Testimony

Any real understanding of my story must begin with my parents. My father, Jay, was co-owner of a motor-cycle shop and an avid racer. 6 feet 4 inches tall with dark hair and a mocking grin, he had followed the family tradition of working as a plasterer, but eventually settled down into working on bikes. He was a gifted rider and I remember driving around the country with my mother and grandfather when he raced in enduros.

My mother, Marie, was a graduate of Mansfield University with a degree in Music. Prior to my arrival she worked as a music teacher, later becoming a notary for my dad's business. Small, when compared with my father, she had short dark hair and a love for nature. She frequently worked in our numerous flowerbeds, and grew vegetables in a garden. She was the daughter of a farmer and I think much of who she is was shaped working on the farm as a child. She was (and is) an excellent pianist and taught lessons to many of the neighborhood kids.

I was born on September 16th 1972, a month premature. I weighed half a pound, and was small enough to hold in one hand. On that day the doctors came to my mother and said "We know you have a number of possible names for your son. We suggest you choose one of the ones you don't like, because he's going to die." Sheesh. Talk about bedside manner. My mother, of course, chose the name she liked most, Michael ("Who is like the Lord?"). I spent the first 30 days of my life in the hospital, before coming home.

My early life was plagued with medical troubles. Born with several birth defects (my urinary tract wasn't fully formed) I was constantly in and out of the hospital for operations (14 in all). I was partially blind in my right eye and that meant wearing a patch over my left eye (in the hopes it would "strengthen" my weak, lazy eye; ah, the medicine of the 70's). To add insult to injury it was discovered that I had epilepsy. On at least one occasion a severe seizure nearly claimed my life. I was placed on a prohibitive medicine that drastically increased my metabolism, and may be the root of my weight problems to this day.

In 1974 my mother became pregnant and it was announced I would have a baby sister. Even at the young age I was excited. Unbeknownst to me, my parents had "the RH factor" - my mother's body thought my sister was a disease and tried to eradicate her. It may very well explain my own problems as an infant. In November, my sister Melody was born. Born at term she lived for just four hours. When my mother came home from the hospital I greeted her smiling "Where's the baby?" My father looked at me and said "You shouldn't have asked Mommy that."

My parents did not deal with her death well, and I being so young, never understood it. We did not speak of her. For many years afterward I prayed God would kill me and give my sister back. I felt like I was a mistake and it was her who should have lived. I once asked my mom if she'd rather have had a little girl. She wept bitterly and held me close. I made it a point to visit her grave every year...a little marble block with an angel on it. Melody Ann Z. 1974-1974.

My mother was a Christian and we attended an Evangelical Lutheran church. I remember not liking church as a child, most of my memories being of tyrannical Sunday School teachers and boring music. My father was not a "religious" man and rarely attended with us; now that I think of it, I have no memory of him ever being with us. Many were the times that I got out of church by saying "But I want to stay home with dad!" Not that he and I really did anything together on Sunday mornings. I just didn't like church.

So I began school. I struggled, and continue to struggle, with mathmatics, but excelled in creative writing, and later, in music. My mother, following the edict "The family that prays together, stays together", enrolled me in an after school Bible study around the time The Empire Strikes Back came out. I remember it that way because I took an IG-88 figure to the study once. I actually enjoyed the study (Mrs. Hart used feltboard figures to tell the stories, which made them a little easier to understand; she was decidedly non-tyrranical) and was sad when it ended. I have an unusual memory of this time and cannot be certain if it really happened or not. But I recall a hay ride with the members of the class, and afterward being invited into something like a train car. No. Not a rail car, but something like a Gypsy wagon. Who knows for sure? Inside Mrs. Hart explained that Jesus was standing at the door of my heart, knocking, and asking me to let Him in. She may have had a print of the famous painting there for I saw the picture perfectly in my mind. And in the mind of an eight-year old I thought "Who am I to not let Jesus in?" and prayed for Christ to "come into my heart" that night.

I frequently wonder about childhood conversions. Many are the people who claim to have accepted Jesus at an early age, remaining faithful to Him all their lives. I wish that were my testimony. My childhood coversion did not stick. It does cause me to reflect though. Perhaps it was this early opening that eventually, after many twists and turns, brought me back.

I am not sure when my parent's started having trouble. I do remember fearing the great "D" from fairly early on. I remember sitting in my dark bedroom listening to them argue and becoming so afraid I began to descend into a petty mal (sp?) seizure. I ran into their room terrified. The only thing that helped was my father holding me, listening to his heart beat.

