I was born in the southern suburbs of Chicago where my father was planting a church. I could never begin to remember when I first heard the gospel of Jesus Christ. My mother tells me that she explained the story of Christ to me before I was home from the hospital. Of course I have no recollection of that(!), but from my earliest days, when I was still so very impressionable, I knew it was right and good to love and obey God. And I knew that Christ was the only savior of sinners. My parents taught me in the ways of God, and it was in every respect a Christian home—one for which I am eternally grateful.

My earliest memory is from age two, in 1960, when we moved to Bartonville, IL, a suburb of Peoria, where my father was called as pastor of the Oak Grove Baptist Church. I heard him preach every Sunday and every Wednesday since before I could understand words. In those days he gave an altar call after he preached. It was never the extreme practice of so many, but I saw many, many people step forward to talk to him about their spiritual concerns. It never really moved me much—the preaching or the altar calls—but somehow I knew that I too needed to do business with God. I knew it, but the thought really never bothered me either. I recall talking about these things in general terms with my parents, but I do not recall ever feeling lost. It was something I guess I knew, because I had heard it preached well enough and often enough; but somehow the thought just never bothered me. I did not rebel against it; in fact, I would have told you in my childish terms that I had a favorable disposition toward God and Christ and the Church and all that. But so far as my personal lostness was concerned, it was something I guess I would have admitted if asked, but I do not recall it bothering me.

I do recall my dad asking me on occasion, “Fred, when are you going to be saved?” Wisely, he never pushed me for immediate decision, and the conversations did not continue long. But it did get my attention. Sort of. At least it got me to think about the issue a bit. But I really was not all that bothered by it.

Until one Sunday morning in 1964 while my dad was preaching. Suddenly and without warning of any kind I knew and felt my guilt. I realized that if I died I would deservedly perish under divine wrath.

Understand, I was only 6 years old, but I was very unexpectedly overwhelmed—crushed with an awful sense of my lostness. For the first time ever I saw my need of a Savior, and I knew that only Jesus Christ would do. Only he had died for sinners, and only he could save me. And that day I began to look to him. I was desperate. I was shaken and torn to the depths of my soul. And that morning I knelt and did business with God. I told him I was lost. I told him I needed to be saved. I cannot emphasize enough how desperate and crushed and broken I felt. I understood and felt that I was lost. In later years I became acquainted with the Biblical doctrine of “irresistible grace.” My own experience was such that I had no trouble understanding the doctrine, and I could scarcely have questioned it—it matched my experience all too well. God had made me feel desperate, and no one in the world could ever have kept me back from going to him. That morning I ran to Christ with all of my might. I knew that if I did not have him as my Savior I would perish. With tears and with faith I asked God for mercy. I acknowledged in the language of a six-year-old my spiritual poverty and asked him to save me. I laid myself before him in absolute brokenness. I knew and felt that I deserved hell, and I cried for rescue.

I do not set up my experience as a model for anyone, but my conversion to Christ was the most dramatic moment of my entire life, and I have never got over it. God had overwhelmed me with the most awful sense of sin and judgment. And then, in another moment, he overwhelmed me with a great sense of his love and favor and grace and my new-found safety in Jesus Christ.

I went home with a solid and happy assurance of my good standing in Christ—a confidence which (I say this honestly) has never been shaken to this day. I didn’t know much theology at that point—I was only six. But I knew that Jesus Christ was my Savior, and I knew that with him I was safe and would be safe forever.

God had saved me, and I knew it. And I was one very, very, very happy boy. Such a powerful sense of the love of God was so poured out in my heart and so filled it to overflowing, that it was more than a match for that awful sense of lostness. The subject of Christian joy has never been difficult for me to grasp at all. Ever after that day when I would read or hear from the Scriptures that statement about a Christian’s “first love,” I knew very well what it meant, even if I could not explain it clearly. I cannot say it too strongly—when God saved me, he made me know it. And I loved it. I loved him, and I rejoiced to know that he loved me and that God had accepted me in him.

And it was this experience, which I never got over, that God later used to call me to preach. From as far back as I remember, before even a serious thought of preaching, the line from William Cooper’s hymn has been a favorite was,

“E’er since by faith I saw the stream,
Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die.”

