Originally posted by Gina L:
</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />No, the Roman Catholic Church does not teach “progressive justification,” and they never have. They teach that progressive sanctification is the most common experience, but that instantaneous sanctification is preferable and attainable. Unlike most Protestant groups, they do not make a sharp distinction between salvation and sanctification.
Ok, you got right to the heart of the inquiry, and I hadn't even said it. You're good!
Will you please define what you believe to be the difference between salvation and sanctification?
Actually, everyone reading this can do that. I'd be interested in hearing your views. </font>[/QUOTE]When I tell people that I was saved on May 2, I do not mean that on May 2 I attained to the righteousness of Christ nor that on May 2 I stopped doing everything that was wrong or inappropriate and that I began doing everything that was right and appropriate. What I mean is that on May 2 I confessed to God that I had sinned and asked Jesus to save me. Here is my testimony of salvation,
I didn’t get saved until I was 25—because I didn’t need to be saved. I had never smoked a cigarette, I didn’t drink, take drugs, or swear—and I was a virgin because I knew that sex outside of marriage was immoral. I was studying to be a teacher because I loved people and enjoyed helping them learn.
One night when I was almost 25, four teenagers—a 14 year old boy named Gary, a 15 year old girl named Jeanie, and two others—invited me to come with them to a Christian youth service. I felt very badly for these kids, since they were Christians, and I went to the youth service with them believing that if I could help just one kid to escape the snarls of Christianity it would be worth my time.
I had never been to a Christian youth service before, and boy was I surprised when I walked in the door! There were about 75 kids packed into the living room of an old house next door to the church—and they didn’t even have the courtesy to provide chairs—we all had to sit right on the floor. I found a spot along a wall where I could at least lean back and get some comfort, and I looked around the room. There was a fat lady about 40 years old sitting in the one chair in the room, and there was this guy about 37 years old standing up talking to some of the kids. I learned later that his name was Ken and that he was in charge that night.
After a few minutes, Gary and Jeanie and some of the other teenagers got into a little group with some guitars and tambourines and began to sing a song that went something like this:
Shackled by a heavy burden,
'Neath a load of guilt and shame;
Then the hand of Jesus touched me,
And now I am no longer the same.
He touched me! He touched me! And O, the joy that floods my soul. Something happened, and now I know; He touched me and made me whole!
Since I met this blessed Savior;
Since He cleansed and made me whole,
I will never cease to praise Him
I'll shout it while eternity rolls.
He touched me! He touched me! And O, the joy that floods my soul. Something happened, and now I know; He touched me and made me whole!
It was a cute song, but I certainly wasn’t underneath a load of guilt and shame because I was not guilty of anything, and I had nothing to be ashamed about.
They sang some more cute songs, and since I loved kids, I enjoyed their performance—but then they quit singing and began giving their testimonies—and that was a bit much—especially when they cried half way through them. They testified how sin had wrecked their lives and Jesus had saved them and put their lives back together—and I could tell that they were so brainwashed that they really believed the stories they were telling. As it turned out, I didn’t get a chance to say anything, and my being there was a waste, except that the refreshments were good and I enjoyed being in the company of the kids.
I started going to a Baptist coffee house several night a week where during the Bible studies I could occasionally express my ideas. I was very embarrassed to be in such a place, however, and when they asked me my name, I told them it was none of their business—and they named me “Charlie Brown.”
I continued going to the Christian youth services at the Assembly of God church and began to get acquainted with the kids there. This one 17 year old girl, Laurie, was really nice, but I could tell that she was damaged goods. We got to talking one night and she told me that sometimes she can’t come to church because her parents punished her by forbidding her to go to church. I stood out like a freak, but the kids were really nice to me, except that I found out that they were praying that I would get saved.
This went on for a few months—the kids were really nice to me, but some of the adults were beginning to show definite signs of hostility—and then it happened. On a Sunday night I found myself being physically escorted out the door.
However, the associate pastor, who was also the leader of the youth group, came to my rescue and brought me back inside and told the others to pray for me. Before I knew it, the whole church was praying for me, and they continued to pray for me until a few minutes after midnight. Then the associate pastor asked me if I would like to accept Christ as my savior. I had enjoyed all of the attention, and listening to their prayers was a lot of fun, but as for getting saved—nuts to that idea. Jesus was no more real to me than the Easter Bunny or Santa Clause.
A man and his wife with five kids gave me a ride home, and on the way home one of the kids said to her parents, “We have never stayed at church this late before!” I suddenly realized that the whole church had done something for me that they had never done for anyone else, not even one of their own. I was very much impressed by this, but I was not at all impressed about Jesus.
Another Sunday night came (I had better things to do on Sunday morning than go to church) and there I was again. And then another Saturday night youth service, and there I was, but after the service the youth director/associate pastor named Ken took me into the sanctuary and sat me down on the front pew and told me that he was going to read to me something from the Bible. Ken read a few verses from Romans, and I stopped him and told him that I had already read it (which was a lie), but he began reading again from Romans and made me a little angry.
Gary, a blond-haired boy and one of the four teenagers who had invited me to the youth service months before, walked past us and I pointed to him and told Ken that Gary was one of the reasons why I was not a Christian, because Gary was a hypocrite. Ken replied, “You mean my boy?” and I answered, “No, Gary,” and pointed to him again. Ken told me that Gary was his boy. Both Ken and his wife had dark hair, and both of Gary’s brothers had blond hair like he did, and this all came as a very embarrassing surprise to me. To top it off, the senior pastor’s wife overheard my comments about Gary, and brought him over to me and told me to tell Gary what I said about him.