But I digress. I am unwilling to divulge the entire story of my parent's divorce though I will say that alcohol had a role to play in it. I remember clearly the day he left. January 7th, 1985. Just two weeks after Christmas. I was on the phone with a friend when my mother (in her nightgown, in tears) and father came downstairs. He as wearing his coat. "Get off the phone, Mike," she said. "Your dad and I have something to tell you." I knew, of course. I followed him out into the snow-covered driveway with a camera and took his picture. I still have it.

Almost the same day I went into our "library", a little room with our encyclopedias. They were burgandy with gold engraving. I selected W and looked up the word witchcraft. From there to devil worship. I think you see where this is going.

But how does a middle-class Lutheran become interested in the occult? I cannot trace the trail all the way to its beginning. As a child I was terrified by movies about vampires and werewolves. I remember taking what may have been an IQ test and having the tester (a very kind-hearted woman) ask me "If you could make a wish and have it come true, what would it be?" Almost everyone wished they could fly (or so she told me later). I instantly responded "I want to Astral Project." She was completely befuddled, and I had to explain it to her. I think I was in 5th Grade. Sometime during my elementary years I remember sitting on the floor while a teacher read a script to us while we kept our eyes closed. "You see a creature coming towards you...it wants to be your friend..." The blasted thing wouldn't work for me, and when afterward we were told to draw the creatures we'd met I had to make something up. I later discovered this was a technique for introducing people to their "spirit guides". Anyone who has read Frank Peretti's Piercing the Darkness can guess what evil was sowed that day.

So perhaps thanks to public school and The Adventures of Matthew Star (a television show) my interest in the mystic began early. Upon reaching High School (grades 7-12 in one building; what a disaster) I found a huge occult section in the library with books on aliens, mind science, ghosts and so forth. The librarian was most helpful. I have since discovered she was a witch. How convenient.

As I progressed through 7th and 8th grades my interest in the occult deepened. I read books on mythology. I discovered Dungeons and Dragons. When most kids were going to football games I was reading about telekinesis or extrasensory perception. I was befriended by a Christian boy, but his parents forbid him to spend time with me. I think I frightened them by quoting Iron Maiden lyrics.

My mother was rarely around. The loss of my father's income (he'd given us the house), had more than halved the family income. She worked 60-70 hour weeks just to keep us afloat. I resented her being gone, not understanding at the time the sacrifice she was making for us. Many days I came home from school to the big empty house and played D&D (alone) until my mother got home. Sometimes I went for long walks to the nearby park and would sit in the woods. There was a strange comfort being among the trees.

Then there were the strange occurences. I sat in the living room one day while my mother was away, reading one of the Shannara books and very clearly heard someone coming down the steps. I was the only one in the house. When I got to the stairwell it was, of course, empty. I was terrified, but somewhat exhilirated. My mom said it was the ghost of a former owner.

And so it was than in the summer between 8th and 9th Grade, Charlie came into our lives. He was an older man (13 years older than my mother) that my mom met on one of her walks. They had similar interests and mom admired his manicured back yard. Their frienship blossomed into love. My mother later confessed she was desperate to find a father-figure for me (my own father visited once a week on Sundays and took me to the movies: it was the high point of my week; but I suppose she felt it wasn't enough), and thinks she may have gotten together with Charlie for my sake. He did treat me well. They were married shortly after Thanksgiving of 1987. It was the same year I started playing guitar.

At first things were great. Charlie's added income and emotional support evened out the ocean of trouble we'd been on for so long. My mom wasn't crying as much and smiled more. "God," she said "came through for us". Things were looking up.

Until Christmas Eve. Charlie got drunk and sat around mourning his first wife, who had died some years before. My mother was furious, more for the drunkeness than his lamentation. Her own bitter memories of driving home a too-drunk-to-drive husband were very fresh. She let him know he wouldn't be doing that again.

Charlie's mood began to darken. He started acting jealous of my relationship with my mom (going through everything we had had really bonded us), and found ways to keep us apart. They went on long drives while I stayed home. They watched television in a different room than me. He started criticizing us, harshly, and often for the dumbest things. He and mom began to argue, frequently. Many were the nights of terrible silence sitting at the dinner table, neither my mother or I saying a word, fearing we would set off another tirade.

One night I awoke at some loud sound to find the light on, my mother in the room. She looked frightened. "Mom," I sad groggily. "What's going on?" It was then I noticed she had locked the door. Charlie pounded away and demanded she come out. She told me it was okay and went out to him. The yelling was terrifying. At some point he screamed "I should kill you both!" There were loaded pistols in his dresser drawer. That was the last straw. I got dressed and scrawled a note. Something like "I'm leaving. I'll be back when you two are sane again". I shoved it under the door and fled the house.