I am almost embarrassed to talk like this, because it seems to many so unbelievable that a six-year-old boy could think and experience all this. But I knew on that Sunday morning that my entire being and existence had been radically changed. My whole outlook, my whole life, my whole being was different. I had been born again. I had new life. I was a new creation in Christ. All these Biblical expressions were after that day immediately understandable for me, even if not explainable. Things would never be the same. I would never be the same, and I knew it. I had fallen in love with Christ. In that moment he became my unrivaled treasure.

And everyone who knew me knew it. I couldn’t wait to get to school the next day and tell my friends in kindergarten—and my teacher, Mrs. Daugherty. But I had not been a Christian a full twenty-four hours before I realized that not everyone would share the same excitement about Christ that I had. I was too young and too naive to think that only a day before even I had not been so excited about him, and now looking back I can understand Mrs. Daugherty’s very polite but really uninterested response when I walked into class and announced to her that God had saved me—“That’s good, Fred. Now go find your place and sit down.” But when she said it, I really did not understand. She was polite and kind, but I could tell that was all it was. There was no real interest. I could tell she was not happy for me and really did not understand what I was trying to tell her. It was the same with all my friends. I couldn’t wait to tell them about Jesus. And I didn’t have the understanding then that I have now to realize that they, like I had been until only yesterday, were blinded in sin. They really could not see. They were simply unable to appreciate what I was telling them. I wanted them to have the same joy I had just found, and I really couldn’t explain their indifference. It was not twenty-four hours, and I had already taken my first steps into a growing realization that we who are in Christ are in the world, but we are not of it.

There was another thing I wanted. I wanted to be baptized. I knew, I guess from the preaching I had heard and the many examples I had seen, that baptism was a symbolic declaration of my submission to Christ. I did not understand much, but I did understand that. And so I wanted to be baptized. The next Sunday evening, before the church service, my dad was meeting with baptismal candidates in his office. I had told him that I wanted to be baptized. He did not want to discourage me, but because of my youth he wanted to be careful, and so neither did he encourage me to attend the class. He didn’t even tell me about it—I knew of it only from the announcement during the church service. And all of a sudden while playing that Sunday evening I realized I was late for the class. I quickly changed clothes and ran over to church and into Dad’s office. There he was with several others, I don’t remember who anymore. “What do you want?” he asked. “I want to be baptized!” I replied. So he let me in, and that evening he baptized me. “Proud” is the wrong word, I guess, but I was as happy as I could be to express in this way my loyalty to Jesus Christ. And I was determined. I did not understand then much about what we call “Lordship salvation,” but I would have agreed to it without hesitation. With everything in me, I wanted to live for the Lord Jesus Christ. He had saved me. And I loved him for it.

In the Spring of 1971, toward the end of my seventh grade year, my father was called to a church in Huntsville, AL, where soon a uniquely vibrant youth group developed. My church friends and I tried to be faithful witnesses in a very difficult high school, but God blessed in many ways. It was in those years that my interest in the things of Christ began to sky-rocket. I listened intently to my dad’s preaching, taking notes and usually getting the tapes to listen to over and again. I listened intently to my youth pastor’s preaching and exhortations. Honestly, I hated reading—just couldn’t stand it. In school I read just enough of the assigned books to get by. I don’t think I even once finished a book that was assigned to me in school. I hated reading. But I loved reading my Bible. And I memorized verses and passages by the yard. Far from perfect and as inconsistent as I was, for me, high school was not a time of overall rebellion. It was a time of spiritual growth by quantum leaps. I loved playing sports at every opportunity. I loved that too. But my heart aflame to learn all I could from Scripture. Such passages as those that described the Bible as “sweeter than honey” became among my favorites.

During those memorable high school years there developed in me the strongest sense of urgency to enter the Christian ministry in some capacity. What I really wanted was to preach. But very honestly I knew that preaching just wasn’t for me. I knew that I did not have what it takes. I wasn’t smart enough, and I knew it. I wanted to preach, but I knew I couldn’t. I was afraid of it. I had lived with a preacher, and I knew what all was involved. I had seen the pressures and the problems and the difficulties and the heartaches. And I had seen the work it required and the diligence in study. Still I wanted to preach, even though I was convinced that I wasn’t able. So I planned to pursue music and youth ministries instead.

