One day in school, there was lots of talk around the locker room about a Church revival. Many students were excited about the guest speaker, Gorgeous George Grant, an ex-pro wrestler with an electrifying story. My friend Buck went the night before and heard the evangelist share about people, places, and sordid lifestyles to a packed house. He preached that Jesus was the way out. Buck went forward on the altar call and proclaimed that now he was saved and going to Heaven. I believed him.
In 1969, my understanding of the Bible and gospel was based on a few weeks of vacation bible school. I knew there was a Heaven—and a hell—where I was told that I and most of my friends were going. Curious about a way out of damnation, I went to the revival. It began with introductions, prayers, and songs that everyone seemed to know except us sinners. Gorgeous George Grant didn’t pull any punches. Sweat poured from his forehead and through his shirt as he preached about drinking, drugging, big money lost, and the ugly side of pro wrestling. He preached Jesus beginning to end, the cross, resurrection, repentance, and forgiveness of sins. I swear that I could smell fire and brimstone all the way to the fifth row of pews. But I could not muster the willpower to go forward and profess.
Later that night, like so many nights before, I lay in bed thinking about me. The revival was powerful, unlike anything I’d seen before. But why did I freeze up? Was I powerless and doomed? I whispered, Oh Lord, help me find you before it is too late. While I slept, God tweaked something in that secret place where ideas originate. Because the next morning, my fear was gone. I knew that I would return to the revival and this time go forward during the altar call. I still remember the haunting hymn the choir sang. “Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling … calling for you and for me.” And that October, the Holy Spirit gave me the courage to stand before a room full of people and testify that I accepted Jesus Christ, as my Savior.
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