Year Of Our Lord: What would Jesus do today?

By David Heeren

What happens when Christians pledge to do as Jesus would do for one year? Charles M. Sheldon told the original version of the story, in 1896, in the

classic novel, In His Steps. Now, more than a century later, David Heeren posits the same question

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Nov 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781684862993

David Heeren

"When David Heeren conceived the brilliant idea of writing a sequel to Charles Sheldon's famous In His Steps, he undertook a very challenging assignment. He has succeeded in bringing forward the question raised in the 1896 best-seller -- What would Jesus do? -- up to date in our totally different environment more than a century later. His anecdotal style, in modern terminology, takes the reader through a series of dilemmas and difficulties confronting a young minister committed to walking as precisely in the steps of Jesus as he could for one year. Readers will find the results interesting and compelling."D. James Kennedy, Ph. D, (deceased)PREACHER, TV'S CORAL RIDGE HOURAUTHOR OF MORE THAN 65 BOOKS

Book preview

PROLOGUE

August 3

The old elevator ascends with a series of jerks toward the third floor of the Hope County Women’s Correctional Center, but the handcuffed passenger is reminded of the Prophet Jonah’s fateful descent. Destination: Belly of the beast.

Emerging from the elevator, her nostrils are assaulted by human body odors. Bowels of the beast.

A guard removes her cuffs and slams shut the jaws of her cell door behind her. She begins pacing back and forth, thinking about events of the past few hours: The false accusation, the arrest, the abduction of her children.

It probably didn’t make sense that in her distress she would remember a prophet who had lived more than 2,500 years ago. But, like herself, Jonah was a public activist, influencing the moral reform of the corrupt Assyrian metropolis, Nineveh. If the Assyrian contemporaries of Jonah were alive today in the United States of America, she believes their professions of choice would be abortionist and Child Protection Service bureaucrat.

Unlike Jonah she has no Nineveh in view. If and when she is freed, she has no idea where to go in search of her two beautiful little girls.

As she paces she develops a conviction that her time of detention will be longer than Jonah’s three days and three nights. In frustration, she slumps to her knees on the concrete floor and weeps, as her hands slide down the bars of confinement.

Steel ribcage.

CHAPTER ONE

A Month Earlier

The Rev. Charles Morgen wasn’t indifferent about his ministry, but he wasn’t enthused about it, either. His church, the First Church of Western Springs, had about twelve-hundred members and an adequate complex of debt-free buildings.

The congregation was growing in numbers and seemed to be growing in the faith. But even though he preached the Gospel, he hadn’t seen any spiritual rebirths in months. No spiritual offspring, no physical offspring: Beth and he had no children, and he sometimes wondered if that had anything to do with the fact that his ministry was barren of spiritual children.

He wanted to be a parent to both kinds of children, and he thought Beth did too. In a few minutes, he would implement an idea that might help the spiritual side of the situation. If his idea worked, perhaps God would open Beth’s womb as He had done for Abraham’s wife, Sarah. Beth was thirty-six – fifty-four years younger than Sarah had been when she became pregnant – so the fulfillment of Charles’ desire wouldn’t require a miracle. But it would seem like one.

He unlocked the basement of the church’s educational building, entered with Beth and rearranged chairs in a humid, closet-sized room while she made coffee. He called the small room the Lower Room. It seemed fitting that Jesus had met with His disciples in a more elevated station than the one where he was about to meet with a few First Church members for the last and least well-attended of the church’s weekly activities, the Saturday morning prayer meeting.

Under the leadership of Jesus, all of the disciples had been involved in the ministry of prayer. These days, prayer seemed much less popular among believers. The six people who attended the prayer meetings represented one-half of one percent of the church’s membership. The other four prayer group regulars were deacon chairman Burton Winthorpe and his wife Alice, pro-life activist Ellen Backster, and 78-year-old Percival Johnson, a church elder who as a young man had been present for the building’s dedication in 1971.

