In the summer of 1974, I was sixteen years old, living with my family in the North Texas city of Wichita Falls. I was a straight arrow of a kid: an Eagle Scout, a member of my high school’s debate team, and a cellist in the school orchestra. I volunteered at the state mental hospital with my fellow scouts, cutting lawns and trimming hedges, and every Sunday morning I attended services at Fain Memorial Presbyterian Church, where my father was the pastor. When church members asked me what I planned to do when I grew up, I told them I would most likely become a pastor myself, delivering cheerful sermons about the joys of the Christian life.Then, on the morning of June 22, I walked into…
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