Losing My Religion Read Online Free Page A

repeated itself Saturday morning, Saturday evening and Sunday morning. Saturday evening, another man—this time a former business executive in his 60s—said he was inspired by Bud to tell his story and ask us to pray for him. He said he had been laid off the year before from his high-paying engineering job and couldn’t find any other work at his age. He had gone through his savings and was close to broke when he humbled himself enough to take the only job that would have him—selling cars. There were more tears and more prayers for this stoic guy.
    During free time, the guys prayed, hiked, napped or went to town to watch college football on a wide-screen TV at a local restaurant. On Saturday afternoon, many of the weekend warriors played basketball on the outdoor courts, a game that resulted in several pulled muscles, tweaked knees and turned ankles. In between, we ate our meals communally at a dining hall that reminded me of my freshman dorm, but not in a good way. There were other things, besides good food, that you couldn’t get at the retreat: television, radios and sleep. The lack of shut-eye came from sharing a Spartan cabin with a half-dozen grown men, whose bodily functions and impressive snoring provided the night’s soundtrack.
    By design, the weekend left us emotionally raw. Cut off from our regular lives, our facades broke down under the assault of song, prayers, worship, honest sharing and sleep deprivation. With real emotions exposed, I could see the other guys were as screwed up as I was. Some had even more troubles. There was nothing these guys wouldn’t share: addiction to pornography, affairs, mistreatment of children, failed business ventures, and alcohol and drug abuse. And they all found comfort and direction in Jesus. They weren’t like Falwell or Robertson. They were like me.
    It took until Sunday morning, in the retreat’s chapel, for my fortified walls to crumble. It wasn’t the modern worship songs that got to me, but the centuries-old “Amazing Grace.” I felt myself surrendering to God in a way I never had before. I felt those words deep in my soul, especially the third verse:
Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
’Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.
     
    After the music, Mike Barris, a pastor-to-be who conducted the climactic Sunday-morning service, asked the men gathered in the chapel a simple question that I should have anticipated, but hadn’t: Have you publicly pronounced Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior? I hadn’t. I wasn’t ready to. Panicked, my pulse quickened. My eyes darted. I suddenly felt trapped. I didn’t want to be a born-again Christian—I knew what I thought of them, and I knew what people less tolerant than I thought of them. I couldn’t even say “Jesus” in public, for gosh sakes! The weekend had been such a great spiritual experience, why did Barris have to wreck it by forcing this born-again question on me? My walls quickly came back up. I needed more time to warm up to the idea of being called born-again.
    Barris, an athletically built man in his late 20s who looked more like a frat boy than a pastor, went on to say that a public confession of faith was an important part of the Christian journey. He asked us to bow our heads, close our eyes and pray. In a gentle voice, he told those who felt moved to accept Christ into their heart today to raise their hand. My heart beat even faster, but no longer in self-defense. I couldn’t believe it, but I felt an urge to lift my hand. But I sure as heck didn’t want to be the only one. I took a peek around the room and saw several hands shoot up. What was I going to do? My eternal fate might rest on this decision. Ah, maybe not, said another voice inside my head—this whole born-again thing could be just a bunch of crap. I shut my eyes and prayed. That seemed safe and noncommittal. But there was the urge again to raise my hand—was it from