The Morgens finished their chores with a few minutes to spare before the start of the meeting. Beth went to the ladies’ room and Charles made a head start in silent prayer: Lord, I’m not sure I can do this. I can talk about it, but I’m not sure I can follow through on it in my own life. Help me, please. Amen.

Beth returned and the small group of prayer warriors arrived on schedule. The first was Johnson, a white-haired man who carried himself with dignity but who, in Charles’ opinion, looked tired and bored. The next arrival was Backster, a head-turning blonde. Morgen wished her husband Harry would spend more time with his wife because, whenever she came unaccompanied to a church function, she attracted men like an electromagnet.

Shortly after Ellen Backster, the Winthorpes showed up and, predictably, Burton Winthorpe began chatting with Ellen. Alice Winthorpe talked with Beth until Charles opened the meeting by giving thanks and praise to God.

They prayed, as always, that the Holy Spirit would empower Morgen’s preaching the next day. They prayed for each other, for sick members of the congregation, for unsaved loved ones, for their community, for the nation. They prayed that God would bring unity into His church and that He would commission a new generation of missionaries and evangelists. After the prayers, Morgen opened his favorite old King James Version of the Bible and read aloud 1 Peter 2:21: Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example, that ye should follow in his steps.

Morgen said, Does anyone know the story about this verse and the revival it inspired?

Hearing no response, he explained that it was the foundation for the book In His Steps written by Charles Sheldon in 1896. A careless publisher bungled the copyright process and the book was subjected to an open market. Millions of copies were published and circulated in the United States and the British Empire, making it for a while the largest-selling book other than the Bible in the English language. Morgen said, Many readers of the book took it to heart and impacted their communities for Christ.

He passed out paperback copies of the book and said, Try to read it during the next week and consider personalizing the commitment that was made by characters in the book. They made no important decisions for one year without asking themselves this question: ‘What would Jesus do?’ If the six of us make the same commitment, I believe one year from now our lives and the climate of our church and community will be radically changed.

Morgen could not have imagined the surprising ways his prediction would be fulfilled.

Percy Johnson lived alone, with plenty of time on his hands. All that day he read, while sitting in a living room chair or lying on a sofa. He took the book with him on trips to the bathroom. He put it down only once, while fixing a light lunch for himself. By evening he had finished. During and after dinner he meditated on what he had read.

Sheldon had been writing for a different era. Some of the subject matter, such as massive corruption in the railroad and prize-fighting industries, have about as much relevance for the twenty-first century as laws protecting dinosaurs. Despite his age, Johnson couldn’t remember when professional boxing was considered immoral or when railroads were an important part of the American culture.

Even so, the theme of the book seemed fresh. The commitment by a few people to imitate Jesus for one year transformed the fictional community of Raymond, Illinois, and generated a revival that spread to Chicago. Johnson found himself agreeing with Pastor Morgen that a few Christians, in full commitment to the Lord, could have an impact extending beyond the walls of their church.

Before falling asleep that night, Johnson made a prayerful commitment to walk in the footsteps of Christ, to the best of his ability, for one year.

During church service the next morning Morgen preached on 1 Peter 2:21. He asked the congregation to make the same commitment he had made and asked of the prayer group. He said it was too important a decision to be made on the spur of an emotional moment. He said commitments based on emotions usually went the way of New Year’s resolutions, forgotten by February.

He said they should make decisions after prayerful deliberation and should reinforce their commitments through private prayer. Those making commitments, he said, should call the church office and their names would be placed on a list to be prayed for during the Saturday morning meeting. Names on the list would be known only to members of the prayer group.

Johnson wasn’t sure he agreed with the pastor’s strategy. He liked the idea of keeping secret the identities of the commitment-makers. That way there could be no great show of spirituality by church members who had only superficial intentions of keeping their public promises. On the other hand, anonymity wasn’t necessarily a good thing. In Johnson’s opinion, there were too many Christians who did not have the courage to take a stand for Christ in front of family members, friends and neighbors.

Johnson admitted to himself that the death of his wife Atrisha had extinguished the holy fire in his own belly. Since her death, he no longer was strong enough to stand up to relatives and acquaintances who chidingly called him Uncle Tom because he was an active member of a white folks church.

