One Eventful Day
I have received an answer to my prayers, and now I can be confident enough to share my testimony; the story of Christ working his miraculous wonders in me.
My “pilgrimage,” and I use that word loosely, began when 9th grade had just started. I went to Mark Keppel High School for a week only (long story), and made my return back to the school in which I belonged, Temple City. The very first day I came happened to be the same day where an enormous Christian meeting was being held in the morning. A large circle of people were gathered around the flagpole, singing worship songs. At that time, I had no idea why a crowd of people were singing to a flagpole, but soon enough, I found out.
I forget how many months later I had first asked Eric about that meeting. We were in Orchestra, and he told me all about them, the Christian Club. Then, he also began telling me about Christianity itself. And so I learned the story of Jesus Christ.
Eric had kindly given me his New King James Bible and told me to read John. Some point around that time, I had decided to attend church. Around this period, I called myself a
"Christian" but acted nothing of the sort. I did not know Jesus personally; he was only a mysterious "miracle-worker" in the background of my life. So naturally, when I went to church, I felt nothing special. It was just a room where a bunch of freaks held their hands in the air, as if to touch something that, obviously, did not exist. Delusional psychos, I thought.
Of course, I wasn’t completely turned off by Christianity. There was always something that lured me into the Bible and the story of the Crucifixion. And all the while, I always felt that I was missing something; that the day I lived seemed cratered with a hole, what was it? Why am I not content with where I am? With who I am?
I wanted to go to church again. But now, my parents, well, my mother, forbid me to go. She said she didn’t like Christians, and that they were always so pushy, and not the sort of crowd that was good for me. I burned with anger. What kind of authority did she have to criticize these people?
At this time, I was still very confused. There I was, saying she had no authority to bash on Christians, and there I was again, saying they were all psychos. The best way I can describe how I felt and thought, is that I wanted to believe in Jesus, but I did not. It was still a “fad” and the stories of the Bible weren’t true.
February, 2004, my friends, Stuart and Ben, went on a Christian retreat with Eric and John. I had planned to go, but my mother said no at the last minute. When they came back, I was shocked. Stuart, the once Kevin-your-gay-and-your-a-homo had turned into a devout Christian. Ben, the once I-almost-made-it-into-wah-ching-but-my-friends-told-on-me-so-I-had-to-do-3-months-of-counseling, had also become a follower of Christ.
Stupid fools, I roared. (To myself). How is it possible that they had fallen into the hole of retardedness? How is it possible they had believed all of this nonsense that is the essence of Christianity? I did not know, I only knew that they were making big mistakes.
After some convincing from them, I decided to go back church. Except, once again, my mother said no. So there I was, talking to Eric about what she said, when John told me that we could all go and pray. I was uneasy and a bit reluctant because I knew prayers never worked. When people prayed, they gave false hope to themselves, they were euphemistically portraying the world with someone to always watch over them, but I knew for sure that life was cruel, and no manner of prayer could change that.
Or so I naively thought.
I remember the hallway being very dark, chilly was the weather, and cloudy were the skies. We huddled around in a small circle, and started to pray. As I heard each person go, John, Ben, Stuart, then Eric, I realized that these people weren’t my friends. They were somehow different. As if innocent, as if "blessed." The words they spoke were not theirs, it couldn’t have been. I was becoming very cold, and I could feel the wind start to brush up against my face.
As they spoke, I felt as if I wasn’t there. As if I was floating around, just surveying the events that were taking place. Then I felt it. Something, as if it had life, was bearing over me. Like I was being squeezed from all sides, I became weak. When Eric had finished, I collapsed on the floor. The next thing I knew, I was in the restroom with toilet paper in my hands. I looked into the mirror and saw my reflection. I was crying. But I couldn’t feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. Why? Why were the tears weightless? My eyes weren’t red. Why was that? I was confused, no doubt.
When I came out, Josh told me that people had started to gather around. The bell rang, and I was still feeling subconscious.
As I headed for my class, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I cried because of Christ; because He is the living Lord, because the presence of the Holy Spirit was felt. Right then and there, I was absolutely positive that God is real. That God really did create the Heavens and the Earth. That God really did send His only Son to die for our sins.
Today, I am part of that "delusional psychos" crowd. But it's different when I'm at church now. I feel it. I feel Jesus, and his sovereign place in the world. I feel the King of Kings, and the Lord of Lords, just singing along with us. I feel His glory, it's warm, it's bright, it's powerful.
Today, I am finally content with where I am. I no longer question what's missing, for the answer is obvious. The hole that had once been so great and massive has been reduced to nothing, filled by Christ’s love and devotion for me and the rest of humanity.
Today, that mysterious miracle worker is no longer a hidden shadow, but a living, breathing, life force that gives me the strength to carry on.
Today, I pray at least twice a day. My friends, (Eric, Ben, Stuart, John), and I hold a prayer meeting everyday. We give Thanks to the Heavenly Father for the magnitude of Grace beyond our imaginations. We praise Him for his eternal Love and Sacrifice, the deeds He did for people such as us; corrupt in spirit, and lost in soul.
Today, I no longer wonder why 75% of America believes in Christ, but why Christ believes in us. It's utterly amazing how, we, who are so guilty of sin, who have spat on God's holy name, who have commited deeds so foul, Satan rejoices; Jesus still died on that cross, so that we are no longer guilty, so that God's name remains paramount around the world, so that Satan wimpers in fear, so that the deeds so foul have been forgiven.
Today, God tells me this isn't my testimony. That the 21 paragraphs about how I met Him are nothing compared to what will happen. And that the real story of Christ Jesus in me, has yet to begin.
