There Must Be Something More!-paperback

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(chapter 1, part 1 of 2) Death Sentence

My God! How had anyone been able to stand me? Why hadn't somebody killed me long before now? I didn't like the sudden blinding revelation that showed me to myself, the revelation that I, who had always thought I was so wonderful, was a total washout as a person. It sickened, it hurt, I wanted to deny it, but try as I might, I couldn't think of one justification for my life. There wasn't a single good, decent quality in me. Why was God letting me live? Maybe He wasn't! The thought careened through my head, and I couldn't stop it. Maybe the flashing of my whole life before me was a prelude to its end-that very day. But God! I'm not ready to die! I drove aimlessly around the city for several hours going like an automaton through the mechanical motions of stopping for traffic signals, changing lanes, accelerating, slowing, thinking .... As I considered the life I'd lived, really seeing myself for the first time, the evil that was in me seemed to swell larger and larger, until I feared I would burst with it. But why? Why had I been like that? Why had I never seen it until now? Was there any hope for me? As the unanswerable questions swirled, I considered crashing my car into the fast-moving traffic to wipe out the awfulness of the past. But I was afraid. If I did that, maybe I would land in hell, stuck with the awfulness that was myself for an unending forever. Unexplainably, I found myself parking in front of a big bookstore I had frequented in the past. As I entered the store, my feet took me automatically down the aisle to the new age section. There, a book with a blue jacket leaped out at me-The Bible, the Supernatural, and the Jews by McCandlish Phillips. I reached for it, it fell open in my hands, and I began to read:

"If you would not thrust your hand into a snake pit, you should not permit yourself to be drawn into an involvement with one or another form of occultism, even in a tentative and experimental way, without knowing that it is possible for you to step over a threshold and past a door that will slam shut behind you as soon as you stand on the far side of it-slam shut so tight that nothing you can do can ever get that door open again so that you can get back out."

Had the door already slammed shut on me because of my involvement with horoscopes, fortune-telling, and mind control? My heart was beating wildly as my eyes skipped through the pages a little further. There I read something even more terrifying:

The door that can never be opened again slams shut faster on a Jew than on a non-Jew.

The author went on to say that this is true because every Jew, whether he knows it or not, is in a covenant relationship with God. I felt beads of sweat popping out on my forehead. My throat was on fire. The gooseflesh of fear enveloped my whole body. But I couldn't put the book down. I shoved some money across the counter to the check-out clerk and dashed back to my car, the book tightly clenched under my arm. I wasn't even aware of driving to the apartment, just of suddenly arriving there, slamming out of the car, dashing through the lobby and into my room, torn with warring desires. Part of me wanted to devour the book, to read every word; another part of me wanted to rip it to shreds, to set it on fire-anything to get rid of it! The page to which I opened named prominent Jews who had lost their lives because they had dabbled in the occult, opening the door to the supernatural through acid rock music, alcohol, marijuana, drugs, yoga, martial arts, meditation, channeling, seances, psychic healing, acupuncture, hypnotism, and mind expansion. There was Brian Epstein, manager of the Beatles. Brian, a multi-millionaire at thirty, was a Jew. He had dabbled in the occult, and he had died of an overdose of drugs. I shuddered, thinking how close I had come to following in his footsteps exactly. Phillips said that entering the supernatural world is like stepping across a manhole cover when you enter it, but when you want out, the cover is conveniently missing. The only way out is straight down into the very bowels of hell. But I didn't want to die! I wasn't ready to die! O God, help me! Somebody, help me! I had to get in touch with God! I had to tell Him how sorry I was. For everything. But I didn't know how to get in touch with God, and I didn't know who could help me. My fortune-teller couldn't help me. The mind control people couldn't help me. They said there was no such thing as evil. My rabbi? He'd probably send me to a psychiatrist who would lock me up and throw away the key. My mother couldn't help me. She didn't know how to reach God either. Panic stricken, I rushed out and ran to a jewelry store in the neighborhood. There I bought a mezuzah and hung it around my neck. Maybe that would show God that I belonged to Him. I telephoned Joy, my estranged wife. "Pray for me," I pleaded. "Pray like you've never prayed before! Pray to your God for me! Ask Him to help me. Please ask Him to help me. Ask Him to spare my life!"