Had Huck Finn grown up during the seventies in the suburbs of L.A. this could have easily been his story. Unlike the adventures of Mark Twain's fictional character, the accounts recorded in this book are all true.
At age fourteen, Terry Michaels recited the sinner's prayer with a street evangelist. This was not the beginning of the new life Terry had wished for. Before long this dejected teen fell prey to hypocrisies, abuses and false allegations within the church. Hurt, rejection and disappointment ultimately paved way for Terry to turn his back on Christianity. But Christ did not turn his back on Terry.
Excerpt
When I was small, Mom and Dad dragged me to Catholic Mass each Sunday. When I say dragged, I mean that quite literally. There was nothing about the experience I enjoyed. Nothing! I was required to wear a stiff, starchy suit which I utterly detested. The black strap-on bow tie strangled me to near death and has scarred me for life. To this day I have an absolute aversion to wearing anything around my neck. And what fairy came up with the idea that guys appear more proper with long, silky ribbons around their collars? I wish he’d been strangled! After getting all suited up the six of us would pack ourselves into a Chevy Monza and head for St. Ceril’s Church in Encino. Inside it always seemed cold, dark and eerie to me. There I would sit, constrained in my unyielding suit, trying to conform my sore butt to some a hard wooden pew that was older than the combined age of the parishioners. For a full hour my head would spin and swirl into a state of oblivion from the seemingly endless rounds of meaningless chanting.
Through the Mustard Seed (coffeehouse)I was introduced to a new kind of church, the First Baptist Church of Van Nuys. This experience was extremely surreal for someone who grew up Catholic. For one thing the place was massive unlike the parish I attended as a tyke. I don’t know how many hundreds of members the Baptist church sat. Rows upon rows of perfectly lined pews faced a lofty stage where a hefty wooden pulpit proudly stood front and center. Massive organ pipes cascaded down the tall ceiling like twin waterfalls pouring down streams of gold on either side of the baptismal. Furthermore, First Baptist was lively! I say this because I remember St. Cyril’s as being very subdued. There was a sacred silence once you crossed the holy threshold. A small, marble basin welcomed the quiet splashes of a thousand eager fingers five at a time. But the Baptist church was quite different. People lingered in the lobby, chatting up a storm and, God forbid, laughing aloud for all to hear! This would have been considered irreverent at St. Cyril’s but that was clearly not the case at First Baptist. This was all very curious for a sheltered kid like me. I also remember the sanctuary of the Baptist church being lit up like a grocery store, which gave it a most cheery feel. It conveyed the idea that if God were in the house no one wanted him lurking in the shadows somewhere. And one final thing, the pews were notably different than the ancient ones my young keester grew to despise. At First Baptist they had soft red cushions you could sink into. These Protestants were truly on to something; a positive church experience begins at the bottom!
I was baptized as a young teen at The First Baptist Church of Van Nuys. It wasn’t my idea but it didn’t sound like a bad one so I went for it. I still remember that cold night. Afterwards I cussed up a storm in a sea of cars out in the parking lot because I couldn’t find my mom and I was impatient to go home. I guess not all my sins were washed away. Perhaps I should have gargled but honestly I don’t think rinsing with holy water would have improved my language. It wasn’t until many years later that my mouth got born again. Sins of the tongue are hard to lick.
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