My “pilgrimage,” and I use that word loosely, began when 9th grade had just started. I went to Mark Keppel High School for a week only (long story), and made my return back to the school in which I belonged, Temple City. The very first day I came happened to be the same day where an enormous Christian meeting was being held in the morning. A large circle of people were gathered around the flagpole, singing worship songs. At that time, I had no idea why a crowd of people were singing to a flagpole, but soon enough, I found out.
I forget how many months later I had first asked Eric about that meeting. We were in Orchestra, and he told me all about them, the Christian Club. Then, he also began telling me about Christianity itself. And so I learned the story of Jesus Christ.
Eric had kindly given me his New King James Bible and told me to read John. Some point around that time, I had decided to attend church. Around this period, I called myself a
"Christian" but acted nothing of the sort. I did not know Jesus personally; he was only a mysterious "miracle-worker" in the background of my life. So naturally, when I went to church, I felt nothing special. It was just a room where a bunch of freaks held their hands in the air, as if to touch something that, obviously, did not exist. Delusional psychos, I thought.
Of course, I wasn’t completely turned off by Christianity. There was always something that lured me into the Bible and the story of the Crucifixion. And all the while, I always felt that I was missing something; that the day I lived seemed cratered with a hole, what was it? Why am I not content with where I am? With who I am?
I wanted to go to church again. But now, my parents, well, my mother, forbid me to go. She said she didn’t like Christians, and that they were always so pushy, and not the sort of crowd that was good for me. I burned with anger. What kind of authority did she have to criticize these people?
At this time, I was still very confused. There I was, saying she had no authority to bash on Christians, and there I was again, saying they were all psychos. The best way I can describe how I felt and thought, is that I wanted to believe in Jesus, but I did not. It was still a “fad” and the stories of the Bible weren’t true.
February, 2004, my friends, Stuart and Ben, went on a Christian retreat with Eric and John. I had planned to go, but my mother said no at the last minute. When they came back, I was shocked. Stuart, the once Kevin-your-gay-and-your-a-homo had turned into a devout Christian. Ben, the once I-almost-made-it-into-wah-ching-but-my-friends-told-on-me-so-I-had-to-do-3-months-of-counseling, had also become a follower of Christ.
Stupid fools, I roared. (To myself). How is it possible that they had fallen into the hole of retardedness? How is it possible they had believed all of this nonsense that is the essence of Christianity? I did not know, I only knew that they were making big mistakes.
After some convincing from them, I decided to go back church. Except, once again, my mother said no. So there I was, talking to Eric about what she said, when John told me that we could all go and pray. I was uneasy and a bit reluctant because I knew prayers never worked. When people prayed, they gave false hope to themselves, they were euphemistically portraying the world with someone to always watch over them, but I knew for sure that life was cruel, and no manner of prayer could change that.
Or so I naively thought.
I remember the hallway being very dark, chilly was the weather, and cloudy were the skies. We huddled around in a small circle, and started to pray. As I heard each person go, John, Ben, Stuart, then Eric, I realized that these people weren’t my friends. They were somehow different. As if innocent, as if "blessed." The words they spoke were not theirs, it couldn’t have been. I was becoming very cold, and I could feel the wind start to brush up against my face.
As they spoke, I felt as if I wasn’t there. As if I was floating around, just surveying the events that were taking place. Then I felt it. Something, as if it had life, was bearing over me. Like I was being squeezed from all sides, I became weak. When Eric had finished, I collapsed on the floor. The next thing I knew, I was in the restroom with toilet paper in my hands. I looked into the mirror and saw my reflection. I was crying. But I couldn’t feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. Why? Why were the tears weightless? My eyes weren’t red. Why was that? I was confused, no doubt.
When I came out, Josh told me that people had started to gather around. The bell rang, and I was still feeling subconscious.
As I headed for my class, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I cried because of Christ; because He is the living Lord, because the presence of the Holy Spirit was felt. Right then and there, I was absolutely positive that God is real. That God really did create the Heavens and the Earth. That God really did send His only Son to die for our sins.
Today, I am part of that "delusional psychos" crowd. But it's different when I'm at church now. I feel it. I feel Jesus, and his sovereign place in the world. I feel the King of Kings, and the Lord of Lords, just singing along with us. I feel His glory, it's warm, it's bright, it's powerful.
Today, I am finally content with where I am. I no longer question what's missing, for the answer is obvious. The hole that had once been so great and massive has been reduced to nothing, filled by Christ’s love and devotion for me and the rest of humanity.
Today, that mysterious miracle worker is no longer a hidden shadow, but a living, breathing, life force that gives me the strength to carry on.
Today, I pray at least twice a day. My friends, (Eric, Ben, Stuart, John), and I hold a prayer meeting everyday. We give Thanks to the Heavenly Father for the magnitude of Grace beyond our imaginations. We praise Him for his eternal Love and Sacrifice, the deeds He did for people such as us; corrupt in spirit, and lost in soul.
Today, I no longer wonder why 75% of America believes in Christ, but why Christ believes in us. It's utterly amazing how, we, who are so guilty of sin, who have spat on God's holy name, who have commited deeds so foul, Satan rejoices; Jesus still died on that cross, so that we are no longer guilty, so that God's name remains paramount around the world, so that Satan wimpers in fear, so that the deeds so foul have been forgiven.
Today, God tells me this isn't my testimony. That the 21 paragraphs about how I met Him are nothing compared to what will happen. And that the real story of Christ Jesus in me, has yet to begin.
