I want to describe my spiritual journey, not analytically as a theologian might but simply as an observer of what has happened in my own life. I offer this report as evidence of what Christ has done for me, and therefore of what I know he can do for others. I once heard a sermon where the preacher addressed the question of why anyone should believe in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. This is, after all, an extraordinary thing to accept as literal truth. After discussing the biblical text, and after reviewing other historical evidence consistent with the biblical accounts, the preacher added that we have our own personal experience with this risen Jesus Christ. Perhaps the most compelling evidence that one can offer is the evidence that derives from what has happened in one's life. It is such evidence that I offer here.
The fact is that I have been born again. I was dead an now I am alive, not because of my own recuperative powers but due to the power of Christ to mend a broken life, to "restore the years the locusts have eaten." Let me explain.
Although a wonderful and beautiful woman loved me and had agreed to become my wife, I was unable and unwilling to consummate with her the relationship that our marriage made possible. I was unable to be faithful to that relationship. I am not speaking now only of adultery; I was unable to be present emotionally. I was unable to set aside enough of my selfishness to build a life with someone else. Marriage involves give and take, but I gave little. My pride and a self-centered outlook eliminated any chance for a fruitful union.
I was dead in spirit, despite the fact that I had professional success as a tenured professor at Harvard. What more could one ask for? I had reached the pinnacle of my profession. When I went to Washington, people in the Halls of Power knew my name. I had research grants. I had prestige. Nevertheless, I often found myself in the depth of depression, saying, "Life has no meaning." I would say this out loud, with such regularity that my wife came to expect it of me. This is not to say that I was suicidal or psychotic; I was not. For me, there was no real joy. My achievements gave me no sense of fulfillment. Nothing in my life had any sense of depth and meaning. I thought of myself as living on the surface of things. Life seemed to be one chore or contest after another, in which I hoped to score high, to win accolades, and to achieve financial gains. But there was no continuity, no coherence no thread of meaning which gave these various achievements ultimate significance.
Moreover, I was in slavery to drugs and alcohol. I do not want to be overly dramatic here; this "enslavement" had been going on for many years without apparently impairing my ability to function. There was no sudden degradation of my condition. I did not go off to shoot heroin between seminars, or anything quite so sordid as that. I don't want you to envision some terribly ugly or desperate and sad existence, though it became, in due course, quite sad enough. Rather, there was an ordinariness about this dependency. The fact is, I thought I needed to intoxicate myself in order to enjoy an evening's entertainment, to enliven a visit with my family, to have fun at a party or a sporting event, and so on. This pattern of mild inebriation as a boon to sociability had become part of my life. It progressed eventually to the point of threatening my health and my name. Yet through it all, I never thought there was a problem.
These developments in my life eventually came to a point where, without some intervention, my marriage probably would not have survived. I have to wonder whether or not, without some intervention, my honors and prestige would have been sufficient to forestall the increasing depression. I have to wonder indeed whether or not my involvement with drugs and alcohol would have ruined me physically, professionally, mentally. There seemed not to be any inner breaks.