And even that is hard.

It’s hard to be bold in my faith on Facebook, because I’m afraid of what people will think. I’m afraid some folks will be turned off. I’m afraid of being “un-friended.”

My goal, of course, is for people to see someone whom they know and (hopefully) respect actually walking out their faith. I also hope that people who knew me from grade school or college or a former employer—people who knew me before I was saved—might be curious about why the once secular girl raised by an atheist is now professing her belief in Jesus Christ.

That’s my hope. My fear is that they’ll think I’m a nut job—that they will dismiss my zeal as religious nonsense, or worse, think I am sanctimonious and judgmental.

Really, my pride is getting in the way. It would hurt my pride for someone to call me a name, dismiss my beliefs, or cut ties all together. It would also hurt my pride if I failed.

I want to lead people to Christ, to show them that they are missing a whole dimension of life—the very purpose and meaning of life. I want them to understand who Jesus is, and that He loves them SO MUCH that He suffered torment and physical abuse, and ultimately died on the cross…just for them. I want them to accept Christ into their heart before it’s too late. If instead I turn them off, pushing them even further from the Lord, I will be ashamed, embarrassed, and flat out mortified.

Aye, there’s the rub. Because that fear of failure is really narcissism in disguise. It’s making myself greater than God, as if He weren’t able to speak directly to someone’s heart, even if I “blow it.” As if he weren’t able to speak through me, when I don’t know the right thing to say.

Moses said to the LORD, “Pardon your servant, Lord. I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor since you have spoken to your servant. I am slow of speech and tongue.” Exodus 4:10

When I look at how God worked in my life, I can see plainly that no amount of preaching was going to reach me until I was ready. I attended Catholic church for eight years and never had a relationship with Jesus. It wasn’t until Craig witnessed to me one night in July 2003 that everything clicked. I couldn’t tell you a thing that he said, but I was wrecked. God spoke to my spirit. I asked Jesus into my heart, and my life has never been the same.

God meets us where we are at. He met me when I was steeped in sin, living a Sex in the City lifestyle in Manhattan, sans the Manolo Blahniks. He spoke to me through Craig. Then he spoke to me through a stranger named Valeria Smith who invited me to sit with her at Brooklyn Tabernacle. Over the next year, he spoke to me through Pastor Lawrence Kennedy and my friends from the North Church, Kara Sparks and Lori Yeary, teaching me what it means to be a disciple of Christ and to walk in His will.

Today, God continues to speak to me through friends, blogs, preachers, teachers, scripture, songs, and sometimes just straight into my head. Several years ago, He planted us at a different church, where I continue to be fed and challenged to study the Word and go deeper in my faith. My prayer is that God will continue to bless me with wisdom and discernment, and to use me as his mouthpiece to speak encouragement and truth into the lives of others.

Because it’s not about me, it’s about Him. I’m just the messenger.

The LORD said to him, “Who gave human beings their mouths? Who makes them deaf or mute? Who gives them sight or makes them blind? Is it not I, the LORD? Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say.” Exodus 4:11-12

My dad was angry about this, and felt robbed of the comfortable retirement he had neatly planned out. After four decades of teaching at the university level, he was looking forward to taking the first of many ocean cruises with his wife of 28 years, Regina. Instead, he made his first of many visits to the hospital for bloodwork and PET scans and chemotherapy treatments intended to ward off his disease.

I miss my dad with a deep ache in my heart. But I am deeply blessed by the time we spent together during the last year of his life, and the knowledge that we became closer and loved one another more than we ever had before.

You see, my father was something of a stoic. He raised me as a single parent for 11 years before he remarried, and although he loved me deeply, he wasn’t one for outpourings of affection. We were more like roommates, each going about our daily routine and carrying our weight in keeping up the household. He was also a strict disciplinarian, especially when it came to academics, and as a child I regarded him with equal parts adoration and fear.

More importantly, my father was an atheist. And, despite all his best efforts to teach me to be a “free thinker”, I became a born again Christian at age 34.

We never talked about religion, except once several years prior, when I was attending Catholic church. Having never been taught about God at all, Catholicism was a comfortable stepping stone in my journey of faith. It was also anathema to my father, who was raised Jewish and — although he was a theology minor in college — later chose to abstain from any religious doctrine or belief in a higher power. The conversation was laughable, like a child at her First Communion trying to explain the precepts of faith to a Ph.D., when she had only encountered a feltboard Jesus.

We never discussed religion after I was born again, and left the Catholic church in New York for a pentecostal congregation in Dallas, Texas. We never talked about what it meant for me to accept Jesus into my heart, or how the Holy Spirit truly transformed me from the inside out, softening the hard edges and filling me with joy, faith and compassion.

But he saw it.

I flew to North Carolina to visit my father several times during the last two years of his life, knowing — if only in theory — that our time together was suddenly limited. And, although I never witnessed to him or shared the gospel in conversation, I lived it. I demonstrated Christ’s love to him in every way I knew how, which sometimes meant just being there to encourage him with my companionship. I asked him to tell me stories about his accomplishments in high school and college, and I helped him organize the myriad photos, awards and papers that would mark his legacy. I assured him that my husband and I were happy in our marriage and financially secure — two things that mattered deeply to him.

And I told him that I loved him. Whenever I came to visit, and whenever we talked on the phone, I made sure to tell him — and as time went on, I felt it deeper and deeper in my heart. Despite the battles of my youth and our divergent worldviews in my adulthood, I respected and appreciated my father more than ever. Nothing could take away the pain and bitterness of his sickness, but he knew that he was loved, and there is no greater balm.

My husband Craig put together this wonderful video tribute to my father’s life to play at his memorial. I’m adding it here to honor him.

I love you, dad.

[See post to watch Flash video]

Dr. Jay Rosenberg
1942 – 2008