I deeply love my Roman Catholic family and friends. Some of my most treasured early childhood memories are those of my parents carefully explaining the Trinity to me at the dinner table, and it turns out they did a wonderful job. My greatest thrill, after seeing the Lord Himself, would be to see every single one of them in His kingdom.

But I’m also committed to the Reformation doctrines of salvation by grace alone through faith alone in Christ alone (sola gratia, sola fide, solo Christo). Before the Holy Spirit caused these truths to break forth in my heart I had descended into a youthful rebellious agnosticism and was held captive by my sins.

It was God who pursued me as I ran from Him. And I ran from Him through junior high and well into high school.

I became openly obstinate about it, even rebelling in church one day and influencing my younger brother Dave to follow me, leading to an open conflict with my dad that didn’t end well for the two of us. It was obviously my fault for starting it, not Dave’s.

Then, 50 years ago this past February, on the day after Valentine’s Day, a cloudy, drizzly, unusually mild winter’s day in the Chicago area, my dad collapsed and died of a heart attack in the living room of our home.

When it happened, my mom called out to me as she ran to the phone, “Ronald, help your father!”

I ran out of my first-floor bedroom and found him on the sofa, his body in odd contortions and a strange gurgling sound coming from his mouth.

I stood there in puzzled terror until my mom returned from calling for the ambulance. I had no idea that he was having a heart attack even as my mom grabbed his head and started prying his tongue out from his throat. I don’t think she knew, either.

I apologize for including these details, but they’ve haunted me for decades.

We moved him to the floor, and I tried giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but I only saw his open lifeless eyes staring back up at me no matter how many times I tried.

I couldn’t help him, and it seemed to take forever for the paramedics to arrive.

My three brothers and I went to a neighbor’s house as my mom accompanied my dad in the ambulance. When she came back to the neighbor’s house with one of our priests, I still didn’t get it. When the neighbors left the room, she told us he was dead. I was in shock.

He was 38. I was almost 16. Valentine’s Day has never been the same for me since.

When we arrived back home, I was the first to enter the house. I found my maternal grandfather, a World War II veteran who had served at Guadal Canal, standing with his face wedged between the wrought iron poles of the railing next to the front door, weeping at the top of his lungs. It shook me, so I grabbed him and hugged him to try to settle him down.

My mom’s parents loved my dad so much! Both of his parents had died due to complications from alcoholism four years earlier.

When I saw videos of Erika Kirk’s body draped over her husband Charlie’s open coffin this past September, whispering her love to his absent soul, it was a page out of my own life, from our first night at the funeral home 50 years earlier.

It caused me to once again relive that entire weekend: our house filled with family and friends who had rushed in to weep loudly at our front door with my mom and to sit and just be with us, us going to pick out his casket, the two-night wake, the mile-long car line from the funeral home to the church, the packed mass, the equally long car line from the church to the cemetery on a dull, gray Monday, my grandparents fumbling for a tip to give to the kind limo driver who drove us back home and then waited in awkwardly polite appreciation as my grandmother hurried into the house to bring it back for him as he chatted with my grandfather.

I remember it all.

And then, the pall that accompanied the new emptiness that had taken up residence in our home as we went back in and the door closed behind us and would remain with us day after day after day, our companion at every family meal.

As I watched my mom descend into a grief far deeper than my adolescent mind could comprehend, my three younger brothers and I feeling helpless as she sat alone in our dining room after dinner tearfully playing slow games of solitaire, it completely took the wind out of the sails of my rebellion.

In my ungrateful skepticism, I had prided myself on requiring rational, scientific answers for questions about the universe, including how it originated, oblivious to how that approach was inconsistent with my own moralistic judgmentalism and desire for ultimate meaning.

I knew intuitively that my empirical requirements could never satisfy a claim to full-blown atheism, so I retreated into what I thought was relative epistemic safety, the feigned humility of agnosticism.

These walls around my heart were still standing several weeks after my dad’s death as the five of us gathered in front of his new grave. We had come to see the simple, flat marker with his name and the dates of his birth and death.

My mom said, “I want you to know that your father is not down there. He’s up in heaven.”

I dared not say what my beleaguered mind was still arguing back, “How do we know that?”

But though the walls were still standing, they were wobbling. They wobbled from the force of other unwelcome questions that came knocking on them.

How could my dad just be gone?  How could his personality simply cease to exist?

How could everything that made my dad who he was — this man whom I saw day after day, who gave me his first name, a man whom I had often resented, not fully understanding just how much I really wanted and needed him, who had just a few months earlier told me in no uncertain terms that he loved me — how could he and his consciousness simply have evaporated into the impersonal ether of an uncaring universe?

My old answers weren’t working. My mind sensed it needed new answers. And its resistance was weakening.

I had always lived through one form of emotional turmoil or another, whether it was loneliness or being bullied at school or being in trouble with my parents.

And now this. I wanted it to end.

I bought and read self-help books. I talked to one of our priests who came for dinner one night and to the few people in our church I was close to due to family and neighborhood connections, not because I was particularly involved in the church.