There had been a time when he confronted his detractors. He would ask them if they knew who Uncle Tom was, anticipating a reply something like this: Old Tom was a gutless black dude who tried to act like a honky.

Johnson had read Uncle Tom’s Cabin and knew that Tom was the strongest, most courageous character in the book and that President Lincoln had identified the book’s author, Harriet Beecher Stowe, as the person who had done more for the cause of abolition in the U.S.A. than anyone else. In spite of Johnson’s sturdy stand, a few detractors persisted in referring to him sarcastically as Uncle Tom.

Johnson had become too tired to respond. He wondered if was now an actual Uncle Tom, not in the good sense intended by Harriet Beecher Stowe, but in the negative one meant by his critics. If he kept his commitment to be an imitator of Christ, maybe the Holy Spirit would rekindle the old fire. Maybe some of his detractors would turn their lives over to Jesus. Or maybe, like Enoch and Elijah, angels would take him up to heaven where he would see Atrisha again in the presence of the Lord. That would be the best of all possible outcomes.

Johnson spent most of that Sunday reading the Bible and praying. But instead of ignition of his inner fire, he felt only the clammy grip of anxiety.

He awoke as the first rays of Monday’s sunlight streamed through the half-open living room blinds. He was still on the sofa where he had fallen asleep. He had a sour taste in his mouth after a night of snoring. Atrisha had joked about his snoring but hadn’t complained. He wondered how many nights she had spent wide awake.

He gargled, brushed his teeth, splashed cold water on his face, put on a robe and went out to get the newspaper.

Wearing high-magnification glasses, Johnson perused The Standard while drinking his first cup of coffee and eating one or two pieces of toast. This morning, the front page and most of the first section were about wars, terrorism, and the clash between preservationists and the oil industry that had been vacated in northwestern states.

The second section contained stories about local politics and various problems closer to home. A story that attracted his interest was about a man, Buck Markbreit, who at one time had been a member of First Church. Johnson hadn’t known Markbreit personally but recalled him as a popular and successful businessman.

According to the story, on Sunday evening Markbreit had been attacked by an alligator and was taken by paramedics to Western Springs Medical Center. The story gave only sketchy details and did not explain how a well-to-do man had wound up in a drainage ditch near Interstate-595, where a homeless man had seen the big gator shaking him like a dust mop. The homeless man had called 911. Markbreit was in serious condition after having lost his right arm.

Johnson had read or heard tragic stories about people he had known better than Markbreit, without feeling the intense emotion he felt at that moment. It was almost as if Markbreit were a relative of his, a nephew or even a son. Johnson felt devastated. Even before praying about it, he knew what Jesus would do. He dressed and drove to the hospital.

CHAPTER TWO

Buck Markbreit was pleasantly surprised to wake up in a bed with clean sheets. Before losing consciousness as the gator waddled away with his arm in its mouth, his last thought had been that he probably would wake up in an even more unpleasant place than the usual patch of mud beneath the Interstate overpass. He had grown used to baking under South Florida’s summer sun, but was expecting an even hotter final destination.

Markbreit looked around and his vision cleared. In one corner of his hospital room sat a dignified looking African American, wearing a light gray suit that was a shade or two darker than the color of his hair. Markbreit thought he had seen him before, but that must have been a lifetime ago. He could not remember. He was sure of only one thing: Whoever the man was, he was there to visit the guy who occupied the room’s other bed. Markbreit, a man who once had been surrounded by toadies, was alone.

How had it happened? How did a man who had commanded his own little empire wind up with no family, no home and no right arm?

Markbreit felt dizzy but not hung over. The final substance that had entered his body the night before had not been cheap whiskey but a pain-killing sedative. His right shoulder ached, but the pain was bearable. The fact that he was in a hospital bed instead of his usual place beneath the Interstate proved the alligator incident was not part of a nightmare. He reached his left hand across his body to where his right arm should have been. His fingers touched an empty sleeve.

