I first heard the gospel in my late teens. Before then, I'd only heard it in fragments at best, in caricature at worst—either a hasty, cobbled-together version that was hard to make coherent, or a gaudy, cartoonish version that was hard to find credible.

At 18, scrawny and chippy, I heard the real thing: the Good News in all its tenderness and fierceness, beauty and terror. It told me, without euphemism, the deep trouble I was in, and offered me, without sentimentalism, the deep remedy I could have, free for the asking. I heard about Jesus and the Holy Spirit. I heard about God—not the god I'd imagined who was sometimes doddering and indulgent or sputtering and belligerent, but God: majestic, just, loving, and bent on my eternal good.

Breathtaking.

But I fought it anyway. I fought it because of the good news. Like the first disciples, I could not believe it for joy and amazement. It seemed too good to be true. And I fought it in spite of the good news. The gospel demanded of me ...