Amazing

Born

Thoughts

BORN AGAIN --AND AGAIN

by Doyle Duke

The Prodigal

Sometime during the early part of the twentieth century a rallying cry was born within the Christian church. A cry that had its roots in the more emotional segments of the Holiness-Pentecostal movements; today that cry has grown and spread throughout the world, even cracking the mighty walls of Catholicism by winning converts there. The cry? Ye must be born again. A cry based upon Jesus' instructions to Nicodemus when he asked what he must do to be saved. It wasn't a new teaching but the interpretations that accompanied it were.

It was generally understood that the instruction entailed a dying out to the world, a rejection of worldly, physical, matters. But to the Holiness movement it became a third work of grace, based upon the speaking in tongues phenomenon that originated (and I use the term loosely) in Los Angles at the turn of the 20th century. At that time, the Holiness were already teaching one must be saved (forgiven) and then sanctified (set apart) as two separate acts of salvation. The third was interpreted as the filling of the Holy Spirit, which was, within the Holiness movement, evidenced by the speaking in tongues. However, that teaching was modified among some of the more moderate sects and the door was opened if the convert could but stammer a bit; "…with stammering lips and another tongue will he speak to this people." (Isaiah 28:11)

So, by this tiny condescension was I born again--the second time.

As a child I was taught Christian principals. I remember the first time my mother read me the story of Jesus' crucifixion. By the time they had finished nailing him to the cross and piercing his side, I was broken-hearted and reduced to tears. It was my mother who carried me to church and introduced me to Christianity. The teachings and moral values were instilled in me at an early age. Belief in the Christian God was so ingrained within the children that we had our own trinity: Mother, Father, and Jesus. We could no more deny the existence of Jesus Christ than we could our parents. Church attendance wasn't just a family matter, it was a community way of life. Later, when my mother had to work, I attended church alone.

I was saved in a Baptist church when I was thirteen. Truly saved--not a, say you love Jesus and want to take him into your heart, type conversion perpetrated upon so many innocent children. It was such a wonderful experience that now, over fifty years later, I still remember. There was an intense feeling of peace and a cleansing of the dirty wickedness that I believed dwelt within. I was a new creature! Filled with joy and happiness! Bursting with energy--and eager to proclaim the wonders of Christ's salvation!

But was I born again? According to the Baptist I was--I had it all. For the next few years I lived the life, attended church, prayed, studied, and witnessed; but slowly I became lackadaisical, and by the time I entered the Navy at eighteen, I had back-slid.

At first, the freedom was wonderful. I could relax my guard, curse, smoke, drink--enjoy all the vices common to my peers. I could drop all my inhibitions and be one of the guys instead of a target for ridicule. It was a new and exciting world filled with carefree adventure and laughter. But somewhere, buried deep within my mind were the fear of God and the threat of an everlasting, burning hell--my inevitable fate. Occasionally I would attend church and vow repentance, but there was a void I could never span. And even as I prayed, my heart was not in it.

I spent eight years in the Navy and when I came out I was a nervous wreck with a peptic ulcer and I was washing Valiums down with Maalox. Something was worrying me, but I didn't know what; at least not consciously. I was concerned with the condition of my mortal soul and where I would spend eternity; but it was something buried deep inside that I refused to contemplate. I believed my life-style was wrong, that I was sinning, and that I would go to hell if I died. One day I would change--but not just yet, I wasn't quite ready.

By that time I'd been married about six years and had a baby daughter. Occasionally my guilt-ridden conscience would burden me so heavily I'd make a half-hearted attempt to reform. I'd take my family and attend church. Sometimes I'd even go to the altar and try to repent, but I always left empty. I was seeking the wonderful, freeing, experience I'd enjoyed at my initial conversion, but it never came and the longer and harder I sought the more worried I became. Perhaps I'd played too long with God. What if He'd turned from me, refusing to hear my prayers? Had I committed the unpardonable sin for which, as implied, there was no forgiveness?

I voiced my concern to a trusted minister who assured me that such was not the case. He said I was only hearing the lie Satan whispered to everyone who strayed. I was also told not to expect any miraculous feelings, and urged to just believe on God's Word, that whosoever believeth should be saved. I would proclaimed my return to the fold but such proclamations never last. The world would pull, church services would become boring, and I'd quit attending.

My nerves were near the breaking point. I was drinking pretty heavily and neglecting my family. Though I never struck my wife, I rained verbal and mental abuse upon her freely. Finally the climax came.

We were living in a trailer park. My wife, Fay, was pregnant. I came in drunk one night and was beating on our neighbor’s door trying to get him to go for a drink with me. Though I wasn't to find out until much later, my wife was sitting in the floor of our home with my pistol. She prayed a prayer asking that the child in her might die rather than be raised in the circumstances that existed. Shortly thereafter, complications with the pregnancy set in. About the time we discovered she was carrying twins, they stopped moving. She knew they were dead. I knew they were dead, and her doctor knew--but wouldn't say so. Neither would he abort her. For the last months she had to carry them, knowing they were dead. She also carried the secret of her prayer. Which was the greater burden--I don't know.

For me, it was the turning point. There was no doubt in my mind that God had destroyed my unborn children to open my eyes. It was the only way He could reach me, the only thing that could bring me to true repentance. It worked. I rededicated my life to the Lord, and started attending church.