Dave's Testimony: Blind. Angry. Lost. Found by Christ

I was born in 1985 in Stoke-on-Trent into a normal working-class household. We had a Christian family and heritage, like most people back then. We celebrated Christmas—knew it was about Jesus being born—but it was mainly about turkey, presents, and snow. Easter was the same—yeah, we knew it had something to do with Jesus rising from the dead, but it was more about chocolate eggs and rabbits. Jesus got mentioned now and then, like when someone died and people would say “they're with Jesus now,” but that was about as deep as it went.

I was christened Church of England in 1986 at Holy Trinity Church in Meir. I didn’t know the difference between Catholic, CofE, Orthodox or anything else—and I didn’t care. Religion didn’t mean anything to me.

We had a local vicar who came into primary school to lead assemblies, read from the Bible, and tell us about Jesus, but I was more interested in who Stoke were playing at the weekend or whether Baywatch and Gladiators would be on. Church talk went in one ear and out the other.

I left primary school in 1997 and went to high school, which felt more secular. Over the next four or five years, I probably didn’t think about God once. I left school in 2002, got a job in a local factory, then spent the next ten years bouncing between warehouse and factory work—just earning enough to fund my weekends. Most weekends were spent in pubs and clubs, chasing women, lusting after them, and getting into fights. I started feeling bitter and angry. No real career, no deep relationships, no purpose. Just drifting.

I’d always been a patriot, always proud of my heritage. I saw England changing fast, and it made my blood boil. I felt resentment toward immigrant communities and disgust at our own politicians, who I saw as traitors facilitating an invasion. I joined groups like the EDL and BNP because I genuinely thought I was doing the right thing—honouring my ancestors, standing up for my country, fighting like my forefathers did.

Being a history buff, I’d always loved reading about wars, rebellions, and great battles. Through that, I came across the history of the Church, church architecture, and early British Christianity—but I didn’t pay it much attention. I was more interested in shields and swords than saints and sermons.

Seeing Islam grow in the UK really pissed me off. I saw it as a threat to everything I loved about England—our culture, our identity, our heritage. I even started thinking maybe we needed to bring back Christianity—not for faith, but as a tool to fight back. But when I looked at the modern Church, it just seemed soft. Songs of Praise, old ladies in tea rooms, vicars smiling like hippies. It didn’t speak to me. It didn’t feel real. So I ditched that idea too.

Eventually, I turned my anger on society itself. I blamed everyone—our people—for letting England go soft, for having no backbone, for surrendering without a fight. I adopted an “if you can’t beat them, join them” mindset and started looking into Islam. I respected how they took their faith seriously, defended their prophet, stuck together, and lived with discipline. I wanted that—for us. For me.

But the more I looked, the less it made sense. I couldn’t accept the teachings. It wasn’t just differences—it was a completely different view of God. The more I studied it, the more it crumbled. I saw the contradictions, the historical issues, the absence of love. I dropped it.

Still wanting something to cling to, I turned to paganism. The old religion of my Anglo-Saxon ancestors. Warrior gods, nature worship, honour and blood. It sounded like the perfect fit—British, tribal, strong. But deep down, it felt like roleplay. Like cosplay for angry blokes. I couldn’t take it seriously. It had no weight. No truth. So I left that too.

Then Covid hit, and when it all passed, I was left questioning everything—what’s real, who can we trust, what’s going on behind the scenes. The world felt fake. Shallow. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed spiritual direction more than ever.

One summer, my missus went on holiday with our two sons and her family, and I had a full week of peace and quiet at home. My plan was simple—drink some cans and watch football all week. But on day one, something nudged me to go to the local antiques shop. While browsing war medals and old pottery, I wandered over to the book section.

That’s where I saw it—a whole shelf of old Bibles. Catholic ones, Orthodox ones, Protestant ones, King James, NIV. It made me wonder—how can there be so many versions of one book? I ended up buying an old NIV study Bible with commentary and verse breakdowns.

I spent that week reading it. Not skimming. Actually reading it. And for the first time, I wasn’t reading it to win a debate or find ammo against Islam. I wasn’t looking for history or culture. I was reading it as what it claimed to be: the Word of God.

It wasn't easy. Some of the language was hard to follow. Some parables confused me. There were gaps in context. But I didn’t stop. I researched deeper. I learned about the Septuagint, about Hebrew and Greek translations, about how modern versions have softened certain messages to keep people comfortable. I started cross-referencing verses, comparing translations, and matching up the teachings of the Church Fathers with Scripture itself. I didn’t want tradition for tradition’s sake—I wanted the truth. Whether I liked it or not.

Over the next few months, I became obsessed. I couldn’t get enough. I needed to know—what did Jesus actually teach? What did the apostles really pass down?

I began to pray—properly. I spoke to the Father in the name of Jesus Christ. I asked for truth, for guidance, for a softer heart. For a long time, nothing happened. Silence. Tumbleweed. No signs. No feelings. No confirmation.

Because God isn’t a genie. He doesn’t grant wishes. He doesn’t perform for us on demand.

But then one day, driving home from work, I prayed again. Just a simple request: “Lord, if the Holy Spirit is real, let me feel it.” I wasn’t expecting anything.

But it hit me.

Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed. Not by fear or guilt—but by love. A love I’d never felt before. A deep, rich, unshakable peace. My eyes welled up, and I started crying. Not from frustration, or sadness, or rage—but from something real. Something good. Something holy.

That was the moment everything changed.

Since then, nothing has been the same. I still fall short. I still mess up. But now I fall towards Christ, not away from Him. I don’t need to pretend anymore. I know who I am—and more importantly, I know whose I am.

Jesus Christ is real. The Gospel is real. The Bible is truth. Christianity isn’t weak—it’s the hardest, strongest, most demanding thing I’ve ever faced. It’s also the most freeing.

God took a broken, angry, bitter man and gave him a new heart.

This is my testimony.

I was blind.

Now I see.

I was dead.

Now I live.

All by the grace of God.