Memoir | Travel Tales

The Time I Almost Became A Born Again Christian

Bad Burgers in Brighton

While studying abroad in London, I attempted to make weekend travel plans with my classmates. If you’ve ever tried making last minute plans with other travelers, you know how precarious this can be. I couldn’t afford a flight to Spain with my friends, so I decided to plan a solo trip to Brighton.

Before this, I had never traveled alone. I was learning how to practice independence among other things. A lot of teaching moments flew my way — the first being when I lost my train ticket.

I solved the issue quicker than expected and safely made the journey to Brighton. Right off the train, I spent a lot of time perusing the shops with flags hung across the cobblestone streets. I wandered around in anticipation for the pub crawl I would attend that night.

Several other solo travelers and locals greeted me at the meeting spot. As we moved from one bar to the next we danced to live music, played pub games, sang karaoke, took flaming Sambuca shots and even played vintage video games in a grunge club. I soon found myself strolling Pebble Beach, chain smoking cigarettes all alone.

The next day, I persevered through my hangover and went out for another stroll through town. Within a hundred feet of my Airbnb I struck up conversation with an older gentlemen named Brian. He was from the area and in hopes of connecting, he told me about his travels to Florida and Texas.

Before long, Brian handed me a mini bible and ask if he could read some quotes aloud. Being a curious agnostic on the verge of atheism, I humored him for a short while. We actually spent the next several hours walking through town and talking about religion, politics, and society.

I learned that Brian was a God-fearing, Trump-loving, nationalist. Throwing his identity aside, I became interested in his relationship with God. He didn’t care much for the institution formed in the name of God — Brian spoke of his personal relationship with God independent of the church, which he called True Christianity.

In my eyes, this was a nice contrast to the Roman Catholic perspective I had shoved down my throat as a kid. He took me to a local church to meet a pastor that held a service deemed worthy. Brian implored me to attend the evening sermon, but in noticing his hypocrisy, I had planned on skipping it.

After parting ways with my afternoon interlocutor, I found myself on Pebble beach again, thinking about how I spent my twilight hours sulking here. I quickly returned to an introspective analysis of my life and where it was going. To say the least, I was unhappy with myself; and against my better judgment, I decided to attend the six o’clock service at the cathedral Brian brought me to earlier.

I was suprised to find that the building was filled with people my age chattering among themselves. A kid named Josh came over to greet me; as he noticed that I was a new face. After our short introduction, the mass began.

It consisted of a live band playing christian music. I wasn’t exactly on board with the lyrics, but the acoustic instruments moved me. I remained open minded throughout the duration of the service.

Singing along with the lyrics projected on the screen, I opened my arms to “let God in.” I felt a profound rush of positive sensations similar to those experienced during intense exercise, deep meditation, and jovial conversation. Passion filled my veins and tears dripped from my cheeks.

While I was reveling in the communion of euphoria I had just received, the pastor began the sermon. Before breaking open the bible, like many priests I have encountered before, he started his speech with a little anecdote. It was a story about a group of english travelers.

The three tourists were thoroughly enjoying their last day in Brussels. They planned to board a train to Amsterdam in the morning but decided they wanted to spend more time in Belgium. For some reason, they woke up and changed their plans again, feeling obliged to catch their train to the Netherlands.

It so happens that a group of terrorists attempted to hijack the train they were on. The three travelers sprung into action in an effort to thwart the act of terror. One traveler in particular wrestled a gunman to the ground, saving the day.

His name was Alec.

My mind struggled to process this seemingly synchronous event. I have met very few people who have the same as I do. Then a series of thoughts skipped across my mind.

Did the pastor know I would be at the service when Brian introduced us? No way, he spent half the conversation letting me know it’s ok if I don’t attend. I never told him I was coming either.

Sailing on a natural high, (which is not the typical sort of high in Brighton) I followed the group back to Pebble beach. They were holding a baptism and barbecue for anyone interested. I sat in a circle with Josh and some other peers he had introduced me to.

I spoke to them about my experience, and they were all convinced I had felt the presence of God. As we witnessed the baptisms being performed, we ate some of the worst burgers I have ever had in my life. I don’t mean to sound like a cheeky American burger aficionado (because I am not), but these beef patties must have been charred in the damning flames of Hell.

I still ate two burgers, then my divine high started to wear off. The pastor offered to baptize me in the ocean with the others. I considered it for a moment, but passed up the opportunity — my religious appetite was squandered.

The Devil’s patty was enough to snap me out of the biblical hoo ha that grappled me. I am grateful I didn’t slip into the sea of sanctification that seemed so alluring just moments before. Nevertheless, my conversations with Brian as well as the pastor’s monologue did have a profound impact on me.

I left Brighton feeling more independent, and more positive about where my life was heading. Solo travel can be lonely, but it is also empowering. This trip sparked a a new sense of being within me — in an unexpected way, I was born again.