I'm not sure of the exact sequence of events. I think I ran into the field behind my house to hide. My mother and Charlie came out of the house and got into seperate vehicles to look for me. Somehow I made it to the main road in town and started walking. I had no idea where I was going. I thought about going to a friend's house, but knew his parent's would call mine. I didn't want anything to do with them, so that was out. My dad lived too far away to walk to, and hitchiking wasn't likely to help me. Darn nice Biglerville-ites, always wanting to help. I thought about just walking away...going somewhere else...somewhere they'd never find me. I wasn't thinking clearly, of course. I stopped at a house a block or so from mine and tried to figure out where I was going to go. Charlie's car pulled up behind me.

I set off and started towards a field where I felt I could lose him, but my mother's voice came from the car (she was driving it, alone). The scene that followed appears quite surreal as I look back on it - my mom and I sitting in the parking lot of the local High's store eating ice cream and talking about what we should do next. Apparently my flight has inspired new levels of courage in her and she had told Charlie "If anything happens to Mike you will regret it..." My mom's a tough lady, and I know I wouldn't want to be on her bad side. Charlie shaped up real quick and had gone out looking for me. We decided to give him another chance despite the fact he had hit her that night (always in such a way that no bruises were visable to the casual on-looker). It was a mistake.

As with all abusers Charlie shaped up for a time but eventually returned to his hateful ways. At one point he ran my mom's car off the road to keep her from going to Choir practice (he was convinced she was having an affair with the organist...and and brought his guns). I began hiding weapons around the house and sleeping with a knife under my pillow. Twice more Charlie would threaten our lives, twice more I would flee from my own home. The third time my mother came with me. In the dead of night we gathered what clothing we could carry, crept down our creaky stairs in total darkness and fled to my uncle's house. Divorce followed shortly.

Charlie did much harm to my mother and I. His physical, psychological, and emotional abuse carried on long after he was gone. But I think the worst was the damage he did to our, or at least my, faith. You see, Charlie claimed to be a devout Christian. The man who threatened my life told me I needed to be in church on Sunday. He even had the audacity to say my sister was in Hell because she had never been baptized. He said it with all the compassion of a man ordering a cheeseburger.

So on a wintery night in 1988 I abandoned any semblance of Christianity and turned my face to the North.

I had been studying Nordic myth for some time, and as C.S. Lewis before me, I was enamoured of what I read. Visions of stark, frozen wastes blew through my mind like the cold winds of Niflheim. I listened to Wagner and searched everywhere for myths about Odin and the Aesir. Finding that one translation of my last name was "watchman", I presumed my ancestors had worshipped Heimdall, the guardian of the Rainbow Bridge between Earth and Asgard (home of the gods). I began writing epic poetry, seeing myself as a mortal Bragi (poet and historian of the gods). I found bands with Odinist lyrics, and began worshiping like I never had as a Lutheran. My occultic experiences deepened and I began to experience what I have since called "evil rushes". Power, evil, immortality...coming upon me in waves as I sang praises to Odin, or sang along with Mercyful Fate ("O Master Satan/You are the one"). I had lost my footing on the downward slope of the occult and was quickly slipping into deeper darkness. Towards the end I was beginning to use Runic magic, Tarot cards, and looking into the actual practice of Astrology.

But this took time and it was not until just before my conversion that I reached my worst state. I am getting ahead of myself.

Charlie left and my mother and I were alone again. It was like a breath of fresh air. My junior year of high school was one of my happiest (the "evil one" was gone) and by year's end I had found my first girlfriend. Yes its true, I had never had a girlfriend until then. Probably a good thing. In any case we met through a study hall and were "going steady" by early December. Though there was much good in our relationship (she inspired me to join the Drama club, where I discovered an ability to act), I will speak very little about it here. In the end I think we were very bad for each other, or at least I was very bad for her. Peace be with her, wherever she may be.

I will relate one story. I look back on it with a little laughter, a little horror, and considerable frustration. My girlfriend was at least a Christian in the sense that she went to church on Sundays, and at some point in our relationship her youth group was having an overnight "lock-in". She invited me and I reluctantly agreed. It was held at a spacious log cabin in the woods and I was most pleased with the location.

