I became a Christian on May 23 1973. I had been on a vacation to Greece with my wife Marcia and two of our friends. I saw places where Paul the Apostle had stood, but had remained unimpressed. Marcia had wondered at my interest, but I assured her it was entirely logical and scholarly, and that I was only interested in the historical narrative that such a visit entailed. Paul was an interesting sidelight. There were no monuments to where Alexander had stood or where Pompey the Great had been imprisoned. But there were for Paul.
A few months later, my world was rocked by the realization that Christ had died for me at Calvary and had risen from the dead. It took me six years to determine that Reformed theology not only answered my heartfelt faith, but my logical and (as I thought) scholarly bent. I am not emotional, so the trappings of a sappy spiritualism never took hold in me. I thank the Lord that He allowed me this knowledge. I pray that I might be worthy of it. The casualty of my conversion is the loss of certainty that I am right and that I am somehow superior to others. I find myself looking up at better Christians, but rejoice that they are there, that I can emulate them and try to live a more holy life. As David wrote, my sin is ever before me. Praise the Lord, that I hear His voice and am aware of my complete unworthiness to bear His name. But I do.