Pastor’s Testimony

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Jesus explained, “I am the Way, I am the Truth, and I am the Life. No one comes next to the Father except through union with me. To know me is to know my Father too. And from now on you will realize that you have seen him and experienced him.”

~JOHN 14:6-7, TPT~

At the start of 2003, the last semester of my senior year in college, I was studying graphic communications (graphic designing), and I had completely lost my way in life. However, no one in my life could tell because I was so skilled at projecting strength, control, and friendliness while hiding my unbearable pain and loneliness behind a big smile. In addition to surrounding myself with people, I buried myself in a life consumed by alcohol, drugs, and parties to hide my debilitating depression.

One morning in late February 2003, while getting ready for school, I followed my regular routine, drank eight ounces of cheap vodka, and hopped into the shower. Suddenly my father burst into the bathroom and interrupted my shower, “Zin (my middle name and my Chinese name), when are you going to graduate? Your family needs you to start making money and helping out with the bills. You need to drop out of school and get a full-time job somewhere, even at a fast food restaurant.”

Screaming was the normal volume of communication in my family. So, following my father’s lead, I screamed back, “What the hell is your problem? I’m graduating this August, and I will be working full time as a graphic designer soon.”

“You’re a loser,” my father responded. “You have been in college forever and you still have not graduated?” He slammed the door (slamming doors was also a standard thing in my family) and exited my bathroom. Up to this point, I had paid for my own college education with the help of financial aid and working multiple jobs each semester. My father contributed nothing to my education.

After my father slammed the door, I was so fired up from my interaction with him that I started to become consumed with rage. I finished my shower, changed, and barged out into the living room to find my mother sitting on the couch watching Chinese soap operas.

“Mom, Dad is crazy,” I screamed. “He barged into my bathroom and demanded that I quit school and get a job at a fast food restaurant to help with his bills. Also, he called me a loser!”

“Dad is right,” my mother responded. “You have been in college forever and it is time you gave up your dream of a college education and got a normal job, like your brother.”

Confused and extremely upset, I grabbed my art supplies and my school projects and rushed out the front door, got into my truck, and drove to school. As I drove, thoughts of suicide filled my mind as anger filled my heart. I considered driving off the highway, showing up to class and slitting my wrist, and even a murder/suicide scenario where I killed my father then myself. As I drove, the feelings of hopelessness and rage grew.

I arrived at my school, unloaded my truck, and walked into our school’s design studio with my supplies and projects in hand. My heart was beating out of my chest; however, I kept on a big smile, trying to hide my despair. I sat down at my desk, closed my eyes, and breathed slowly, trying to clear my mind and calm my emotions about how my morning started.

While I sat at my desk, all three of my design professors approached me. “Jonnathan, we’re so glad you’re early. May we see you in our office for a moment?” one of the professors asked.

“Sure,” I responded, hesitantly getting up out of my seat and following them into their office.

“So, we’ve been talking in great lengths about your class,” one professor started. “We discussed you a few times and felt that it was time to talk to you.”

Another professor chimed in and said, “We are not sure graphic communications is the right major for you and wanted to ask if you have considered changing majors?”

My first thought was, “Hell no. Are you kidding me? I’m six months from graduation.”

However, I calmly replied, “You know what, I have considered a few changes in my life and will consider this one, too. May I take today off to think about my future?” At that time, my classes were held every Tuesday and Thursday for nine straight hours each day. Each student in the senior block graphic communications program was only allotted three absences before being dropped from the program.

The three professors quickly glanced at each other and nodded, followed by one of them saying, “We are so glad this conversation went so well. Let us know on Tuesday what you decide.”

What the professors did not know was that when I stated that I was contemplating my future, I was actually contemplating my suicide and even envisioned jumping off the fourth floor of my building into the courtyard to end the pain.

My forty-five-minute drive home was the longest ride of my life. As I drove, I pictured myself speeding into eighteen-wheelers, driving into oncoming traffic, and even driving off an unfinished section of the highway to plunge to my death. Exiting the highway and nearing my home, I contemplated other ways to end my pain: overdosing on my mother’s prescription medication, slitting my wrists and bleeding out, taking my father’s pistol to rob a store so I could die by the police, and lastly settling on shooting myself.

As I walked into my house, I found my mother sitting on the couch where I left her about two hours previously. She was sobbing while watching a martial-arts soap opera (yes, those exist) and looked surprised that I was home so early. My mother paused her movie and asked me to sit down because she wanted to talk to me about something. I shook my head and refused to sit, stating that I would rather stand to hear what she had to say, expecting another blatant attack on me. She agreed to let me stand and informed me that a family friend, whom I called “Uncle,” had just passed away from his bout with cancer. Although he was not someone that I knew too well, the news of his death hit me like a ton of bricks, and it was exactly the last thing I needed; it shattered me. I thanked my mother for letting me know and retreated to my home office.

