Jesus and me (4): the surrender

While the theory of evolution certainly provides much in the way of a plausible naturalistic explanation of how life began, it's like desert sand shovelled down your throat to those who seek a full and satisfying sense of meaning to their own lives.



Surprisingly, after having been almost force-fed this theory in school, in the newpapers, magazines, books and television programmes from time immemorial, still as a 16 year-old I hungered for something more. My childhood hadn't provided the much-needed sense of security or the kind of bed-rock foundation for a healthy self-esteem that I was ravenously craving. And since evolution spoke of nothing else than everything merely being a pointless product of random processes devoid of any inherent meaning, I was still grappling to attain a sure footing in my world.


So, then, Jesus became my crutch? Yes and no. Yes, because I found God, or, rather, God found me. No, because I wasn't deliberately brooding things over in those days - intent on making a decision at study's end. I had read my children's Bible with a keen interest in my pre-teen days; I had studied the brochures being produced by the Jehova's Witnesses; I had quietly perused the written accounts of those involved in spiritism; and I had relished in the speculations of the UFO fanatics. Still, I wasn't on a pre-planned quest for truth. In hindsight, I view myself as an insecure, dissatisfied teen - a ripe fig waiting to be harvested by just about any cult or church. But how to get in touch with anyone who rarely would venture outside of his home; who almost never went to church or engaged in conversation and debate with people of faith?


God knew how to get my attention, and also knew he had to produce a bait to finalize my transfer from spiritual darkness to spiritual light. And the bait was produced in the form of a lanky, dark-haired lady of 16. Hanne, as was her name, was a clergyman's daughter who I first got to know as I entered what roughly corresponds to High School. After a few weeks I had developed a troublesome yet most welcome condition: a crush of the most  certain kind. Having never been in a relationship before, and regarding the possibilities of ever getting a girl's attention as slight indeed, I was swept off my feet as Hanne late November 1981 invited me to the youth group she was attending at her local church.


I went without reservation - never suspecting that somehow I was being led like a dumb lamb to my slaughter, or that the girl who had invited me had some ulterior motives for asking me to come. The fact remains that the only conscious thought on my part for going was getting as close as possible to the girl I had a crush on, and spend as much time with this gorgeous female - as a shy introvert could get his hands on - during the two-hour get-together. So how did I end up in the arms of Jesus instead of the arms of Hanne?


For one, I don't remember even exchanging a syllable with her for as long as the youth meeting lasted. Perhaps she was busy discharging the duties of a specific function that night, or she was as giddy and shy herself as I was, losing her nerve being surrounded by her friends who probably knew she had invited me to come and who were suspecting - perhaps - a budding romantic involvement (I later learned she had a crush on  me at the time)?


Whatever the reasons were for her absence, I was left by myself  to observe the interactions, the brief exhanges of Scripture, the spontaneous yet compelling outbursts of personal prayer to a god they seemed to know and love. Nothing sensational happened. No miracles. No powerful presence. No invitations to come forward to confess a fledgling faith. No attempts at making a convert out of me.


But I drank it all in. To me the quiet evening meant an irresistible pull towards surrender to the God who had, unbeknownst to me, protected me as I was fending for survival in a environment that provided less than what I truly needed. And so it was that, still without having seen much of Hanne's breathtaking form, that I breathed into the crisp, cold December air my fumbling, groping words of surrender.


No big scene. Only me and Jesus knew what was transpiring as I was walking back to my family home. But this child was returning home in more than one respect. And my Father did not deny me entry into his mansion.


So I'm still there, and never leaving.