How a Seven-Year-Old Converts to Christianity

Musings on an Ethical Dilemma

When a person deconstructs their faith and develops a new set of values or ethics, it can leave them with a sense of discomfort about how they view their faith-related childhood memories. Perhaps this is true for you.

I had a pleasant childhood, particularly when it came to my faith. I was a pastor’s kid (PK). You may have heard that it’s hard to be a child of a pastor, that people hold you to a different set of behavioral expectations and this adds stress to the life of the PK. I suppose this is true. But also, life as the first-born son of a pastor has its perks and I enjoyed every one of them. The memories aren’t just pleasant, they’re deeply meaningful parts of what helped make me who I am today. They’re memories with family who loved me, friends who supported me, and adults in church who cared for me and they far outshined any added stress.

Besides, even if I did have added behavior expectations placed upon me, I was happy to do my best to live up to them. I never considered it to be a burden.

But today I have an understanding of my Christian faith which is much different than I did in my youth.

So, as meaningful as these events are to me, when the faith experiences of my childhood don’t fit my current value system or ethic it can sometimes be uncomfortable.

Their old ways were… what exactly? The kids themselves weren’t even old, so how could they have old ways to turn their back on?

Consider my conversion story. I had my come to Jesus moment when I was seven years old.

Seven.

What, exactly, was I converting from?

About a decade or so ago I was a part of helping out with Vacation Bible School, known to us church-types as “VBS.” It’s a time during the summer when parents bring their kids to church for a week of free babysitting themed Biblical instruction. I remember enjoying it as a kid. We’d hear Bible stories, or other made-up kid stories with Biblical lessons. We’d eat snacks and learn new songs, singing them everyday to the point of memorization. This was good, because when the week was over the adults always marched us up on stage to sing the songs for the congregation during the Sunday worship service. VBS follows a pattern at all evangelical Christian churches, I believe.

As an adult helper I was watching and listening to the kids sing their songs, following along with the lyrics projected onto the screen. They were shout-singing, “I’m turning my back on my old ways…”

That’s when it struck me as odd. These kids were singing songs about turning their back on their “old ways.”

There old ways were… what exactly? The kids themselves weren’t even old, so how could they have old ways to turn their back on?

It just struck me as a weird thing to get kids to say. It seemed a bit off-base. Before one can bring a child to a place where they could articulate they were changing, don’t they first have to convince the child they’re bad to begin with? As I watched these little kids sing the song I suddenly felt somewhat… icky.

I recalled a song I used to sing growing up. It was called, I Have Decided To Follow Jesus. I really liked singing it. The words went like this (and also the tune, if you’re listening).

Verse 1

I have decided, to follow Jesus.

I have decided, to follow Jesus.

I have decided, to follow Jesus.

No turning back.

No turning back.

Verse 2

Though none go with me, still I will follow…

Verse 3

My cross I’ll carry, till I see Jesus…

Verse 4

The world behind me, the cross before me.

I remember meaning the words inasmuch as I understood them. I knew it was what mom, dad, and everyone else wanted to hear from me. So, I sang them honestly.

But today, as an adult, it seems a bit weird to ask a kid to “convert” to anything. And it seems somewhat abusive to tell them they’re a bad kid.

Still, I did it as a seven-year-old boy. And even with all the feelings I have about seven-year-olds converting, the day was and remains a meaningful one for me.

It’s not just about my conversion. It’s about my relationship with my father.

I’m lucky. I don’t only have a dad in my life, I have a good, loving father who took awesome care of me. I idolized him growing up. If you were to list any good, intrinsic qualities I might have, I have them because I wanted to be like my daddy when I grew up.

Later in life when I discovered I needed some other qualities, particularly those in the non-church workplace, I learned to emulate my mother a bit more. She’s great too. But as a little boy I wanted to be just like my dad. It was my dad who prayed with me as a seven-year-old. I’m glad he did. Even with my misgivings about child conversion.

Below is the story, a selection from another piece of writing I’m working on.

How Being Bored Led Me to the Cross of Christ

Our move to North Olmstead, Ohio was the result of a new job opportunity for dad. He was no longer a senior pastor, but was still a minister in the Church of the Nazarene. The Nazarene Church organizational structure works like many others, and splits the world into geographical districts, and dad was taking a position as the Urban and Ethnic Coordinator for the North Central Ohio District. In this role he would encourage the development of new ministries in the Cleveland area, and communicate with the rest of the district about things happening there in context of the church. He worked closely with other Nazarenes who were involved in a pretty wide range of ministries. They taught ESL among refugees from Vietnam and Cambodia, distributed thousands of gifts to inner city children at Christmas, and distributed food - mainly butter and cheese, as I recall - through the Cuyahoga Housing Authority. Dad’s role was located in the inner city of Cleveland, and he was in some way responsible for church planting or something. Being the doting son I was, I’d go to work with him any time I could. I loved being with my dad.

On one occasion during the spring of 1983 - near Easter as I recall - I tagged along with dad when he was scheduled to preach to a group of people meeting in a gymnasium of some kind. It was one of those gym-toriums, where there was a gym floor, but also a stage. Not unlike what you’ll find in any random elementary school. There were metal folding chairs arranged in rows throughout the room, and dad sat me towards the back, but in the aisle where he could still see me easily. I was still of the size where I could swing my legs back and forth without hitting the floor if I wanted to. I was soon bored as dad preached, and soon found myself  engaged in an experiment to see if I could swing my legs hard enough to make my metal chair slide across the floor. 