I sat for a few minutes in front of my computer before pressing the power button. The familiar and calming chime of the computer rang out in my room. Suddenly, I broke down crying, laying my forehead down onto the black keys of the keyboard as tears began to stream, dripping off my cheek and nose into my keyboard. I was completely heartbroken. I cried deeper than I ever had before. Then the oddest thing came out of my mouth. I cried out, “God, why are you doing this to me?”

That question surprised me because at that time in my life, I thought that I did not believe in God.

After pausing for a few seconds, I continued, “Is it because I’ve ignored your voice all my life?” The truth was that I had always heard a calming voice: sometimes it was audible, sometimes it came through thoughts, and other times filled me as a knowing.

I continued crying out, “I need you. I have questions that need answers.”

After my first plea to God, I stared blankly at my computer as it completed its boot up. I was sincerely hoping for a Matrix-type moment. The Matrix was a science-fiction action film that came out in 1999 that was widely popular. Early in the movie, when the main character’s computer was hacked, the hacker sent him a simple message, “Follow the white rabbit.” Yes, it sounds crazy, but I was expecting God to crash into my computer and reveal Himself in some way. The computer finished booting up, as all the remaining hope drained out of me. I said to God, “Of course you would turn your back on me, too,” as my head dropped, and I stood up to start making my way toward my father’s gun, which was under his desk in the next room. I continued to weep and thought to myself, “I guess this is it.”

As I opened my office door in pursuit of my father’s gun, my plan was interrupted by the doorbell. I paused to hear who it was, as my mother answered.

“Zin, it’s two young, pretty girls,” my mom’s voice rang through the house. “They’re probably your friends.”

I thought to myself, “What better way to lift the spirits of a single, twenty-something-year-old man than two pretty girls?”

I responded, “Tell them to wait; I need to wash my face.” I needed to wash my face with cold water to try to hide the fact that I had been crying. I was very skilled at hiding emotional pain. After washing my face, I walked to the front door and opened it with my face still puffy and red. To my surprise, there were two young Mormon girls, missionaries, standing at my front doorstep.

I remember thinking, “God is Mormon?”

Then, after the initial shock wore off, I noticed that both young women had fear in their eyes. I surveyed their surroundings and noticed a red sedan parked in the middle of the street in front of my house, engine running and the front doors wide open. At that time, I lived in a neighborhood in Houston called Alief, which was known to have a very high crime rate, particularly with robberies, carjackings, and stolen cars, so instantly I assumed that these two must have been carjacking victims.

“Is everything okay?” I asked the two ladies. “What happened?”

The lady who was closest to me responded, shaking her head and turning away from me, “Forget it. You won’t believe us.”

I grabbed her right arm by her bicep and responded, “If you tell me what happened, I can help!”

The lady replied, “Well, we just left a Bible study down the street. As we drove past your house, there was a voice inside our car, which said, ‘Stop the car and get out!’”

Upon hearing that, I instantly assumed my suspicions were correct. They were carjacked!

I urged them to continue by asking, “What did you do?”

They looked at each other and said together, “We got out!”

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“Then the voice was outside of the car,” the woman said. “It said, ‘To your right is a brown house, and in that house is a little boy who has questions and needs answers. Go tell him that all the answers are in here,’” she lifted a large book, “‘the Holy Bible and only in here.’” While lifting the Bible with her right hand, she tucked a small black book under her left arm.

I was at a complete loss for words as I stared at them.

The woman who was speaking broke the silence, saying, “Never mind, this is crazy. I knew you wouldn’t believe us.”

I grabbed her arm again and asked, “Who is in my house?”

The women looked at me, and one responded, “I don’t understand what you are asking.”

I clarified my question by asking, “Who did the voice say was in my house?”

The woman in front, looking rather confused, responded, “A little boy?”

“I’M THAT LITTLE BOY!” I exclaimed with excitement. “Did you hear my prayer earlier?”

Both women, still confused by our interaction, shook their heads, gesturing no.

“You heard the voice of God,” I proclaimed. “If all my answers are in that book, come in and teach me.”

One of the two ladies responded, “We can’t come in. We’re only allowed to minister to other women. Let us talk to our father”—I would later learn they were referring to their pastor—“to find out if we can teach you. What is a good day to contact you? What is your phone number?”