An alligator attack! How many people were attacked by gators in the state of Florida? Markbreit figured the number must have been no larger than the miniscule number of shark attack victims. Odds of his being attacked by a gator approximated his chances of winning Florida’s lottery. Well, that was just his luck, the final implausible incident in an incredible series of events that had left him derelict.

A nurse came in with a breakfast tray. Markbreit was thirsty, not hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt like eating. He picked at the reconstituted scrambled eggs, drank the orange juice and pushed the tray aside.

A doctor came in, leafed through some computer printout pages on a clipboard and smiled at him. Good news, Mr. Markbreit. You can go home this afternoon. We’ll set up an outpatient appointment.

When the doctor left the room, he was followed into the hallway by the white-haired man. A few minutes later the man returned to the room and stopped beside Markbreit’s bed. Don’t worry. You can stay as long as necessary.

Markbreit didn’t care how long he stayed in the hospital. He was much more curious about his mystery visitor’s identity than about what he had said to convince the doctor to extend his stay. The man must have been Markbreit’s benefactor, but who was he? Markbreit couldn’t think of a friend he had in the world, if you didn’t count two other homeless guys who hung out by the Interstate.

There had been a time when he thought he had a lot of friends. He belonged to a large church and numerous civic organizations. Despite his church membership, he had no idea what it meant to be a Christian, as the Bible defined Christianity, and he didn’t care. It was amazing how much business you could generate by attending a church. Christians seemed especially gullible.

At one time he had rivaled Richard Simmons and other prominent hawkers of expensive dietary-exercise programs. He had made most of his money on half-hour TV specials. A lot of sedentary women stayed up late at night to watch boob-tube infomercials while eating their bedtime snacks. He was the last person they saw before rolling their pudgy bodies into bed, and the first person they thought of when they got out their plump check books in the morning.

The beginning of the end for Markbreit was the filing of a class-action lawsuit against him and his corporation. Somehow, a group of women who had suffered ill effects from his products joined forces with a powerful law firm and filed a multi-million-dollar suit. Realizing he had no chance of winning, he filed for bankruptcy. His wife filed for divorce. She got the house, Mercedes Benz repossessed his half-paid-for automobile, and plaintiffs in the lawsuit picked over what was left.

With his strong background in sales, Markbreit found employment after settling the lawsuit. But increasingly heavy drinking prevented him from keeping a responsible job. After three firings, he couldn’t land any kind of job except selling newspapers on the streets. In less than five years he went from prosperous TV icon to homeless drunkard.

He fell asleep in the hospital bed feeling sorry for himself.

When he awoke the room was darker. The man who had occupied the bed next to his had checked out. The white-haired man had returned (or had he never left?). He was sitting in a corner, reading.

Good book? Markbreit asked.

The best.

I like Dean Koontz. Who’s your favorite writer?

The Holy Spirit.

Markbreit laughed. Sure, and next you’ll be telling me you’re an angel, like on one of those ridiculous TV shows.

The Holy Spirit inspired the writing of every word in the Bible. I call it God’s autobiography.

Boring, Markbreit mumbled.

Only to an unbeliever.

Why are you here? Who are you, anyway?

Johnson smiled. Not your guardian angel, I assure you.

Do I know you?

I saw you in church. About ten years ago.

Thought I remembered your face, but I don’t know you. What do you want from me? I don’t have any money.

Johnson said, If I tell you the truth, will you promise not to laugh?

Wednesday and Thursday passed uneventfully. Markbreit slept a lot, and every time he awoke Johnson was sitting in the same place, reading a newspaper or the Bible. Markbreit spent most of his waking hours trying to figure out what Johnson wanted from him. Johnson had explained his motivation, but to Markbreit his behavior seemed as improbable as the gator attack.

Markbreit never had met an adult human being who was sincerely trying to serve God instead of his own self interests. And yet, if Johnson was a con man, he was a very good one. He kept his vigil in silence. Little by little the thought began to impress itself on Markbreit: He’s really here for me.