I was looking for an answer — any answer — something that worked, something that would help me make sense of life and show me how to think and live.

One day my mom announced that she was going to a neighborhood ladies’ Bible study during the week.

Really? I didn’t know people did that kind of thing. “Uhm, okay. Have a nice time.”

A kind Lutheran lady with a strong evangelical faith had invited her. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the whole Bible study thing, but I thought it was good for her to get out and meet people. She wasn’t eating much and was a shadow of her former self; maybe they could help her.

They gave her literature to read. She brought it home and left it on the landing in the foyer next to the staircase. I would sneak out of my room to look at it when no one was around. Looking for…something.

This wasn’t the first time I was exposed to evangelical literature, but it was the first time I read it in hope of finding anything.

On one of my dad’s wake nights, our older cousin Chuck came. My brother Dave and I had idolized him as kids. He taught us how to do cool things, like snap towels at each other. We hadn’t seen him for a few years.

He had caused a small commotion on my dad’s side of the family when he left his hippie lifestyle to join the Jesus movement. While his parents were happy that he wasn’t a hippy anymore (although he kept his long hair), they worried that he might be going crazy with all this Jesus stuff.

My dad had said, “Leave him alone! It’s probably the best thing that could happen to him!”

After his conversion, Chuck faithfully published a “Jesus newspaper” for several years, one of many from that era. Dave and I would grab it when it arrived in the mail and look it over because — hey! — this was from our cool musician cousin!

Maybe we read it because we also wanted to see if there was anything to Chuck’s new religion gig, although by the time we saw him at the wake, his paper hadn’t made a dent in my agnosticism; I wasn’t in the market for that kind of thing.

But as we sat with him in the funeral home Dave and I told him we really liked it.

His response caught me completely off-guard. He said, “I didn’t know you were saved.”

We had no idea what he was talking about. I don’t remember what fumbling answer I gave. It was awkward.

But after that, when his paper came, I devoured it or tried to.

By the time my dad died, Chuck had led both his parents along with his sister Cherie to the Lord. Cherie wrote poetry and provided illustrations for the paper which mainly featured Bible study and devotional articles. Most of what I read went over my head, including the occasional evangelistic content. I just wasn’t getting it.

Then one November day before school, 50 years ago this month, I walked out of my room to my mom’s little pile of literature on the landing from her Bible study, and as I sorted through it, I came across a little booklet of daily devotional readings that could be concealed neatly in my shirt pocket and headed out the door.

The bus always got us to school early, and instead of hanging out in the cafeteria that morning I went up to the library to find a study carrel where I could hunch over my new find surrounded by its three wooden walls and no one passing by would see what I was reading.

Ironically, the booklet was by Norman Vincent Peale, The Power of Positive Thinking self-help guru — not at all something I would recommend to someone looking for a good Gospel presentation.

As I flipped through its small pages I came to one with these words at the top:

“Jesus said, ‘Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.’ (John 14:27 RSV)”

That sounded nice, so I kept reading.

The article underneath said that we all want peace in our lives, but we all try to get it from the world, which can’t really give it to us.

I immediately resonated with that.

My dream was to be a science fiction writer. My friend Bob’s dad had editorial experience. He read my stories for me suggesting changes, and I had submitted some of them to popular sci-fi magazines. I usually heard nothing, but one editor wrote me back with advice.

I thought that if I could just get published and become famous, I would have peace of mind — peace in my soul — even though I knew that if this longshot ever happened it could take many years.

I kept reading.

The author said we keep trying to get peace from the world even as our backs are turned to Jesus who is standing there offering us His peace the whole time. If we but turn to Him, He will give it to us. All we have to do is ask Him for it.

Less than a year earlier I wouldn’t have bothered even reading this. But now I was willing to try it, even though I had no idea what to expect or even whether to expect anything right then or later.

I imagined me facing the world and all I wanted out of it, the success, the fame, and Jesus standing behind me holding out the gift of His peace for me to take. As I asked Him for it, I imagined myself turning to receive it from Him.

And when I did, something completely unexpected happened. The most profound sense of euphoric peace immediately overwhelmed me.

If this was what the booklet’s author was talking about, he certainly undersold it!

As I sat there at the study carrel, my mind was blown.

All I could think to myself was, “Jesus is real!” I may have even said it out loud or whispered it. He is real!

I could no longer question His existence.

I hadn’t gone through any human or heavenly intermediary to get this. No one was trying to convert me to anything. I hadn’t even told anyone I was searching for anything.

And frankly, anything is what I was searching for, not specifically God.

I didn’t find Him. He found me.

I received a gift that morning straight from the hands of Jesus, and now there was nothing I wanted more than to learn more about Him.

I had recently started hanging out with a girl at school and our relationship was developing in a romantic direction, although that turned out to be short-lived.

I knew she attended a church that wasn’t like the one I was raised in but was centered around the Bible, and I was deeply curious about it.