We exchanged numbers, and I told them that spring break would be perfect because it was just around the corner, at the beginning of March. The ladies left and assured me that they were going to call me soon.

Even though I did not receive the answers to my questions, I felt rejuvenated and had no doubt that God was real and was flabbergasted that He thought of me as His little boy.

It was a Thursday afternoon, and I felt so encouraged about what just happened that I decided to redo all my design projects from my senior year and a few of my lower-scoring projects from my junior year. I set a lofty goal of completing the redo of my projects by the next class on Tuesday. I worked day and night for five days straight.

Tuesday came, and I was still feeling rejuvenated and very confident on the outcome of my projects. I walked into the graphic design studio and asked to meet with the three professors who propositioned me to change majors only a few long days earlier to let them know my decision. I informed them that I decided that I wanted to be a graphic designer and to prove it, I spent the last five days redoing all of my senior projects and even a few of my junior projects. Looking very surprised by my decision, they reviewed my revamped projects and were pleased to see all the work I put in. They said, “Welcome back, Jonnathan!”

As they walked away, one of the professors turned to me and asked, “What happened to you this weekend? Your work looks way different, and you seem happier.”

I replied, “This may sound crazy, but I had an encounter with God that helped me get my life into perspective.”

She responded, “That doesn’t sound crazy at all.”

You see, the design class I was in was not like your typical university course. You had to compete to get into the junior block program, and each year only twenty-four students who compete are picked to get into the program. In 2001, I was one of the twenty-four chosen out of approximately 180 students who applied.

At the end of my nine-hour day, each professor had reviewed my latest projects and provided me with great feedback. I sat at my drafting table, feeling rather accomplished. I decided I needed to share with someone, a friend, about what happened to me last week. I got up to enter the computer lab, which typically had five or more people in it twenty-four hours a day. However, today was different. To my surprise, there was only one person sitting in the lab. Coincidently, he was the best designer in our class, and I would learn later of his own rather radical encounter with God, which not only saved his life but his marriage and career, too.

“Hi, Jonnathan,” he greeted me. “Your projects looked great today. Are you okay? It looks like there’s something on your mind?”

“Yea, I’m fine,” I responded. “I wanted to tell someone what happened to me last week. Are you the only person here?”

“Yea, it’s odd, but everyone randomly packed up and left a few minutes before you walked in,” he said. “Did you want to talk to me?”

Feeling rather excited about my encounter with God just a few days earlier, I decided I would share. In the middle of my sharing, he turned his back to me and started typing and clicking away at his computer. I initially thought he was being rude but decided to finish my story nonetheless. Upon completion, I sarcastically thanked him, only to have him say, “Hey, thank you for sharing, Jonnathan. Come over here; I want to show you a scripture that came to mind as you shared with me.”

I had no idea the Bible was online. My friend showed me the scripture, John 14:6-7 (NLT): “Jesus told him, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to the Father except through me. If you had really known me, you would know who my Father is. From now on, you do know him and have seen him!’”

Upon reading the scripture, my heart filled with joy. I received it as further confirmation that God knew me. I thanked my friend, grabbed my supplies, and rushed out to my truck before I had another emotional breakdown. As the elevator opened, another friend was standing there. Looking at my face, she asked if everything was okay. I broke down and told her yes, that everything was great. She gave me a huge hug, telling me that she was available if I needed to talk, which I softly declined before running to my truck and crying on the steering wheel.

“God, the creator of the world, actually knows me,” I thought.

About two weeks later, midway through spring break, there were no more miraculous encounters. God’s voice grew quiet. I concluded that I must have had an emotional breakdown that day and imagined it all. Now fully convinced that it was all made up in my head, I decided to throw a hotel party, with drugs, alcohol, and plenty of old friends. I sent out text messages to my cousins and friends, booked the hotel room, called my dealer to bring plenty of drugs, and I started to get ready for the party. As I walked out of my bedroom, looking my very best, I glanced up at my pin board hung by the doorway and saw the Mormon women’s names and church number pinned up. I tapped the Post-it and said to God, very sarcastically, “Whatever happened to them, God?”

Before I completed my next step, my house phone line rang. I paused, dropped my head down, and reached for my phone. As I picked it up, I placed the phone with both hands on my heart and said, “No way. No freaking way. God, if this is them, I am yours forever.” Then I followed that up with a small whisper, “Please don’t be them.”

“Hello,” I answered.

“May I speak with Jonnathan Truuu-ong, please?” a small woman’s voice on the other end asked.

“Speaking,” I responded.

“Hi, it’s Sister JOHNSON; you may not remember me,” she said. “My friend and I knocked on your door a few weeks ago and met you. Is this a good time to talk? When is your spring break? I hope we didn’t miss it.”