On Thursday afternoon a doctor told Markbreit the bloody seepage from his shoulder stump had stopped and he was well enough to go home the next day. There’s no place like home.

Markbreit stifled a sarcastic laugh. No protection from the weather but an Interstate overpass. No car to take him there and no money for a cab. He considered asking Johnson for a lift, but thought better of it. Just by being there the man had done more than he could ever repay.

Exactly how much Johnson had done Markbreit still did not know. He found out in the morning when he was handed a copy of his hospital bill. The bottom line was a staggering five-digit number followed by a decimal point and two zeroes. The bill was signed by Percival Johnson and was stamped in large black print: PAID IN FULL.

Markbreit was stunned. He stared at the bill in shocked silence until he found himself standing next to Johnson’s car in the parking lot. He asked Johnson, Why did you pay this?

Johnson shrugged. It’s a small thing compared with what Jesus did for me.

Markbreit said, You know where I live, don’t you?

Yes, I know. Get in and I’ll drive you home.

Johnson drove about two miles before Markbreit realized he had made a wrong turn. You’re going the wrong way.

I said I would take you home and that’s what I’m doing. I didn’t say whose home.

Markbreit had heard horror stories about black neighborhoods. His first thought was he wanted no part of a tiny apartment in a roach-infested public housing project. His second thought was more realistic: Any place with a roof over it is better than mine.

As Johnson drove, Markbreit expected to see the surroundings turn grungy. He was pleasantly surprised when Johnson turned off into a well-landscaped subdivision of Western Springs and parked his Toyota in the driveway of an attractive house.

Markbreit took his first hot shower in weeks and Johnson called him to lunch. The two men sat at a table in a screened and roofed patio overlooking a lake behind Johnson’s horseshoe-shaped home. The patio was nestled between two bedrooms, both of which had rear windows with lake views. Johnson slept in the bedroom on the left side of the patio. He had moved Markbreit into the bedroom on the right. Sliding glass doors opened from the bedrooms into each end of the patio, which was cooled by ceiling fans.

Markbreit hadn’t felt this hungry since he had begun living on the streets. Thanks for all you have done, he said between bites of a delivery pizza. I have been sober for four days and intend to stay that way. I’ll get a job and find my own place. Pay you back when I’m on my feet.

You’re welcome to stay as long as necessary.

Markbreit watched an anhinga settle onto a rocky ledge beside the lake and spread its wings to dry. He said, Mr. Johnson, there’s one thing I still don’t understand.

Call me Percy.

Percy, explain this to me. You say you are trying to make decisions based on what Jesus would do, but how can you read the mind of a man who has been dead for two thousand years?

Johnson smiled. Jesus is alive. He died and was buried, but his tomb was found empty on Easter morning. He was seen alive by hundreds of people during the weeks before his ascension into heaven. The Bible is his autobiography.

You said it was God’s autobiography.

Jesus is God’s one and only Son. He lives forever in heaven with his Father. Do you know the story of the good Samaritan?

Markbreit frowned. I think I remember it from my ancient churchgoing days. It’s about a guy who helps out another guy who has been mugged, robbed and left for dead. I almost died, but I don’t see any other relevance. I was attacked by an alligator, not a gang of thieves.

The Samaritan made sure the injured man received medical treatment and paid for it out of his own pocket before going on his way.

There it was – Johnson’s true motivation. Markbreit said, The Samaritan became a hero because of the story Jesus told about him. And you think you will be a hero in your church when they find out the wonderful deed you have done. That’s it. That’s what this is all about.

There was a moment of rigid silence. Then, in a soft voice, Johnson said, Actually, I don’t plan to tell anyone.

But if somehow your pastor finds out, you won’t mind standing up in front of a thousand people and recounting the good deed you did for a street bum. With a story like that you could write a book or land a guest spot on Christian TV. They would interview you on one of those big-hype shows and there would be clapping and shouting: ‘Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!’

Markbreit looked at Johnson. What he saw in Johnson’s eyes touched him deeply. It wasn’t anger, arrogance or ambition. It was a look of sincere concern. He broke eye contact.

