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This is dangerous. I’m about to thank people, which means I’ll invariably forget key individuals without whom I never would have survived. So I do this in fear and trembling.

I begin with Gil Salk, a great buddy who served as copy editor. He encouraged me (he said he found the book intriguing, which surprised him: he’s isn’t familiar with the evangelical world) and, more important, he rescued me from my blindness to my own errors. His requests for clarifications rendered this more understandable to non-religious readers. Gil is one of those non-Christians who prompt sentences like, “If more Christians were like Gil . . .”

I think back in time. I think of my parents, who raised me and my only sister and sibling in that rare find called “a healthy home.” There was laughter; there were hugs; there was the Episcopal Church and its liturgy. I now realize that my parents’ religion spawned a prenatal faith that prepared me for my spiritual birth at the age of 16. I think I disappointed my late father when I didn’t seek ordination in his beloved Episcopal church, but he didn’t object.

I think back to the beginning of my Christian life and the loving people of Wintonbury Church of Bloomfield, CT. There’s Andrew Gerns, my best high school pal who eventually became an Episcopalian priest; there’s Peter Mason, who became a Conservative Baptist pastor; there’s his sister, Priscilla; there’s Scott Davis, Steve Whiting, Mark and Gail Brewer, Billy and Doug Truit, and so many others—including Rich and Cathy Ainsworth, the pastoral couple who guided that local body for decades. Wintonbury—even today—defies the evangelical caricature and still weds love, grace, and biblical integrity. I always remembered its example as I navigated my way through the hostile world.

I think of my spiritual exhaustion in the wake of my spent journalism career and my rejuvenation in the mid-1980s (I learned that Ed Gorham, my best friend since college, was praying for me as I walked through my Dark Night of the Soul). God nurtured me through my professors at Gordon Conwell Theological Seminary. There was the gracious Garth Rosell, whom I still consider a friend, and the late Nigel Kerr of the church history department. There was David Wells, John Jefferson Davis, and Richard Lints in the theology department—and Stephen Charles Mott, a United Methodist who opened my eyes to the Gospel’s social implications. I also fondly remember Greg Beale, a staunch Calvinist and genuinely caring New Testament professor. Many of my former professors would probably frown on this book—especially its characterization of Calvinism. To that I can only respond: “If only more Calvinists were like you.”

I think of my spiritual journey shortly after seminary and someone I never met: John Wimber, the late founder of the Vineyard Christian Fellowship. Wimber led many down the path toward genuine kingdom living: Life in the Holy Spirit is not merely meant for the sweet bye-and-bye. It can be real now, and we needn’t adopt an idiosyncratic theology. I thank him and the Vineyard as a whole.

I think of my denomination, The American Baptists, USA, and Judy Albee, Connecticut’s executive director (now retired). I thank them for their warm welcome and collegiality.

I reserve my most important thanks for last. I married a godly woman named Andrea LaCelle Redfern in the winter of 1987 when I didn’t know if I’d survive my first cancer bout. In 1993, she gave birth to our only child, Caleb, who has paid a price for his father’s peculiar calling. We have navigated a sometimes precarious path together, and I am deeply grateful for their faith in Christ, their love, and their integrity. This book is dedicated to them.