I responded, “Your timing is perfect. You didn’t miss spring break. You called just in time.”

“Thank goodness,” she replied. “We got busy and forgot all about you. Then my purse strap suddenly broke and the Post-it with your name and number on it slid out of my purse. Thank God we didn’t miss our opportunity.”

I thought, “I can’t believe that God broke this woman’s purse strap just to prove to me that He’s real.”

From that moment on, I knew that my life would never be the same after their call. I invited them over for my first Bible study that night. When they arrived at my house, they took notice of how well dressed I was.

“Wow, you don’t have to dress up for our Bible studies,” she proclaimed. “You look really nice, but our Bible studies are very casual.”

I responded, “I wasn’t sure what the dress code was and would rather be overdressed than underdressed.” I was lying. I was too ashamed to tell them the truth that moments earlier I was actually on my way out to smoke weed, get drunk, and meet women.

As expected, two Mormon women arrived at my house for the Bible study. My mom, not knowing that I was now a follower of Jesus Christ, assumed the two girls were friends of mine, since most of my friends were girls and I typically had friends coming and going from our home throughout my life. The two very excited women thanked me for allowing them to come over so quickly, opened their Bible, and turned to the first scripture they had tabbed. They read it out loud to me: “Jesus told him, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to the Father except through me. If you had really known me, you would know who my Father is. From now on, you do know him and have seen him!’” (NLT).

Yes, John 14:6-7, the same scripture my friend showed me in the computer lab! Upon reading it, they said that Jesus Christ is the way to get to heaven and proceeded to the next scripture.

“Stop,” I said. “I believe that God just asked me to ask you if you ever ask Him what the scriptures mean to you as you read them.”

“What do you mean, God asked you?” Sister JOHNSON asked. “Do you hear a voice?”

Before answering, I thought, “Wait, are they telling me that they don’t hear a voice?”

“Yes, I have been hearing a voice on and off since I met you last month,” I said. “Do you two not hear a voice?”

“No, we don’t,” Sister JOHNSON replied. “Only prophets hear the voice of God. You must be a prophet!”

“I don’t know what a prophet is,” I responded. “But I can assure you that I am not one of those nor do I want to be one.”

She continued, “Oh my, would you read this scripture and ask God what it means?”

Hesitantly, I agreed.

“God, what does this mean?” I asked, replying to John 14:6-7. “You are the way to what?”

Immediately, I heard God speak, and I repeated His words verbatim to the two women. “God says that He is the only way to His Father and is the only way through which a person can enter into heaven.”

Next, I asked, “God, how are you the truth?”

God replied, “The world tells you that there are many truths; however, I tell you the truth that there is only one truth: Me. Therefore, all the other ‘truths’ not originating in Me are rooted in deception.”

Lastly, I asked, “God, how are You life?”

God replied, “Before Me, the universe was void. Only the one who is life can produce life, and I am He. A person void of me lives in death and darkness whereas a person filled with me receives abundant life and forever lives in light.”

Up to this point of my life, this was the only portion of scripture I had read. However, I continued translating the Word of God that evening, line by line, verse by verse, word by word, as the Bible came alive.

At the conclusion of our first Bible study, the women asked if they could bring a few more friends to the next meeting. Our weekly Bible studies began to grow, and we met every Thursday. We had four people in the following study, then eight, then sixteen, then more than twenty. When we broke twenty, my mother walked into my home office to see what we were doing, saw a bunch of Bibles in our hands, and started to scream at us, in broken English, “Get out, get out. Tell all your friends to get out. You are Buddhist. No Bibles allowed in my house!”

Suddenly, we found ourselves standing in my driveway. “Can we continue the Bible study?” one person asked. “We have a member of our church who lives down the street who would love to meet you.”

I agreed to the change of venue, and we all loaded up into our vehicles and made our way to this woman’s house.

Upon entering this woman’s home, I was surprised to see that she was in an electric wheelchair. She was very sweet and hospitable, welcoming us all in. She told me that the kids had been telling her about me, telling her that they might have found a potential prophet. Again, hearing that title turned my stomach, and I told her that I was not a prophet and I was not interested in becoming one. I just wanted to learn about God and wanted to hear more of His voice.

As mentioned earlier, I grew up Buddhist and was exalted within the Buddhist religion at a very young age because of my ability to see in the spirit and see into people’s pasts and foretell a person’s future. In fact, many Buddhist monks informed my mother that they believed that I was a reincarnation (the spiritual concept that a living being starts a new life after the death of the physical body) of a monk, a prophecy foretold before his death. I can tell you this for certain: I am not a reincarnation of anyone or anything. I hated growing up with the attention my spiritual gifts drew and wanted rather to be known as a good artist, a strong athlete, and an intelligent person, which were all things I was personally trying to develop.