Back and forth, back and forth. It wasn’t working. Maybe if I sat towards the front of the chair. Back and forth.

My chair went up onto the front legs before I caught myself and the back legs came slamming down on the wood floor, making a bit of noise in the otherwise reverential quiet. Because I was young and cute, not to mention the preacher’s son, people looked at me and smiled. Dad looked back and gave me a reassuring look as if to say “It’s ok. I know you didn’t mean it.” I knew better than to let it happen again.

But a few minutes later, once again bored out of my seven-year-old skull, I was back at it. Maybe if I skooch my weight forward at the same time I swing my legs forward  - kinda like pumping on the swings - I can make the chair slide. I tried it. 

SKWOOOONNGK! 

Everyone looked at me again. The smiles were awkward this go around, and while I wasn’t sure what message dad’s face was trying to convey, I knew it wasn’t saying, “It’s ok.” I’d have to find a quieter way to entertain myself. For the rest of the sermon, while dad prattled on the way kids hear preachers do, I sat still. Still bored, I found quieter ways to fill the time. I tried to count the people in the room. But it was hard for my young brain. I’d lose myself somewhere in the 30s. I untied and re-tied my shoes escalating to no less than a quintuple knot which I’d pulled so tight dad would later need needle-nose pliers to untie. Finally, after what seemed like forever, I began to recognize the familiar patterns and intonations that indicated the preaching was coming to an end. As dad began to ask rhetorical questions of a spiritual nature, soft music began to play.

Wait, I know what’s about to happen! I thought to myself. Daddy is going to ask people if they want to come forward, down to the altar to pray.

The altars were long kneeling benches about 6 inches off the ground with a padded base and a rail about 3 feet high for people to rest their arms and pray. I also knew that when people went down to pray, the preacher and other church leaders would come down to pray with those who went to the altar. And I knew my daddy would come pray with me if I went down.

So I did.

And I was right.

Not long after I walked down, knelt at the altar, folded my hands and began to pray like everyone else, I recognized the touch of my father.

“What do you want to pray about today, Jeff?” He asked. I didn’t know what to say. I just looked up at his smiling face, now feeling a little shy and hoping I could find the right thing to say to make him happy.

“Do you want to tell Jesus you’re sorry for your sins and ask for his forgiveness? Do you want to let Jesus come live in your heart and help you to be a better person? Would you like to go to heaven to live with Jesus someday?” 

Geez. It was a lot to think about. I mean, I had just spent most of the service making noise, a behavior for which I knew my mother would have scolded me. Oh, and I had done some other things I wasn’t proud of. Like those times I’d messed my pants when I was supposed to be out of diapers. I mean really out of diapers. I knew mom and dad didn’t like that. And the way I’d fight with my sister. I’d even punch her and stuff and tell her to shut up when mom and dad weren’t around. I know God saw that. God saw everything. Oh, and when my sister and I were getting along, we liked to use bad words together. Like really bad ones. God saw that too. And that time my friend Mark and I threw snowballs at passing cars and got yelled at by the driver. That was obviously wrong too. And the way I lied about my homework and made Mrs. Wong angry. I was suddenly very sorry about the bad things I’d done.

So, while I wasn’t entirely sure how Jesus was going to take up residence in my heart, I felt like the right answer was, yes. I needed Jesus to forgive me and help me be better.

Fully aware that there were other people near me too, people who might be listening, I nodded my reply in the affirmative, eyes beginning to fill with tears. Suddenly the conversation felt like it had more weight to it. Even at seven, I entered into a state of reverence.

“Jeffrey,” dad began, “are you sorry for your sins?” 

“Yes.” I sniffed.

“I know you are. And I love you. Jesus loves you too. That’s why he died on the cross to take the punishment for your sins. He did that for all of our sins. Mine too! Now I’m going to say a prayer. You repeat the words I say, OK?”

I nodded.

“Jesus, I want to say I’m sorry for the things I’ve done that I shouldn’t have…” He paused, and I repeated his words. He continued, “...and ask for your forgiveness of my sins.” Pause. Repeat. “Thank you for dying on the cross… Please come and live in my heart... and help me to be the kind of person… you want me to be… amen.”

It was a short prayer which I cried through. When we were done dad gave me a big squeeze and told me he loved me and he was proud of me. 

Mission Accomplished. For both of us, I suppose.

Even now, four decades after the fact, there are certain things I remember clearly about that Sunday and my prayer at the altar with my father. First, I was bored. Second, I went to the altar to get some attention from my dad. Those were my two motivations for a stroll to the altar that day. But I also remember real tears and feelings of contrition. I remember feelings of relief that my sins were forgiven. And even at seven years old, I remember knowing I’d made a commitment of some kind, and had joined a group of people who had prayed a similar prayer and had a similar experience as me. 

If you’re unfamiliar, we evangelicals call that experience a conversion experience. As in, before the prayer we were one way and after the prayer we were another way. It was a big deal. When I got home that day, dad announced to mom that I had something to tell her. I told her I asked Jesus to come into my heart. For a lot of people, me included at the time, it was the moment I became a Christian. My faith has adjusted in the decades since, but even today I consider that the day when I committed to a certain way of thinking, a way of life, and a faith.