I was trapped by my own mouth, and I told Gary that I said that he was a hypocrite. Gary, just 14 years old, looked at me for a moment, and then began to speak. He told me that he was not a hypocrite, that he got to school every day an hour early so that he could witness to the others kids as they got off the buses. Gary went on to tell me that because he did that, he didn’t have even one single friend in school, but that he loved his schoolmates and wanted them to get saved. And then Gary invited me to go out with him and some of the kids from the youth group to their Saturday night hamburger joint—Bob’s BigBoy.
I had thought that Gary was a hypocrite because he invited me to the youth service but from that point on had ignored me. And now that I told his father that he was a hypocrite, he was reaching out to be my friend. The three letter word “sin” had never been a part of my vocabulary because I didn’t believe there was such a thing, and especially not in my case, but there was Gary sitting at the table with me, and I knew that I was a sinner.
This guy sitting across the table from me, Jeanie’s boyfriend, started to witness to me and I became so angry that I picked up my full glass of ice water and through it into his face. That was the first time in my life that I had committed an act of violence—and I was absolutely shocked that I had done such thing—and in a crowded restaurant at that.
A couple weeks later, on my 25th birthday, I struck up a conversation with a young man and learned that his name was Ricky, that he was a marine, and that he was a backslidden Baptist. We became friends and Ricky really wanted me to get saved—and he witnessed to me and witnessed to me—and one Saturday night he pressed me and pressed me to pray with him and ask Christ to be my Lord and my Savior. I didn’t want any part of it because I didn’t believe it, no, not really, but Ricky pressed me so hard that I told him that I would go to church the following night and answer the altar call.
Ricky wasn’t going to church anywhere, and I went to the Assembly of God that I had been going to for a few months now. When the pastor gave the altar call, I realized that I had made a terrible mistake—I had made a very foolish promise—but I had given my word to Ricky and I crept toward the altar full of embarrassment for doing something so foolish.
The senior pastor’s wife came over to me and asked me if I wanted to accept Christ as my Lord and Savior, and I told her the promise that I had made to Ricky. I had less faith in Christ than Abraham had in electric light bulbs, but the pastor’s wife said a sinner’s prayer and asked me to repeat the words after her—and I did so—and the people in the church began to shout “Praise God! Thank you Jesus!” But I was just glad to get that over with.
But while I was “praying” I felt a tender hand on my shoulder, and when I finished praying I looked up and saw that it was Gary by my side. He told me that he had been praying for me ever since that first day that he had met me, and then he took off. He came back a few minutes later looking like he had been in a windstorm—his blond hair was all messed up and his shirttail was out—and he handed to me a King James Bible and explained to me that the door to the church office was locked and that he had to climb in through a window to get the Bible for me because he didn’t want me go home without one.
I didn’t drive, and the senior pastor drove me home, a very rare thing for him to do, and on the way he told me that he was very blessed by my accepting Christ. I told him that I was “going to try it for a few weeks,” and he dropped me off at my house.
For the next three weeks I continued going to church and the Baptist coffee house, but my life had not changed at all, nor had I changed at all. One night at the Baptist coffee house, a young man asked me if I was a Christian, and I told him that I was not. He took out of his pocket a “Four Spiritual Laws” Bible tract and began to share it with me while I didn’t say a word; but all of a sudden he stopped and looked at me and said, “I don’t know why you lied to me about not being a Christian, but I can tell that you are.” I was caught off guard, and I told him about what had happen three weeks ago. Someone overheard and shouted out, “Charlie Brown got saved!” I was absolutely shocked and more embarrassed than I thought possible, and I got up and got out of that place.
A few nights later I was walking down the main drag in downtown San Diego—Broadway, and as I stepped up onto the curb from 4th Avenue and began walking down the sidewalk along the edge of Horton Plaza, I noticed a young sailor standing near the corner. I had seen him there before, and I sensed that he was propositioning himself to other men, but that was very common on Horton Plaza so I hadn’t given any thought to it. But that night, something was very different—not about him—but about me! I wanted to just keep on walking, and even forced myself to do so for several steps, but I felt something inside of me forcing me to turn around. I tried to resist, but I couldn’t, and I walked right up to him and asked him if he was prostituting himself.
He told me that he was, and he began to cry, and then he took off like a rocket running down Broadway toward the bay. And there I went—running after him. He ran right through the red traffic lights dodging the cars, trucks, and buses; and I ran after him, right through the red traffic lights dodging the traffic. He finally took cover behind a large pillar on the front of a building, but I saw where he went, and I ran up behind him and felt my right hand being lifted up onto his shoulder—and I heard Bible verses coming out of my mouth as he leaned up against the pillar with his face in his hands, crying.
After a few minutes, the young man turned around and told me that his name was Bob, that he was a Christian, that he was in the Navy, and that he was married and that his wife was expecting a baby, but that he was getting ready to go on a West Pacific cruise for several months and would be out to sea when the baby was born. He was extremely lonely, confused, and hurting inside—and he told me that he began to run because he was embarrassed, but that as he was running, he was hoping that I would care enough to pursue him and help him.
Up to that point in my life, servicemen had been little more than scum in my sight, but here I was holding in my arms a serviceman, and loving him more than life itself. And then I knew,
the hand of Jesus touched me,
And now I am no longer the same.
