My Journey to Jesus

From boyhood, life had filled me with a sense of emptiness and the age-old question haunted me: "What is the meaning of life?" As one of my college sociology professors later put it: "We're born, we live, go to school, get married, have children, grow old, and die."

"Is this all there is?" I thought. "There must be something more to life than this. If this is all there is, then we might as well all be dead."

I continued pondering through my high school and college years, but never achieved satisfaction with my answers. "No matter how high an estate a man reaches in life," I thought, "what does it matter? One day he'll be dead and eventually forgotten."

My family had no interest in my troubled musings, and any attempt to share with them was rebuffed. "You think too much," was a common answer. At the dinner table, my dad always read the paper while my mother and younger sister discussed shopping, the latest must-see movie, and other trivialities.

My conservative Jewish upbringing held no answers either. Like many Jewish families, ours was a cultural and ethnic Judaism devoid of spiritual reality. It consisted of observing the annual high holidays in as halfhearted a manner as possible.

After a childhood of Hebrew school 4 days a week after public school, Saturday morning services, and Sunday school, the regimen ended with my Bar Mitzvah at age 13. This is when you "become a man," graduate from Hebrew school, and put it all behind you as you venture into the secular world.

Peace came to my heart only when my thoughts turned to suicide, so in my late teens I decided to do it. Obtaining a bottle of sleeping pills, I returned to the privacy of my room. Overwhelmed with happiness and anticipation, I fondled the bottle, relishing the moment when my bloodstream would absorb its contents.

As I pondered, however, the finality of death struck me."

As soon as I take these pills, my life is over," I thought. "I can kill myself anytime I want. I might as well stick around for laughs and see how things would have turned out."

I did not attempt suicide, but from then on, in my mind, I was dead. I became like an angel looking down on my own life—a detached observer.

When I began college a couple of years later, I became absorbed in new relationships and new experiences, including sexual immorality, booze, and dope. After receiving a journalism degree, I landed a job as a general assignment reporter for a small daily in northwest Florida.

Living alone for the first time in a distant environment and growing increasingly dissatisfied with newspaper work, I once again faced the familiar feeling of meaninglessness. Here I was, a journalism graduate realizing the fulfillment of his goal—and still unhappy. Filled with despair at my dead-end situation, I turned more and more to marijuana to while away my weekends. I sat in the dark for hours—both high and straight—revisiting old, familiar territory, pondering the meaning of life.

Finally, I decided to send letters to 100 philosophers asking their opinions. Then, not only would I ease my troubled psyche, but I would compile their responses into a definitive book.

To my great astonishment, however, their answers were utterly worthless. One replied, "What is the meaning of meaning?" Another replied, "When you ask, ‘What is the meaning of life?’ I assume you mean human life." Still another said, in essence, that if I would just go about the business of living life, I would have no time for such questions.

All I could do was shake my head—partly in amazement, partly in amusement, but mainly in disappointment—because my grandiose plans for a trailblazing philosophical work had suddenly become ashes in my hands. Now, my obsession for an answer to life's meaning grew to enormous proportions.

Several years later, back in Chicago, I took a job as a typist, the only male in a small typing pool. One day, the subject of religion came up, to which I said, "You can't prove it or disprove it, so what's the sense in talking about it?"

One co-worker named Estelle assured me it was very real and wanted to share further with me. As she later said, "I could see in your eyes you were searching for something."

In the lunchroom later that day, I discovered Estelle was a Jewish believer in Jesus Christ. It struck me as out of the ordinary, but I was dimly aware such people existed, so it didn’t take me aback. Estelle proceeded to tell me how Jesus had manifested himself to her and to her teenage son some two years earlier, in the midst of his losing battle with cancer.

It was a painful experience for her to relate, but as she concluded her astonishing story, I gazed silently into her tear-filled eyes, knowing I had heard no lie.

