It’s late on a Saturday night in a tiny church on the outskirts of Covington, Tennessee, in early 1974. My mother, pregnant with me at the time, was sitting in a revival service led by her father, Enlo J. Rickard, a fiery, charismatic preacher with passion for saving the lost. He is a short man with a thunderous voice that transmits “the Lord’s message” from the depth of the pulpit to the expansive church parking lot. He is preaching from the Book of Daniel. His heart is sincere as he pounds the lectern, begging and pleading the lost to open their hearts and ask the Lord to enter in and save them from the pits of hellfire. In his passionate rave, he felt compelled to say that “this world needs more Daniels.”
Daniel was an Old Testament prophet, whose name in Hebrew translated means “judged by God”. We all know the story of Daniel in the Lions’ Den. According to Scripture, Daniel was a Hebrew who was captured by King Nebuchadnezzar’s army and carried off to Babylon. Although the details of the story are disputed by archeologists and historians, the story is very familiar to Jews and Christians alike. Daniel was said to have divine authority and powers to interpret dreams for the King, just as Joseph did in Egypt for the Pharaoh.
Christian preachers often use Daniel as an example of a faithful servant of God and one who epitomizes someone who is zealous and unwavering in his love and commitment to Yahweh. He is a person every Christian should emulate.
That night, my mother and father decided to call me Daniel. It was their goal to train me up to be a faithful servant of the Lord. Their hope was that I would follow in the footsteps of my family and serve as a beacon of the gospel leading people to the saving grace of Jesus Christ.
Throughout my childhood, I struggled with many aspects of the faith. I don’t know exactly when I began to question my faith, but apparently any doubts I had were either extinguished on Sunday morning by the tirade of a well-being pastor or immediately by my own guilt or fear of separation from God. Either way, I didn’t entertain the rebellious thoughts for long.
I suppose my greatest fear was that I would end up separated from God. In this, I believe came my most significant question of the faith—the concept of Hell, which I will address later. Before I questioned hell, I questioned the existence of supernatural beings such as ghosts, UFOs, angels, and demons.
By the age of 15 or so, I was thoroughly indoctrinated in the faith. I knew the fundamentals of Christianity and in particular, Southern Baptist theology. I fully understood the concept of the virgin birth, salvation by grace through faith, and the Trinity. I blindly followed the word and believed the pastor was under the influence of the Holy Spirit and what he spoke was truth. Pastoral authority is central to the Christian faith.
I must say that my father was probably instrumental in my questioning the faith. He always railed against the pastor as arrogant and undeserving of authority. My father was a deacon and questioned every move our pastor made. He confronted him on many occasions during deacons meetings and would come home fuming and describing the earlier events. As I look back, he undermined the authority of the pastor and instilled a distrust of church leaders.
Additionally, my father was highly critical of some family members and their denominational choice. He was highly critical of charismatic beliefs, such as faith-healing, speaking in tongues, shouting and raising hands during worship. My paternal grandfather and grandmother taught a quiet form of Christianity in which a believe is reverent during service and does not disrupt. I remember vividly when I would say, “God is a God of order and not chaos.”
Part II is forthcoming...
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