In my Independent Baptist years we were somewhat imprisoned to a very narrow ideology: Southern Baptists are bad and liberal and Billy Graham is a compromiser. I never embraced these perspectives, though I am sure I looked with suspicion at all those “seeker-sensitive churches” (so 80’s, I know).
As I took my first step towards Geneva Road I realized that there were many ways to get to Geneva. I even discovered, to my surprise, that there were Baptists of varying Reformed persuasions. These folks were really bright. A few of these Baptists carried around the two-volume set of Calvin’s Institutues in their professorial looking bags. They were spiritually challenging and helped me increase my Spurgeon collection. While I was tempted at one time and even considered parking in that parking lot, I think I was looking for a stout Protestant experience. And as we know, Baptists only like sweet tea.
I remember being invited by a Presbyterian friend to visit his PCA church on a Sunday evening. It was the perfect invitation. My heart was ready to explore Presbyterianism. I had many reservations, among them was the fear that Geneva Road might lead me to that dreadful font where babies (fear, dread, scary) were sprinkled. “Man-made tradition,” I mumbled to my Presbyterian friend on my way to church that evening. My friend had a quiet demeanor and gently explained things in a way that quieted my anger. We walked into the church. They were meeting in a Christian school. I honestly did not know what to expect. “Where is the sacrificial lamb?” I asked my friend who simply smiled at my idiocy.
A man opened in prayer. It wasn’t a trivial prayer. It was bathed in Scriptural language, genuine; the kind of prayer that left me feeling humbled. “We’re continuing our study on the Westminster Confession of Faith, Chap. III on God’s Eternal Decrees,” he said. I had read the Confession before as an intellectual exercise. I read the Bible verses that come with each proposition. This teacher, however, explained this doctine as a comforting theology where I had only seen it as a necessary evil. It was fresh, biblically-saturated. I was almost speechless, if you can imagine a Brazilian without words to say.
I ran up to him to thank him. He seemed apologetic. “I hope I was clear. I really tried my best to explain this.” I was mesmerized with how this man had opened his Bible and here he was apologizing for lacking clarity. It was like Neymar apologizing for only scoring three goals in a match.
After that evening my objections seemed childish compared to the riches I was to gain in this congregation. “I will probably disagree with many things, but I know I will be fed in this Presbyterian Church,” I said to my friend on our way home. My Reformational journey was leading me somewhere concrete. I was fearful, but child-like in expectation.
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