As she pressed her case with me, I wanted to answer that as a Jew, I could not believe in Jesus; however, since she was also Jewish, my alibi would not wash. I wound up telling her, "I don't throw my beliefs around that easily; I've got to have proof."

"When you sat down in that chair," she replied, "you didn't know it would hold you up. When you drove to work this morning, you didn't know you would make it here alive. You took it by faith," she concluded, "and that's what you have to do here." She was right, but I was stubborn and unyielding, standing my ground.

Our standoff lasted several months. Estelle would exhort me to turn my life over to Jesus, never progressing beyond my obstinate demand for proof. She gave me literature and books to read, all hitting the mark, all causing me to nod in agreement, but I hung on in determined opposition.

Finally, she encouraged me to visit the Shalom Center, a storefront ministry dedicated to reaching Jewish people for Jesus. The more I refused, the more she stayed after me to visit their Saturday night coffeehouse and meet with leaders Bill and Mona. As she continued working on me in familiar Jewish mother style, I thought, "Maybe I can talk them out of their faith."

Since I was leery of being sucked into something, I made it clear to Estelle that I would meet only with Bill and Mona apart from the group. They agreed, and so that Saturday night we launched into a spirited discussion. They tried to tell me Jesus Christ is the answer to life's meaning. But after more than an hour, they were unable to surmount my innumerable objections.

Belief in Jesus is not something the average Jew considers, and I certainly was no exception. From the womb, we are conditioned to hate Him for reasons we often do not understand. I can remember walking down the street as a kid, and whenever I saw two twigs lying crisscross on the sidewalk resembling a cross, I would go out of my way to kick them apart. Yet I knew nothing of Jesus except that He died on a cross and was an object of faith for the dreaded Gentiles.

So around and around the mulberry bush I ran my two counterparts until finally Mona reached for a Good News New Testament and asked, "Chuck, do you really want to know the truth?"

To such a question many would answer yes, but not mean it. But despite all my bobbing and weaving with Estelle, and now Bill and Mona, knowing the truth was the cry of my heart for as long as I could remember. Mona’s question was the only one I could say yes to all night."

All right," she replied, handing me the New Testament, "if you want to know the truth, you'll read the Book of John. If the Lord is real, He’ll speak to you through these pages."

For a moment I just gazed at her. Having claimed to be an open-minded truth-seeker, I could not very well refuse this challenge. So I agreed, promised I would read and return the book, and soon was out the door.The actual encounter with Bill and Mona had little effect, because as I left the church, I tried picking up a good-looking woman waiting for a bus. As I headed home, with only a New Testament at my side, from deep within came the feeling I was onto something.

Several months passed before I opened that Bible to the Book of John. Although I read it quickly, like an Aesop's fable, I found myself intrigued with the person of Jesus. Surprisingly, I identified with Him, not with the Jewish leaders, despite my background. "They haven't changed in 2,000 years," I found myself thinking.

Concluding the Book of John, I felt sorry Jesus had to die, especially when He was just beginning to fascinate me. After His resurrection, the story just ended without providing additional insight, so in search of more, I started the New Testament from the beginning and read the first three Gospels. To my shock and dismay, I didn’t learn much more."

What kind of book is this?" I thought. "It tells the same story four times!"

The seed had been planted, though. While I went on to read maybe half the New Testament, Bill, Mona, and other Shalom Center friends were praying for me, without my knowledge.

As the months passed, a strange tug periodically occurred inside—an urge to release myself to Jesus. Whenever I contemplated this, a surge of joy would begin welling up inside me. Then, I would assert my will and say, "No, no, no, I've got to have proof!" Then, the familiar feeling of misery would return.

Finally, in November 1978, the turning point came. Alone in my apartment, I was watching Les Miserables, the Victor Hugo classic about a Frenchman jailed for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his starving family. He eventually escaped after 20 years in prison and had a spiritual encounter that changed his life. But His peaceful new life was shattered when another man was arrested and tried for his crimes—a case of mistaken identity. Realizing he had to turn himself in, he went to the courtroom where the trial was occurring.

