A Real Conversion.
Image: The hilltop beside the fishing village where the local ekklesia—the called-out ones—gather to worship the Living God. The concrete cross is not an object of worship, but simply a geographical marker where the believers meet.
My conversion was not a “nice idea” or a gradual drift into church because it seemed respectable. It was the Holy Spirit showing me, for the first time, what I really was. And it broke me.
I had been down every dead-end street I could find. Goa, parties, travelling, work, friendships – I kept thinking the next thing round the corner would finally make life make sense. But eventually I hit a wall. I realised that if I walked down one more dead-end, I would have to admit life was pointless. That was the moment another way opened up in front of me: not a wide road with crowds on it, but a small, narrow path.
The conviction of the Holy Spirit doesn’t flatter you. He doesn’t tell you that you’re “basically a good person who just needs a bit of religion.” He shows you the truth. I saw my own sin, my selfishness, my pride, the way I had lived as if God did not exist. It was like looking in a mirror for the first time. I wasn’t destroyed, but I was in pieces – like a smashed pot on the floor.
That breaking was not cruelty. It was mercy. The old me had to die. The Bible says we are crucified with Christ and that the old self is put to death. Scripture also says what every honest Christian knows: you still feel that old self hanging around your neck like a dead man you drag behind you. I understood what the Apostle Paul meant – the new heart was real, but the old habits, the old temptations and shadows were still there, trying to pull me back.
From that point on, everything changed. My heart and mind were different. I didn’t see the world the same way. Things I once shrugged off as “just life” now looked like poison. I wasn’t suddenly standing in the street judging everyone – I could see that I was the problem. But I also knew that certain things had to go. Certain places. Certain patterns. Certain friendships.
In the end, I lost all my old friends. They didn’t want Christ; they wanted the old version of me. They were happy enough for me to believe in God in private, as long as I left my shoes and my Christianity at the door when I visited. Eventually it was clear to all of us that it couldn’t go on like that. I stopped going round. They treated me differently. They sounded different. We agreed it was for the best, but it still hurt.
My conversion was not a Pentecost-style experience with shouting, singing, and tongues. There was no choir in the background. It was quieter and more painful than that. It was me on the ground, many times, saying things that are between me and God. It was the Holy Spirit convicting me of sin, breaking me, and then, very slowly, beginning to build me back up again in Christ.
That is what I mean when I say my journey really did go from Goa to the Gospel. I gave my life to Christ before my baptism – baptism is an outward sign of the inward work of the Holy Spirit. I was baptised on Sunday 8th October 2017.
Praise God. Amen.
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