It was a typical lock-in, with games (including a favorite of mine "Darling do you love me?"), food, and a devotional (teaching) at the end. The games were fun. The food was great. God bless the youth pastor. He asked for responses to his devotion. I was more than happy to respond. Youth pastors often say "Invite your lost friends to youth group or church". One would think they would be prepared when one came. But I suppose a Neo-pagan Odinist isn't something one encounters very often.

I used the discussion time as an opportunity to share my views. You can imagine the reaction. I remember the horrified faces and utter silence. My poor girlfriend...I wonder if she ever lived it down. The youth pastor must have said something in response - at least to try and undo the damage my philosophies could have wrought - but I don't remember what he said. I do recall the devotion ending with what was supposed to be an intense thankfulness for God's creation. The YP sent us out into the woods to pray and thank God, and I went, a little annoyed (I don't believe in your God!). I sat on a log and felt like a fool. I'm not sure why. I felt like Odin was laughing at me. Though I'm not sure it actually happened, I remember seeing two of the youth groupers making out across the trail from me. So much for thanking God. I started feeling better immediately. Silly hypocritical Christians...

The next day as we were getting ready to leave the youth pastor and his wife approached me. I remember thinking they felt I shouldn't be dating a girl in their group - perhaps I was too evil for her. Whether they were thinking that or not I can't say. I do remember he seemed a little aloof. Even snobbish. At some point (I may have been talking about Wagner and the Ring Cycle), he said "Wow, you really are intelligent." At the time I took it as a compliment but further reflection caused me to take it otherwise. Who knows what he really meant. All I am certain of is that the lock-in deepened my distrust (hatred?) of Christians, and all they stood for.

So I came to my senior year of high school. It is with great bemusement that I look back on the fact that my love of William Shakespeare was responsible, at least in part, for my salvation. Senior year English class was British Literature and I remember exclaiming to the teacher "All right, we'll get to read Shakespeare!" She informed me that the Advanced class would be reading more Shakespeare, but the regular class would only read a little. I pleaded with her to put me in the Advanced class. She happily agreed. God bless her.

And who did she sit me next to but the long-haired Christian Metalhead? I laugh at the absolute irony of it all. Our back row went something like "Jock, jock, cheerleader, Christian, Pagan". God truly has a sense of humor.

His name was Tony. While we had known each other throughout high school we'd never really spent much time with each other. Over the first few monthes of our senior year he and I became friends (we had several classes together) and one day he played a Vengeance Rising tape for me (at the time VR was a Christian band - their change-over is a long and unpleasant story). Being a fan of thrash metal I was impressed, and asked to borrow the tape. Before long I had copies of Vengeance Rising, Deliverance, Believer...God had found a way into my life. Not through the sermons of preachers or the tracts of street evangelists, but by music.

I believe to this day that God used that music to soften my heart towards Him. Not that I went to church or prayed to Him. Just a few weeks before becoming a Christian I walked home telling God (not Odin, but the Christian God) how much I hated Him. Funny. Very similar to C.S. Lewis' account in Surprised by Joy. Hating God because He didn't exist. Hating God because He made the world...and didn't exist. I think in the deepest recesses of our souls we know. We have always known.

There was another reason Tony and I spent so much time talking about spiritual things. Early in the year a girl approached me in class and asked me "You know a lot about the occult, don't you?"

Ah, how the pride of my reputation swelled in my breast. "Why, yes, I do."

"Good," she said. "A friend of mine was using a Ouija board and contacted Satan. Now she won't stop using it."

Okay, I realize that this seems absolutely ridiculous. I mean, what kind of idiot believes you can contact Satan through a Ouija board? But the possibility did not seem so impossible to us. The occult is like that. It draws you in and makes you consider what would to a normal person be inconsiderable. In experiencing the supernatural (or even the supranatural) one comes to believe there are many things that can be, whether they make sense or no. A sorceror will believe the absurd because s/he has learned that not everything is absurd. While I do not believe this girl (we'll call her Jenny) had contacted the Prince of Darkness, she may very well have contacted one of his minions. But that delves into realms of angel- and demonology that I have neither the time nor inclination to address.

At the time I offered her friend some advice based on my knowledge of the occult and left it at that. Her friend also, it seemed, approached Tony for advice (she was very worried for Jenny). His response, of course, was "You need to receive Jesus." She didn't care for his answer and in the following weeks relied more and more on my advice.

