so-veiled-comments continued while nobody came alongside me to talk about these matters. They were observing me and giving opinions on how they thought about my future or what God was doing in my heart. It became a waiting game for them. I did not know how it worked, but they knew the day was coming when I would “surrender” to the “call to go into the ministry.”

I just needed to work it out so the inevitable would happen. I think about how insane this is today. How devastating to a person and his family when you “expect” him into the ministry without careful evaluation and soul care.

When You’re Unsure: Wait, Pray, Expect, Enjoy

RMlogo When You're Unsure, Wait, Pray, Expect, and Enjoy

Summer 1985 – I couldn’t get enough of serving God in the context of the local church. After God turned my heart toward Grace Baptist Church, I joined, got baptized, began showing up for everything, worked in AWANA ministry, and looked for more to do.

During that first summer, the Lord began to burden me about a teaching ministry. I didn’t know Christian protocol and didn’t think I should ask anyone since I was the new kid on the block. (Read about the Fear of Man) And I was the most immature Christian in the building. Many of those folks had been serving the Lord longer than I had been living. Even the ones my age knew the Lord for twelve, fifteen, or more years. I was the resident novice.

I came for visitation as well as shoveling dirt at the new Fellowship Hall that we were building. I was available, bring it on. And I wanted to teach too. Why not? I had to do more for the Lord. It was like something had possessed me. I didn’t know about qualifications, abilities, gift-mixes, or even if there was an available slot for a rookie like me. No matter; here am I, send me!

If You’re Unsure, Wait and Pray

Since I was uninformed about protocol regarding how they set-up their teachers for the upcoming fall classes, I decided I wouldn’t say anything to anyone. I would pray, and if God wanted me to help in the Sunday school classes, He would make that known to the leadership of the church.

It probably wasn’t two or three weeks after that when Gerald, the pastor, asked if I could meet him for lunch. We were at a Burger King on Highway 74, the main drag in Monroe, North Carolina. We ate, talked about various things, and then out of nowhere, he asked if I wanted to teach during the coming Sunday school year. I could have fallen out of my chair. I was simultaneously terrified and exhilarated.

I wanted to, but I was afraid. I was also fearful because this was the first thing I remember where God seemed to be actively working in my life. I didn’t tell a soul, and now I was being asked. It was surreal and exciting.

I said, “Yes,” and off I went. I served in an assistant role that year, and my first lesson was the first chapter of Luke. I’ll never forget it. It took me the entire week to prepare for that lesson. I didn’t know much of anything about my Bible. And I knew less of Luke and had no training in teaching.

I’ll never forget some of the things I learned from that lesson. I have taught thousands of times since. It’s harder to remember those lessons, but I remember that one. It was the first; it was fun, and God was kind.

That opportunity set a trajectory for my life. God put something in my heart. My life was about to change forever, although I had no idea how tragic it would be.

The Ironic Day When I Brought Revival to Our Little Church

RMlogo The Ironic Day When I Brought Revival to Our Little Church

June 1985 – The Lord’s conviction was as powerful as my love for rock and roll—a real dilemma. I do not remember if I went “down to the altar” to repent of this “sin” or not. (The altar in an Independent Baptist Church is the steps that lead up to the platform where the preacher preaches.)

Many Baptist preachers end their sermons by giving an altar call. It’s “closing the deal,” as you make your way up front and pour out your heart to the Lord while the congregation waits and watches. Being the “good Baptist” that I was, I probably hit the altar. It was vital for me to do business with God.

I suspect there were others in the altar too. Don’s message was one of those that guaranteed a crowd upfront. I mean, who wanted to be the one who shut down a revival?

Back Home: Decision Time

I’ll never forget what I did after I arrived home. It was a Sunday afternoon, in June, in North Carolina, and it was hot. The conviction was so controlling that I couldn’t wait any longer to get rid of those wicked rock albums. I collected them and went to the burn barrel (a 55-gallon drum with the top cut out of it) in the backyard. We lived in the country. The standard way to get rid of your trash was to burn it.

I threw my stack of albums into the barrel, which was a joyless process. (Every act of obedience is not a happy one, at least not for me.) Because it was a Sunday, I could not burn them. There was an unwritten sin about mowing the lawn or burning trash on Sundays. As a new Baptist, I was not up to speed on all the transgressions that aren’t in the Bible, but I did learn them eventually.

Nevertheless, I was as obedient as I could be, and it was a Sunday. I went back to the church meeting that night, knowing that if revival did not come, it would not be my fault. There was no way that I would “stay the hand of God” within nine months of becoming a convert. It never dawned on me how arrogant I was in thinking that I could control the Lord, or bring revival. It was a great church meeting that night.

The Morning After

The next day I was “mostly” onboard with God about those albums, though there was a gnawing feeling of regret while at work. Upon arriving home, I entered the front door and kept walking right out the back door. I just couldn’t let them go. I made my way to the burn barrel, silently glad that I obeyed God by not burning them on Sunday.

Yesterday’s church meetings were over, and so was my conviction. What in the world was I thinking? It is so funny—now—when I peered into that trash barrel. I saw all those albums in a contorted, twisted, and melted mess. They had been sitting in the blazing sun all day.

I felt a twinge of conviction and embarrassment in my soul for attempting to retrieve them. The Lord was making sure that I would not get them back, so He made arrangements to remove this “sin” out of my life permanently.