She was a bit shy to talk about it. I don’t think she realized that I was now as interested in her church as I was in her, though I wasn’t very good at communicating that to her. But eventually I arranged a visit to one of their evening services.

I managed to get a ride to an annual Sunday evening Christmas service, which was mostly for the children. I arrived late and entered the small building. An 8-milimeter movie projector was in the hall, its light sending images through the window of one of the doors to the screen in the auditorium. I could hear the film’s audio from the speakers inside.

I opened the other door and cautiously entered, my eyes taking time to adjust to the darkness, and I eventually fumbled my way to a seat in the back of the room.

The movie ended. The lights came on. I looked around for my friend but didn’t see her. The service dismissed and maybe 30 people or so headed out to the stairs that took them to the refreshments waiting in the church basement.

I had no idea what to do. I waited for my friend to show up, but she was already downstairs. Maybe she thought I wouldn’t show.

Behind the church’s pulpit hung a sign that read,

“Jesus said, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man comes to the Father, but by me. John 14:6”

I remember thinking, “Wow! That sounds narrow.”

My next thought was, “But if Jesus said it, it must be true.”

By the time I got up from my chair everyone had gone downstairs except a middle-aged man wearing a tie and blazer in the foyer.

He extended his hand and said, “Grey Culberson.” And I said, “Ron Henzel.”

I told him why I was there and he said I would probably find my friend downstairs.

And then he asked, “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Savior?”

I had never heard that question before and wasn’t sure what to make of it. But it sounded like something Jesus would want me to affirm.

“I guess so,” I said cautiously.

“Well, you can know so,” he replied assuringly.

I glanced over my shoulder back at the sign displaying John 14:6. It felt like I was making a major life decision, but it was one I sensed I had to make.

I turned back to him and said, “Then I know so.”

Grey was very experienced in dealing with people, but I could tell from his expression that he wasn’t sure what to make of me or my response. Was I being sincere or just trying to get past him so I could meet up with one of the girls in his church?

He pulled out his wallet and from it produced a booklet even smaller than the one I had read in the library and said, “I like to keep one of these on me in case I get into a conversation like this. Is it okay if I give it to you?”

Are you kidding? I thought. This is pretty much exactly what I was hoping for!

“Sure,” I said. Its cover read, “Have You Heard of the Four Spiritual Laws?”

After attending my first ever Christian youth group meeting that night as the self-conscious new guy, I came home and immediately opened the Four Spiritual Laws tract and read it straight through with all its Bible verses.

Now, for the first time, it all made sense. I understood that by dying on the cross Christ had paid the penalty for my sins.

One day in my second-grade religion class at St. Christopher School in Midlothian, Illinois, as we were preparing for first holy communion, I raised my hand to ask a question.

It was the height of the Baby Boom and our classrooms typically held around 40 students. I don’t recall ever asking another question in religion class; I had to ratchet up the courage to ask this one.         `

The nun called on me.

“Why did Jesus have to die on the cross?” I asked her.

The nun paused. My seven-year-old brain interpreted this as her thinking my question was silly, or that it was something I should have known already.

Looking back, perhaps she paused because she was a bit unprepared for a question that wasn’t precisely on topic for a First Communion class, or she was simply trying to ensure her answer accommodated our learning level, or both.

“To open the gates of heaven,” she answered.

I was puzzled. What does that mean? I thought. Wasn’t Jesus already in heaven before He came down to be born? Why couldn’t He just open heaven’s gates on His way down? It would have saved Him a lot of trouble.

I was embarrassed that I didn’t understand her answer, but I didn’t want to further expose my ignorance in front of all my peers by asking what she meant. And for years after that I assumed I would never really get it.

But now, nine years later, I finally did.

It was so simple, but so profound. I could wrap up this huge, massive, mysterious thing — why Jesus died on the cross — in one word and carry it with me for the rest of my life, knowing that He did it all for me.

He was my substitute.

I never could have done it for myself. It was a pure gift. The purest grace possible.

And I could only receive it as such. I couldn’t pay anything for it. I couldn’t earn it. I could only trust that it was true, opening my empty hands of faith to receive the gift.

And only one Person could have purchased this gift for me, the one who is both God and man, the Second Person of the Holy Trinity incarnate. Only He could have borne the full weight of my sins to put a complete end to the penalty I owed and the power they had over me.

He alone is worthy of all glory and praise, to the glory of God the Father!

It would be years before I would find other words to wrap up these enormous concepts in, words like sola gratia (“grace alone”), sola fide (“faith alone”), solo Christo (“Christ alone”), and soli Deo gloria (“the glory of God alone”).

All of these were poured into my soul from the only source that reveals God’s truth with His full authority and certainty, the word of God, the Bible (sola Scriptura), so that I can know with the full assurance of faith that I will spend eternity praising Him.

I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God, that you may know that you have eternal life. (1 John 5:13, ESV)

After half a century, this is still what I long for all my family, all my friends, and everyone in the world to know, understand, and believe.Ω