It did, however, give Tony and I something to talk about. And talk we did. Tony learned of my deep and abiding interest in demonology (encouraged again by the occult-friendly school library), and leant me a copy of This Present Darkness by Frank Peretti. It was a book on "spiritual warfare" and followed the story of a group of angels battling demonic forces for the "soul" of a town. I was facinated. I read it avidly. Never mind the rather lucid presentation of the Gospel in the book. I tell ya, God is slick. A Pagan can never be too careful to protect their faith. Jesus will use just about everything to get through to us. Poor Mikey :-)

I gave my life to Jesus Christ in late November of 1990. It was preceded by the most terrifying experience of my life. I have decided not to give a full account of it here. There are theological issues that would prove distracting. Let me only say that on a Sunday night, in the midst of a thunderstorm (which should have been comforting - "Thor's killing giants again") I was shown that my death would be horrible and that Hell would follow after. It was a knowledge that came with absolute certainty. Terrified, I fled into my house and turned on all the lights, like that would do any good. I immediately called my friend Tony. Why I called him and not someone else I am not sure. Perhaps I knew where true answers lay. Perhaps I wanted to know that there was a compassionate God in Heaven. Perhaps I knew my other friends would only offer hollow attempts to get my mind off of what had happened.

Tony was not home. He was at church. I never knew churches had services on Sunday nights. I told whoever had answered the phone (I'm still not sure who it was) to have him call me. It was a long two hours till he returned my call.

I told him what had happened. He was very quiet at first, but then began to tell me about the church service that night. It had been very powerful, very moving. They had sensed God was working in people's lives. Drawing people closer to Him. Revealing Himself. God at work. God moving. My soul spiraling down into damnation.

"There is a Divinity that shapes our ends..."

Some will say that what happened at that church that night and what happened to me were two different events, one having nothing to do with the other. But I knew. God calling out to His wayward children and me wrapped in terror unthinkable. The thought horrified me. What side of the line was I really on? And then Tony said the boldest thing he had ever said to me. "Mike, I think you need to receive Christ into your life."

It is virtually impossible to describe what happened. I think it had little to do with what Tony said, but more to do with the sovreign choice of a God who had too long watched his child wallow in anger, hate, resentment, abuse, sorcery, and evil. Lacking any better way to describe it, and I have tried, God walked into the room.

I say He walked in. Or was He always there, and only now could I finally sense His presence? I felt myself filled with an inexpressable sense of Joy. Joy, fullfillment, completion. What I can only describe as a still, small voice (sense? thought? conscience?) said "This is God".

In the movie Excalibur, Arthur sends his knights to find the Holy Grail, the cup that Christ used the night of His betrayal. He believed only finding the Grail would give back the grace he lost by sleeping with his sister, Morganna. When Perceval brought the Grail to his king, Arthur had wasted away, and the land with him. "Drink from the cup," said Percval. "And you shall be whole." He lifted the chalice to Arthur's lips, and the King drank. The transformation was startling. It seemed Arthur was a man waking up from a long and horrible dream. He looked around like he wasn't sure where he was. He said something then, and I found myself quoting him, the night I received Christ as my Savior.

"I did not know how empty was my soul, until it was filled."

Completeness. Wholeness. Entering the arms of the One for whom I was created. Returning at last to the Father who would never leave or foresake me. Seeing at long last the brokenness of my shattered soul, and discovering an instant later that it was healed by the One Who had breathed it into me.

And so He comes
hands broken by the weight of my sin and shame
Compassion knits the brow
pierced by a crown of thorns.

And You know my deepest pain
the woe filling me
as my soul screams the agony
suffocating me in this Hell.

And You take me in Your arms
and You cry with me
Your tears wash away mine
and love fills my empty, broken soul.

And mercy like a river filled with blood
baptizes me; a sparrow falls
and I understand
that I am just a man.
Born again. And raised from nothing.

And so I came to the God who made me. Tony and I prayed together and the next day I went to school a different person. The change was unmistakable. It was, perhaps, a bit much for most of my friends.

I have followed Christ ever since. In the years since, many things have happened. I've gotten married (who would have thunk it?!), gone to Bible College, gotten a degree in Youth Ministry, and found myself ministering to vampires, witches, and Satanists. It seems God has lead me to minister to youth who are very like I used to be. Learning the lessons of my own life I do not preach at them or condemn, but love them. I want them to know. Know that there is a God in Heaven. Know that their lives don't have to be like mine was. Know that there is One who loves them more than they could ever comprehend. For He Himself is Love, and calls all His children to come into His arms. "For everyone who calls on the Name of the Lord shall be saved."

There is a Divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them though we will. My journey to Christ was long, arduous, and filled with pain. But, to the chagrin of U2, I have found what I was looking for. May the grace of the Lord Jesus be with you. Amen.

Gloria Dei.