It is a humorous story from a young man trying to make his way in his new faith. The good news is that we had a revival that week because of God (and me). The bad news is that I burned all those classics.

The Rest of the Story – The Lord gave me iTunes twenty years later.

You Won’t Have Revival If You Listen to Rock Music

RMlogo You Won't Have Revival If You Listen to Rock Music

May 1985 – After hearing from God that we should be at Grace Baptist Church, we started visiting immediately. Baptists call this finding your “home church.” We were about to get us one. Yay!

Grace Baptist was not my first “home church.” I attended First Baptist Church when I was a kid. It was “the church” if you were somebody. Our family did not fit the social category, but we wanted to be what those good Christian folks were. From my perspective, the Deacon’s kids had good weed, so I loved that church.

By the time I was ten or eleven, I stopped the church scene. My mother was the impetus behind us going since my dad was a drunk. But she could no longer manage us. We were on our own, living in the illusionary world of self-reliance before the pre-teen years.

I did attend Tabernacle Baptist Church a few times, the flagship fundamentalist church in the area. I’m not sure why that happened, though I think my brother was dating a girl who was an attendee.

Then I went to another fundamentalist church because Archie and Ann—the couple that worked at Judd’s Restaurant where I bused tables—attended that church. I started my “Judd’s career” at twelve, and wanted to fit in with the others, and they were good churchgoing folks too when they weren’t stealing food from Judd (the owner) during the week.

It’s Revival Week

When we began attending Grace Baptist Church, now that God had regenerated me, they were preparing for revival week. It sounded cool. Don Fitch and the “Singing Fitch Family” was there all week. In the Independent Baptist circles, they have what they call revival meetings. They aren’t revivals in the purest sense of the word.

They snatched the word from a bygone era when there were revivals in America and Europe. The so-called “revivals” of today are a quiet echo of a long-gone reality. It’s more symbolism than substance though the stalwarts feel good about them.

I’ve never been part of a legitimate revival. Nevertheless, it was revival week, praise God! And the Singing Fitch Family was doing the honors. Don and his family toured mostly the south in a large bus, serving small local churches.

Don was preaching on Sunday morning. His prop statement was that if any of us had any known sin in our lives, there would be no revival that week. (Which may explain why there has not been a revival in nearly one-hundred years.)

He said that any sin in our lives would “hold back the hand of God” and revival would not come. Oh, my! It was clear that if revival didn’t happen, it would have been my fault. I had known sin in my life. I took his message to heart and knew that God was speaking directly to me, through this man.

I had only been a Christian for a few months, and I had been listening to rock music all my life. As Paul said in Ephesians 4:22,

Put off your old self, which belongs to your former manner of life and is corrupt through deceitful desires.

Shazam! I had a “former manner of life,” and I brought it into my Christian experience. And now I’m at one of the first crossroads in my young Christian experience. Was I going to obey God or continue living my pagan lifestyle? Oh, how powerful the conviction from the Lord for listening to rock and roll.

My mind immediately went to my extensive collection of classic rock albums. What would I do? The Lord put His finger on my sin, and it was on me as to whether Grace Baptist Church would experience a revival that week.

To be continued.

The Compelling Desire to Be a Fundamentalist

We were sitting in the main auditorium of a Southern Baptist church in the spring of 1985. It was there where it became evident that we should be at Grace Baptist Church on Weddington Road. It was such clarity, as though it came from nowhere. I was sitting there thinking about “whatever,” and then my mind was filled with this need to attend Grace Baptist, the fundamentalist church across town. My wife agreed.

Shortly after God saved me, there was this urge to find a local church and become a member. This “prompting” was one of many things that began to happen to me. I had never had the urge to find a local church or become part of one before salvation. My life had changed, and I was led mysteriously by another power. It was a new day, an objectively different day. After redemption, we went in search of a local church. We visited a Pentecostal church, Southern Baptist churches, Independent churches, and Presbyterian churches. I had no clue about doctrine, the Bible’s teaching on the local church, or the value of the local church, but knew we had to be part of one.

Sometime in the winter or spring of 84-85, we visited Grace Baptist, a fundamentalist church. I do not remember our first visit. But I do remember some of the experiences with that church. The most notable one was walking through the foyer and observing the mem standing there, with their Bibles tucked under their arms while talking about God. This scene was so odd to me. To hear people talking about God outside the “sanctuary” was unheard of—to me. And it got “worse.”

We visited with members of Grace Baptist in their homes, and their conversation would inevitably lead toward God, Christ, and what He did for them. It was surreal; I didn’t know you could do that, but it was compelling. Some of the men of the church were Gerald Medlin (pastor), Rick Baker, Doug Webb, and a few others. Later Jim Greenburg came to our church, and it formed some of the fondest memories that I ever had in any local church then or now.

While sitting in that Southern Baptist church—a friend of mine from Delaval invited me—I knew I was supposed to be part of Grace Baptist. The next Sunday, we went and never left until we moved to Greenville, South Carolina.

These were my formative years as a new convert. I remember walking in Grace Baptist in those early days with my Living Bible, a paraphrase, not knowing that I had the wrong Bible, which was one of the hottest issues in the Independent Baptist movement. I noticed the “guys” all had Scofield Reference Bibles. So, I got one—a red-leather-covered one and carried it proudly. I soon found my place in the vestibule, making up the gauntlet that greeted folks. I was one of the boys.