CHAPTER THREE

Pastor Morgen opened the Saturday morning meeting with a discussion of his week-old proposal. He learned that the other five people in the group had made commitments to imitate Christ for one year. He asked them to make public their commitments during the altar call at the end of the eleven o’clock service the next day.

I shared this with you before the full congregation for two reasons, Morgen said. In my opinion, Christians who put a priority on prayer are more likely to keep promises than those who do not. And when other members of the congregation see you committing yourselves, they will be more likely to follow your lead.

But that will be doing just what you said you didn’t want to do? The speaker was Beth Morgen, an attractive brunette who looked about five years younger than her husband. You’ll be playing on their emotions.

There’s a risk of that, Charles Morgen said. I actually want to strike a balance between rational thought and emotion. The emotional appeal will be balanced by the fact that everyone had a week to think it over. But I want the appeal to be strong enough so the timid ones won’t back down at the last minute.

Sounds iffy to me, Beth Morgen said.

To most of the congregation the Morgens appeared to be the ideal pastor and pastor’s wife. But prayer group members knew the person most likely to contradict the pastor was his wife. Beth Morgen was not as submissive to her husband as she seemed to people whose only contact with the Morgens consisted of social greetings after church.

Encouraged by Beth’s boldness, other members of the group voiced their concerns. Burton Winthorpe wanted to know if the pastor had any long-range plans. A year can go by in a hurry. What happens after that?

Charles said, Each of us will have to address that issue the same way we address every other issue for the next year, by asking the question: What would Jesus do?

Winthorpe sighed. In other words, this is not a one-year commitment, but a lifetime commitment.

For some of us, it may end up being a long-term commitment. Others may decide not to renew the commitment after one year.

Ellen Backster said, I hate to change the subject, but I’m dying of suspense. I hope this week was as exciting for you as it was for me.

The men turned to look at Backster, who always seemed to be made up and dressed for a social event. Beth Morgen rolled her eyes and looked down at her hands, fisted in her lap. The effervescent Ellen said: I made my commitment to Jesus on Monday. On Tuesday we had a good turnout of picketers in front of Durgeon’s abortion clinic. We persuaded one girl to keep her baby and give her life to the Lord. She said she would be in church tomorrow morning. Did any of you experience such exciting things this week?

Ellen Backster looked from face to face. It seemed to Beth Morgen as if Ellen’s sapphire eyes gazed for a much longer time on the face of her husband than anyone else.

Percy Johnson considered saying something, but he put a muzzle on the surge of pride that tried to force its way up through his throat. He had told Markbreit he would keep confidential what had happened, and he meant to keep his promise. Keeping promises wasn’t as easy as making them. Following Jesus wasn’t going to be anything like a stroll on a Florida beach.

Most of the prayer time that morning focused on commitments to be made during the next day’s service, the pro-life picketers and the young woman who, according to Ellen Backster, had decided to save her baby and give her life to the Lord.

The altar call was disappointing to Pastor Morgen and Ellen Backster. Out of more than nine-hundred people at the morning service, only ten came forward to make commitments to do as Jesus would do for one year. They were the six prayer group members, three other church members and one guest who came forward with Percy Johnson. Not a pregnant young woman among them. Backster didn’t see the young woman anywhere in the sanctuary.

Morgen prayed for himself and the other nine. One of them was in tears. He was a thin, one-armed man, whom the pastor did not recognize. After giving the benediction to end the service, Morgen asked deacon chairman Burton Winthorpe to drop Beth off on his way home. Then he placed his hands on the weeping man’s shoulders and asked if he wanted to talk. Accompanied by Percy Johnson, the man followed Morgen to his office.

Buck Markbreit told Morgen how his life had fallen apart and how events of the past week had given him hope for putting it back together. Morgen asked him to consider retelling his story in front of a much larger group of people.