As we started the Bible study, the front door of the house swung open. There was this thin, middle-aged man standing at the doorway. He was dressed in clothes that made him appear to be a mechanic.

“What the hell is going on here?” the man asked in a Southern twang. “Who the hell is this guy sitting in the middle of the room?”

I turned to introduce myself when I heard God speak to me. So I repeated exactly what He said, exactly the way He said it, which was, “BUBBA, how dare you enter this home with so much anger. Especially after you spent the afternoon snorting cocaine and lying with two prostitutes at the motel on Murphy Road in room twenty-one.” I then called out the name of his drug dealer and the names of the two prostitutes, his regulars.

BUBBA and I were both in shock. He rushed over, fell on his knees directly in front of me, and said, “Who told you about what I’ve been doing? I am so, so sorry. I am so, so sorry!”

I slowly reached out and touched his shoulder and said, “I don’t know who you are, sir. However, I guarantee you that you do not owe me an apology for anything. You need to apologize to your wife and God only. I am just here for a Bible study.”

The couple went to their room, both in tears, as we completed our second to last Bible study. By this Bible study, each person in attendance would hand me a scripture reference and ask me to read and interpret the scripture for them. However, the Bible was still very intimidating to me because of the sheer size and combination of words and numbers. To help me navigate the biggest book I had ever seen, one of the original women would turn to the scriptures and I would read them one by one, ask God what each scripture meant, and speak what I heard.

After about four months, my weekly Bible study with the Mormons was ending because they were only approved by their pastor to have the Bible study for four months. I knew that I would need to find a church. Our last Bible study was a private one. It was just the two original women and me at a local park. They expressed so much sadness that our meetings were ending. At the conclusion of our last Bible study, I asked them to tell me more about their church. They both leaped with joy and began to exclaim how much I would love their church and how their church would surely welcome me with open arms. I agreed to attend.

It was the day of my first service. I arrived at one of the Houston campuses for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and met up with my two excited and gracious hosts. This was the first official church service I had ever attended and the first time I had ever been in a church for something other than a wedding. The two women ushered me into the main sanctuary while people were leaving. I thought it odd that the sanctuary emptied out as I walked in and would realize about a year later that it was probably people from the previous service exiting. The two women instructed me to wait at the back of the sanctuary to speak with their father (pastor).

I waited patiently in the back, and once everyone cleared out, a man approached me and said, “You must be Jonnathan. The girls have told me so much about you. Apparently, you met a few of our other members.”

“Yes,” I responded. “Thank you so much for allowing me to visit your church today.”

“Jonnathan, you have such a bright future,” the pastor said. “We are so honored that you’re visiting us today. However, this church is not for you. God has very big plans for you and our church is not a part of it. Enjoy the service. It was an honor meeting you.”

With that last statement, he patted me on my shoulder and walked out.

The two women were watching the whole interaction at the door and ran up to me afterward.

“Wasn’t he great?” Sister JOHNSON asked. “I know you’re going to love our church.”

“What did you all talk about?” the other woman asked.

Honestly, I was confused about the whole ordeal and responded, “I’d rather not say, but yes, he seems very nice. Where do I sit?”

Overall, it was a very nice first church service. I do not recall the message; however, I did take my first communion there.

After service, I left the church and never went back.

Approximately six months after my last Bible study and my visit to my first church, I received a blocked phone call on my house line. I picked up and a familiar voice was on the other end.

“May I speak with Jonnathan Truuu-ong, please?” a woman asked in a soft voice.

“Speaking,” I responded.

The voice on the other end stated who she was, and I did not recognize her name. She paused and said, “You know me as Sister JOHNSON.”

“Oh my God!” I screamed. “Where have you been? I tried calling the church to find you but got the runaround.”

“Jonnathan, a small group of us left the church because we met you,” she said.

“What?” I asked. “Why would you leave your church? I’m so sorry if meeting me got you kicked out.”

“No, no, no, Jonnathan,” she replied. “Meeting you introduced us to the real Jesus Christ through you. Because of you, eight of us decided to leave our church and the Mormon faith to pursue the God who you demonstrated to us. I wanted to give you a call to say thank you.”

It turns out that when the group of eight started seeking the God they met through a newly converted ex-Buddhist, the church leadership was not happy. Soon they were spoken to and reprimanded. Eventually, they opted to leave the Mormon faith and leave their church and seek God in Utah.

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