As he stepped forward to reveal his identity, you could see he was getting cold feet. Then, his eyes saw something on the wall. As he gazed at it, strength began flowing into him. For several interminable seconds, the camera hung on his face, leaving the viewer wondering what was making such a difference.

Finally, the camera cut to the wall, and I was shocked. It was a cross! With that, he went forward and turned himself in.

When I saw that, something broke inside me. Suddenly, in the quiet of my apartment, I heard myself shouting, "I accept." At that instant, my long, pent-up dam of joy finally burst, seemingly affecting every nerve ending. At that moment, I didn’t understand what had happened, but indeed enjoyed the feeling. Little did I know that my search for the meaning of life had just ended.

Immediately, I began detecting changes in my demeanor, outlook, and worldview. On my way to work the next morning, I discovered the intense hatred for my boss had instantly evaporated, and I couldn’t summon it no matter how hard I tried. When Estelle heard all this news, she explained that when I said, "I accept," Jesus had come into my heart and had forgiven my sins. I had been born again, according to John 3:3, which I remembered reading. Also, He had removed the hatred from my heart, she explained. Considering how much I hated my boss, that was also an astounding feat.

But more affirmation came with rapid answers to prayer. First came a new job, and from the moment I saw the ad in the paper, I knew it was mine. But at the same time came a trap. I walked in for the interview, and there at the front desk sat a stunningly beautiful receptionist. But what really took me aback was how she looked at me—as if I were the greatest thing to walk into her life.

During the interview, it seemed all of heaven shone down, and I was hired on the spot. As I left, the receptionist eyed me again with an inviting smile, welcoming me aboard, her eyes alive with desire and anticipation.

Once I started the job, she immediately began coming on to me, and the whole situation really highlighted the change in my life that Christ had wrought. Before my conversion, I was a man on the make, even going after a woman waiting for a bus. Now, after my conversion, here was the most beautiful woman I had seen in a long time throwing herself at me and I had no desire for her. As she turned on the charm, I marveled at the power of God to so thoroughly change a life.

At the same time, the timing of her come-on struck me. No woman like this had wanted me before. Now all of a sudden someone’s interested? I realized she was another Delilah—a satanically-sent temptress to lure me back into immorality and destroy my new life in Christ. So I prayed a simple prayer: "Lord, either use me to lead her to you, or just take her away." I tried sharing my story with her, but she was visibly disinterested. About a week later she lost her job and was gone. Once again, I was in awe at the power of God.

A few months later came reinforcement that this woman had indeed been a tool to compromise my faith. Boarding a city bus, I headed for the back, and there she sat. Our eyes met momentarily, but it was clear she did not remember me at all, and had no interest whatsoever.

It was clear Satan had taken his best shot through this woman, and once he was through using her, she was back to her normal self. It worked the same way with Judas, Jesus’ betrayer. We read that Satan actually "entered into Judas" (John 13:27), causing him to immediately get up, go out, and betray Jesus for money. But immediately after the death sentence was pronounced, Judas became "seized with remorse," tried unsuccessfully to return the payoff, then hung himself (Matthew 27:3,5). In this case, Satan successfully used someone, and once his purpose was accomplished, he didn’t need him anymore and left him. Only then was he able to return to normal and become remorseful.

But Satan had yet another Delilah to exploit—my girlfriend. When I announced my conversion to her, she just laughed and laughed. Thinking of me as spiritual was certainly a funny notion.

We used to periodically have a conversation along these lines:

"What if I get pregnant?"

"You’re not going to get pregnant."

"What if I do?"

"Then you’ll get an abortion. I’ll pay for it. But forget about it; you’re not going to get pregnant."

