Growing up, our Southern Baptist Church in Frederick, Oklahoma, was the center of our entire world. On Sunday mornings, you would find my family stretching across the uncomfortable wooden pews of the second and third rows. During especially long sermons, the thin red cushions failed. The little comfort they provided gave way to the reality of the situation; our preacher would never stop talking.

Our church was not a large building. 7 or 8 classrooms, a couple of restrooms, nursery, office, kitchen, fellowship hall, and a sanctuary comprised the entire building. As a kid, wandering those halls, I found my church to be one of the most intimidating places on the planet. With lights out, shadows played tricks on my mind and left me searching for escape. In those empty spaces, I could feel forces of evil calling from beyond.  

Of course, I have always had an overactive imagination. Sundays usually meant stories filled with warnings about hell, fire, and brimstone. With this tape on repeat in your mind, finding the devil lurking around the corner on supposed hallowed ground isn’t so farfetched.  

As a kid, I remember having vivid and terrifying dreams about dying and burning eternally in the pits of hell. I remember screaming for my mom to come and save me. On multiple occasions, she did exactly that.  

Sitting on top of my bed, comforting me, we talked about heaven and hell. She spoke of Christ, acceptance, and how one saves themselves from such a fate. Thanks to her guidance and love, salvation became the only path for me. My next step was to meet with our pastor.  

In his office, I did my best to answer questions no child of seven years old can truthfully answer. In my childish way, I told him I understood salvation. I told him I understood God sacrificed his son, Jesus, who was without sin. His sacrifice saved me. His sacrifice paid for my sins. If I wanted to avoid the gates of hell, I must believe in him and ask forgiveness. When I took this step, salvation would be mine forever.

Telling my pastor some version of this, we prayed in his office. He then informed me I would need to make a public proclamation of my faith. At the end of next Sunday’s service during the invitation, I would need to step forward, walk down the aisle, and ask to be baptized. Sitting in my pastor’s office, this seemed easy enough. Never one to shy away from attention, I did not give it much thought until Sunday came.  

When the sermon concluded, the congregation began singing “Just As I Am.” My pastor invited anyone wanting to be saved to come forward. I froze. I could not do it. Weeks before, my cousin had made the journey. I wanted to be just like her, but I could not move. I stood there with my preacher tossing silent glances in my direction. I finally shook my head no, and he closed the service.  

On the car ride home and over the next week, my mom and I talked about the experience. She settled my nerves and convinced me to give it another try. When Sunday rolled around, I stepped into the aisle. Walking briskly, I landed in the outstretched arms of our pastor. We talked and prayed. When the music finally stopped, he told the congregation about my desire to be saved. He also announced that the following week, they would baptize me in the bathtub above the choir’s pews.  

The next weekend, I put on a white robe. Stood in lukewarm water and told a roomful of adults I believed in Christ, wanted him to enter my heart, and save me from eternal damnation. With a public proclamation, I grabbed my nose, dipped my head backwards, and he lowered me into the water below. A second later, I emerged saved from the source of those nightmares.  

Looking back on the period of my life, I am so thankful for the community my family found in our church. During my teenage years, I began attending youth groups at other churches. Watching people I admired lead youth worship, I thought God was calling me to do the same.

In one of those youth groups, they encouraged me to question. In a Methodist Church youth group, I learned there is no harm in questioning your faith. It began innocently enough with questions about a man living in the stomach of a whale for three days. Soon, I was questioning Noah, the Ark, and the virgin birth. As a group, we debated and discussed. I left those gatherings never fully satisfied but thankful for the opportunity to wonder out loud.  

In the wake of 9/11 and hours away from my small town where a church stands on almost every street corner, genuine doubts consumed me. My time in college forced me to think rationally about the world. I reconsidered the story of Christ and everything I knew or learned about the Bible.  

When the dust settled, I decided I was unsure about the existence of God and would never have enough information to know. For me, faith would never be enough, but I made a promise to myself. I would keep searching, reading, and learning. Twenty-plus years removed from a day that changed my life forever, I am proud to say I am still doing exactly that; I am still searching for the truth.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan