I have a confession to make. It’s very possible that I am an unbaptized pastor of a Baptist church.
Now that’s not as scandalous as it may sound. I grew up in a Southern-Baptist-church-going family in the Deep South where the gospel was preached and decisions for Jesus were urged. By first grade, I knew I didn’t want to go to hell, and I believed Jesus died for my sin. So on a Sunday evening service (fewer people, so less scary), I walked down the aisle, shook the preacher’s hand, and professed faith in Christ. A few weeks after that scary walk, I had the scarier experience of being baptized one Sunday morning with a bunch of other people. I was officially saved.
Life went on, and I never doubted the things I’d been taught or the things I’d professed. Until high school. That’s when I discovered girls and girls discovered me. By the time I went to college, I was ready to walk away from Christianity as a relic of my childhood. And I tried—hard.
But one night freshman year, the Holy Spirit brought me under severe conviction. I tried to cut a deal with God, but God doesn’t
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