My pre-conversion attitude towards abortion was not much different than getting a tire changed. I figured that if one acts early enough, what’s the harm? It’s just a bit of microscopic matter—certainly not yet a person. But awhile after my conversion, I noticed a strong conviction in my heart that abortion is dead wrong. It startled me. "Where did that come from?" I wondered. Nobody preached to me. No right-to-lifers berated me. In the quiet of my heart, I was suddenly changed. I knew exactly from whence my new conviction had come. Once again, I was in awe of God’s handiwork.

Eventually, my girlfriend saw my conversion was real, and our relationship faded away. The last time I saw her, she tried valiantly and unsuccessfully to get me to bed one last time. But I was to see God’s transforming power in even greater ways. Smoking dope was nearly a daily occurrence for me then, and I wasn’t going to let finding Christ get in the way. My spiritual naiveté was staggering, but my attitude could be summed up this way:

"God is in heaven, and I’m here. So if I want to smoke dope, what’s He going to do about it?"

And so I went on smoking. Deep down, though, I knew I should stop, but just couldn’t. So I figured I’d again shift the responsibility to God and prayed: "God, if you want me to stop, make it taste like cherries." It never did taste like cherries—just as I figured—so I happily went on using.

Not long after, as I opened the refrigerator to dip into my stash, a powerful conviction came over me that stopped me dead in my tracks. I didn’t hear an audible voice or have a vision, but it suddenly dawned that the dope smoking had to immediately end. A line was being drawn, and if I persisted, it would mean disobedience, sin, and consequences. As I stood there, the same feeling extended to the gallon of wine in the back of the refrigerator, though drinking had never been a big thing to me. At that moment, the desire for both instantly died, and I was compelled to get rid of both.

Less than a week later, a neighbor came over to announce the arrival of some Hawaiian dope, and extended an invitation for me to partake. In all my time of dope smoking, I had never had anything as strong as Hawaiian. Here again, the timing was unmistakable. Here was another satanically-sent tempter trying to lure me into sin. However, the desire had so irrevocably died, his offer represented no temptation.

I did accept his invitation, and when the joint came around to me, I refused. All were surprised and wanted to know why. So as the joint passed me by, I told them the story of my conversion, which was the only reason I joined them. Though they were a tough, hardened group from the "’hood," they all listened respectfully. Eventually, though, they all fell out of my life as I moved on in Christ.

My parents had to be told I was now a born-again believer. In the more Orthodox Jewish households, sons like me are considered dead and permanently written off. Some households even go so far as to hold a funeral. I didn’t expect such a vehement reaction from my folks, since we were Conservative Jewish, middle-of-the-road, but I knew they were certainly not going to give me the key to the city.

Some might cringe at coming out of the closet in this way, but not I. My concern was more about timing than content. I was actually somewhat excited at the prospect of being written off after reading this passage:

"I tell you the truth," Jesus replied, "no one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields for me and the gospel will fail to receive a hundred times as much in this present age (homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children and fields—and with them, persecutions) and in the age to come, eternal life" (Mark 10:29,30).

In the end, my parents were surprisingly cordial, and I shared spiritual truth with them as much as I could at different times, but they’re now unwilling to talk about "religion." They attributed the positive change they saw in me to a "positive mental attitude," also unwilling to consider Christ as the reason. If only they knew the love and forbearance He gave me towards them that revived our badly deteriorating relationship, their scorn would certainly turn to praise.

Meanwhile, the emptiness is long gone, replaced by rivers of living water flowing from my innermost being (John 7:37-39). Peace and joy regularly flow within. Watch me long enough, and you’ll see me shake my fist in joy like a victorious athlete—sometimes both fists! Adverse circumstances will indeed have their impact, but they don’t keep me down.

Best of all, tortured thoughts on life's meaning are all gone. With Christ at the center, it all fits: Only through Him and His Word, the Bible, do we see God's program, our place in it, and our purpose for being here. Even my Judaism, previously dead in formalism and tradition, became infused with new meaning, for I had found Israel's long-awaited Messiah.