That until finally one day during my senior year of high school I determined that this drive to preach God’s Word was a desire that was God-given and that if he wanted me to preach he would somehow enable me. Both scared of it and excited about it, I went off to pursue Biblical studies at Bob Jones University. I majored in Bible and minored in Greek. I wanted desperately to learn my Bible and its teaching.

From the very first week on campus, however, I was terribly disillusioned. I had grown up in Baptist fundamentalism. It was my dad’s background, and it’s where he spent his years in faithful ministry. I can talk about my fundamentalist stock like Paul in Philippians 3 talked about his Jewish heritage. And BJU was a fundamentalist school. But it was quickly evident that this was not the brand of fundamentalism I had grown up with. The narrowness, the issue-oriented preaching, the separating from brothers who disagree on even minor issues, the lack of Biblical exposition and grace / gospel / Christ-centered preaching—all this I found appalling. Several of the Bible courses were very helpful, and the instruction in Greek was excellent. Good people all, but the focus was off center. This was not my father’s fundamentalism. I don’t know what the school is like today, but then, at least, it was not a brand of Christianity in which I would remain, and I knew it. I was just biding my time. I would get what I could, but I knew I didn’t fit in. Later I would find a better fit within the  theologically Reformed community.

The Lord gave encouragement toward the pastoral ministry during my junior year when I was awarded the university’s first place recognition in preaching. I still was not convinced that I could, but I did want to preach. I remained after graduation another year and received a Master of Arts degree in Pastoral Studies.

The best thing I got while was at BJU was a girl from Columbus, OH, by the name of Kim. I soon knew that I’d love growing old with her. Somehow I convinced her that it was a good idea too, and so in the summer after my sophomore year we were engaged, and on June 8, 1979, just after I completed my junior year of college, we were married. We had the same goals and desire to serve the Lord together, goals which we still share today. It was a match made in heaven. God would give us two wonderful children, first Gina and then Jim, both of whom belong safely to him. In 2013, after many years of severe health struggles, Gina died. It’s impossible to say how much we miss her, but we take great heart knowing that she is with Christ.

In June or July of 1981 Kim and I moved to Denver, CO, where I had been called to be the associate pastor of the Beth Eden Baptist Church. It’s what I thought I needed — an associate position, where the preaching was left primarily to the other guy. But I wasn’t there 5 minutes (literally) and I knew it wouldn’t last long. The pay was fine, the people were good to me, and we made many friends. And I took up further seminary studies while I was there, primarily in the field of church history. And I enjoyed that thoroughly. It was a larger church, and Kim worked in the offices of that big operation and gained skills there which she could not have gained elsewhere. But I was dying—I had to get into a preaching ministry or bust. I was still very afraid of it, but by now I had learned too much, and if I couldn’t begin to give it out I was going to burst.

So in July of 1982, at age 24, we moved to Anderson, IN, where I finally entered the pastoral ministry. In 1985 we moved to Schuylkill County, PA, where I would pastor the Word of Life Baptist Church for seventeen years. It was here that I would grew up, and God blessed the ministry in every conceivable way. We had years of financial hardship personally, but our memories of the time God gave us there are blessed. In 2002 I was called to pastor Cornerstone Church of Skippack, PA, and in 2007 to Reformed Baptist Church in Franconia, PA, where I have happily served ever since.

Through all those years I continued to pursue theological education, mostly targeting “weak” spots. Finally I decided that I should get some degrees out of it all, so I went back to pick up some required courses and completed another M.A. (1993), this time in New Testament, and then a Th.M. (1994), also in New Testament. A friend later encouraged me to pursue a Ph.D. in Theology, which I completed in 2010 at The Free University of Amsterdam. The education at every turn was delightful and proved enormously profitable, and I’m extremely grateful for the furthered insight into Scripture it has afforded. I have enjoyed teaching in various institutions along the way, but I’m happiest in the church where ministering God’s Word continues to be a joy. When people ask when I plan to retire, I always say that I don’t think I should retire until I should.