Sunday evening services at First Church were sparsely attended. A majority of the church’s members attended the morning service, but only a zealous twenty percent went to evening church. The thousand-seat sanctuary was more than half full this evening because word had spread that the man who had been attacked by an alligator was going to give his testimony. Included among the attendees was Sandra Jordon, The Standard reporter who had written the story about the gator chewing off Markbreit’s right arm. Jordon, a member of First Church, came prepared with camera and tape recorder.

Morgen thought he understood why Markbreit had been a successful TV huckster. His face was gaunt and his belt was fastened at the final notch. Otherwise, the oversized pants he had borrowed from Percy Johnson would have fallen to his ankles. But his emaciated appearance added credibility to what he said. He had a calm presence about him when he arose and walked to the pulpit. Morgen knew that the Bible did not mention a spiritual gift of public speaking, but if such a gift existed Buck Markbreit had it.

Markbreit had been told he could use the entire twenty-five minutes that usually was reserved for the pastor’s sermon. It was a challenge that would have frightened someone inexperienced at speaking in front of crowds, but to Markbreit it was perfect. He was used to making TV presentations of almost exactly that length.

Beth Morgen, a careful weight-watcher, had seen a few of Markbreit’s TV informercials. She noticed a difference in his demeanor as he began to speak. His voice lacked the hyped energy he had generated to sell his weight-loss plan. He spoke quietly but with force. Beneath his humble exterior, she sensed the power of a conviction that his experiences of the past week had changed him profoundly.

Markbreit began by telling about a shaky marriage that was held together by a successful business career. He and his wife enjoyed spending the vast sums of money he earned, but they did it in different places. His acquaintances were businessmen and investors. Hers were country club wives and golf instructors. They had no children, so there was nothing to hold the marriage together after the lawsuit was filed against him. In settling the suit and his wife’s divorce action, he lost everything and wound up on the streets.

He summarized all this in less than ten minutes. But when he began to tell about his life as a derelict, a smile appeared on his thin face and remained until the end of his story. The audience was enthralled. Jordon was taking photographs.

Markbreit said, "I was a member of First Church for ten years, but to me it was just a place for drumming up business. Pastor Morgen preached about trusting Jesus for salvation, but he couldn’t sell me. I had perfect health and all the money I wanted. What else did I need? Sometimes he would give an altar call beginning with the words: ‘Suppose you died tonight…’ It amused me when he would say that, but I didn’t think it was so funny last Sunday night when I almost died.

"I kept telling myself I would only have to live on the streets for a short time. Then I would get my life back together, earn another fortune, buy another Mercedes and another million-dollar house. But weeks passed and I realized I was deceiving myself. After losing a few jobs and being turned down for dozens of others, I gave up.

I panhandled each day for enough money to buy a bottle of cheap vodka. I drank my meals and was either hung over or sick most of the time. I didn’t think I would live much longer. I realized that if hell existed, as Pastor Morgen had described it, I would be there very soon.

Markbreit pinched the empty right sleeve of his shirt with his left hand and said, I know this will sound strange to some of you, but I think the alligator that attacked me was acting on orders from God. It was like the Bible story of Jonah being swallowed by the big fish. God does dramatic things to catch the attention of stubborn people.

Markbreit pointed out Percy Johnson, who was sitting in a first-row pew. "Mr. Johnson told me he wasn’t a guardian angel, but I’m not so sure about that. He sat in a hospital room with me four days. When I finally realized he was there for me, I thought he was crazy. I didn’t know him. Why was he there?

"I doubted Mr. Johnson’s motives until he did something only a greedy man like me could appreciate: He wrote a large check – a very large check – to cover my hospital bill. Then he took me to his home and settled me in a spare bedroom.

"He did not try to convert me. He didn’t even invite me to church. But by last night I was a broken man. I cried most of the night before finally waking him up and asking him what it was he had and I didn’t. He told me that, in spite of everything, Jesus loved me. He explained that when Jesus suffered the agony of crucifixion, he took my place and the place of every other person who deserved to be on the cross instead of him.

"All I had to do was believe that Jesus died for my sins, trust him as the Lord of my life, and I could rest assured of living with him forever in heaven. Mr. Johnson opened his Bible