I was standing in the back, watching people walk by, all seemingly anxious to find a seat. There were plenty; a bigger auditorium turned sanctuary I had never seen. Not that I had much to go on. Let’s just say it was a huge room, seating hundreds upon hundreds from all walks of life. There were no surprises and always surprises; one of those kinds of churches.

The good kind.

I’d been out the night before, partying at one of the more popular clubs I and my then transitioning-away friends had come to frequent. I wasn’t feeling so well that morning, but I was there, at the “no surprises” church.

“You OK?” a voice asked.

I thought I’d been standing alone, isolated, watching others as usual, so his appearance seemed sudden, jolting me into a new awareness. I felt an embarrassment at the slip, usually adept at what we now call situational awareness.

He had long brown hair and was dressed casually in ratty jeans and a plaid shirt underneath a ragtag leather jacket. Nothing fancy. No pretense, or so it seemed.

“Oh, uh … I went out last night … drank too much.”

I looked down for a second, surprised at my easy confession.

“I need to stop doing that,” I said, looking back at him.

He smiled with a kindness in his gaze, and said, “You’ll stop when you stop.”

I said nothing as something lifted off of me, floating away into the ethereal.

The music started, and before I could respond, he was off, walking down the second of four main aisles toward the front of the sanctuary.

I watched him proceed without one hint of rushing as he approached the platform, then turned around to face the hundreds of occupied seats and said in a loud voice …

“I am Jesus Christ!”

The other ushers, the ones bigger and stronger than me (plus they were guys), sprang into action and quickly escorted my newfound friend to the nearest exit.

It was one of the more interesting moments of my life. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about it until now.

The next day while sitting in my living room, peering out of a lace-curtained window at the cars passing by on the midtown street below, probably thinking about what had happened, I reached for the pack of Marlboro sitting on the table next to the chair. I remember it starting in slow motion: at midreach, my arm paused. Then, more suddenly, I grabbed the pack, got up out of my chair, walked directly to the bathroom, and flushed the entire contents of the wrapper down the toilet.

I don’t know what had come over me. I held absolutely no remaining interest in smoking. I would discover later that there was no remaining interest in clubbing either.

This all happened in 1984.

Last year, early last year, I woke up to a flood of memories, images, and realizations. You see, I had recently completed a writing project to document my life. It was an exercise, a difficult exercise, aimed at finding healing and peace, and I needed to complete it if I were to find that healing and peace for myself. And, of course, being the high achiever that I am, I completed it.

But I wasn’t healed. The promised state of peace eluded me. I wondered why. Deep down, the questions rattled, asking again and again, “What is missing? What is missing?”

When that morning arrived and my conscious mind was filled with all that seemed brand new, what had been missing became obvious.

While working diligently, and with a sincere intent, on the writing project, I had left out a few things. No, it wasn’t on purpose. I did not remember them. They were not accessible to my conscious mind. They were, by all means, completely repressed.

What were these things?

All the terrible things I had done, the slights I had committed, the selfish actions I took for my own benefit at the expense of others, the withholding of kindnesses in retaliation for not being offered the same, the self-destructive behaviors born out of an angry need for vengeance against betrayal … I could go on. That morning, the answer to my question of what was missing came in images vividly, fluidly, without pause.

And as they did, I felt something quite heavy slowly lift off of me and float away, light as a feather, into the ethereal.

But that was not the end of it. Something emerged in its place.

I was saved. Not only in my understanding, but deeply and pervasively throughout my soul and in my heart. The true meaning, the implications of salvation, the purpose of Christ’s coming in human form … all became absolutely real. For me.

Despite all of the shameful memories flowing through my mind, memories of my own culpability in the traumas I’d suffered and the injuries I’d endured at the hands of others, I rejoiced. Yes, rejoiced! I couldn’t help myself. It was simply there, inside my heart, running through my veins, and bringing a crystal clarity about the true state of my soul.

I am saved … saved with all of my egregious deeds accounted for — past, present, and future.

I just didn’t “know” it … for almost 40 years.

This is how he moves. He carries us through our slow process of awakening, patiently walking us through the wonderland of his kingdom, sprinkling our lives with poignant and meaningful moments that stick with us, yet we know not why.

Until one day we’re ready.

A day when we are ready for the truth.

No, not about Christ. We’ve been taught almost too many times, to the point we are numb to the profundity of who he is, what he did, and why he did it.

No … it is about us. We are naturally proud and self-justifying humans, rarely ready for the truth.

About ourselves.

Glory to God in the highest.

³¹ So Jesus was saying to those Jews who had believed Him, “If you continue in My word, then you are truly My disciples; ³² and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

John 8:31-32