THE ENCOUNTER

 

I never thought of myself as a rebel. I never carried a placard or joined a radical movement to protest an injustice or acted out against it. However, my parents regarded me a rebel. I was dark, sullen, and brooding, a volcano ready to erupt, its lava ready to consume everything in its path.

I had become a product of the prevailing “psychological society” in which there is no honor or dishonor, no right or wrong, but rather competing psychological hungers clamoring to be fed.

However, I had not exclusively feasted upon this worldview. Instead, I had filled myself with other dreams—hitting the longest home run or rescuing the world, whatever it took to give me a sense of value and honor.

I needed this sense of worth and mission, but the psychologist quietly and unintentionally robbed me of my dreams and left me with the conviction that I merely needed to find what made me feel good about myself. It was all about me but this “awareness” further imprisoned me and feeling okay. Psychology invited me into a cell of self-absorption. I now became burdened with the endless quest to become self-actualized.

However, I was a very unlikely savior. I would regard others as maggots and disgusting scum. I had learned this from my parents. As an eight-year-old, I awoke crying, and this awoke my parents. I had recently returned from a tormenting sleep-away summer camp where I had no friends and felt that I too was a maggot.

My parents hardly ever talked. Therefore, I was surprised when they came to my bedside to ask me why I was crying. Fighting to regain composure, I related to them how I had been rejected by everyone and felt so unloved.

Instead of surrounding me with hugs, kisses, and the assurances of their love, they assured me that I shouldn’t feel bad about myself, because everyone else was garbage, and this “wisdom” became my comfort. If I couldn’t lift myself up, I could at least put others down.

My parents meant well. Mother kept my clothes ironed and made sure to get me to the doctors’ appointments on time. Dad was a good provider, and I always had my material needs satisfied, but gloom and emptiness filled our house. No on talked or touched.

When I was 13, a friend invited me for dinner. His parents began to talk at the dinner table. I was horrified, no less than had they come to the table without a stitch of clothing. Then they began to ask us questions about school. “How could they do such a thing,” I thought.

When I was 16, my father amazed me by asking, “How was your day today, son.” I was speechless! I knew he meant well, but I was unable to answer.

He had been an absentee father. Coming home from the office, he would retreat into his room and close the door, to either practice his piano or read the Times. In either case, Mom always warned us to not disturb Dad.

Both were off-limits emotionally. My mom wanted to be a good mother, but she was poorly equipped for the job. She didn’t enjoy children. Mom once confided that she never held me. She had read a book about how to raise the male baby, which advised that, if you don’t want your son to be a sissy, you shouldn’t hold him.

Consequently, I was an anti-social child who didn’t fit in. I felt uncomfortable with others, knowing that they would eventually reject me. Therefore, I would reject them before they could reject me.

When I was 14, my parents convinced me to see a psychologist, but nothing changed except for my growing assurance that I was damaged merchandise. I was beyond cure and was unable to change.

As a college student I was drawn to the anti-heroes. The movies of the sixties presented the outcast as the good guy. They too felt rejected by society and its standards, but they were affirmed by these movies. How refreshing for me, at least, even if they didn’t supply the affirmation I craved.

However, it was when I was bleeding to death from a deadly chainsaw injury that I encountered an unseen Person. Instantly, I knew that I was beloved and protected. Even if I died, I knew He would be there for me. I was ecstatic. Only one thing now mattered— discovering the identity of my mysterious Lover. Only one fear remained—this might be about Jesus.

I was a committed Zionist and had lived in Israel for three years, hoping to find my purpose there. Consequently, the idea of becoming a Christian had been utterly abhorrent to me. I would sooner have become a zombie or a worm, a minor betrayal compared to becoming a Christian. However, I knew that the One I had met transcended any ethnic identity or loyalty:

·       If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things? (Romans 8:31-32)

I had experienced a love I had never dreamed possible, a love even promised in my Hebrew Scriptures:

·       The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. (Psalm 23:1-4)

This is the One who had come to my rescue! Jesus has now shepherded me through some deep valleys for 50 years. Yet, I am more convinced than ever of His love and care for me, and this has made all the difference.