Jay McCarl

I wish you could have known this man. I met him when I was fifteen years old and suicidal, and within minutes everything in my life changed.

Five years before I was a ten-year-old avowed atheist living with my parents in Sacramento, California. I had a passion for nature and the outdoors—an aspiring forest ranger in search of a scouting troop. It was then when my friend Mickey showed up at school wearing an impressive Boy Scout uniform. This is it, I thought, and was determined to join whatever he was into. Except it wasn’t the Boy Scouts—it was something called ‘Royal Rangers’—a church-sponsored Christian version of scouting—which I insisted that Mickey let me attend. He agreed—but he also neglected to tell me about the ‘God’ parts of the program. I didn’t know what I was getting into.

When Mickey’s dad dropped us off at the meeting, I realized the horror of my impetuousness—we were at a church. This must be a mistake—I shouldn’t be here. Maybe it was next door—maybe they were just using the place. No mistake.

Mickey led me inside where a group of uniformed boys were jostling about, waiting for the troop leader to appear. His name was Lyle—clean-cut, uniformed man with a flat-top haircut. He called the troop together and did something terrible. He said, “All right boys, let’s pray.”

And, oh my, they did. As Lyle led out in prayer the boys began wriggling and speaking in tongues, amening and mumbling private requests. This troop wasn’t just using the facility, they were church people. I hated church people. If there was any other place to go, I would fled the building.

It felt like centuries until Lyle finally said ‘amen’—but then they got down to business, and it was fun. By the end of the meeting, I decided that the quality of their troop was so good that I could endure their religious bluster if they’d just let this young anti-God-ist join up. They did.

I still don’t remember the next meetings or how God got under my skin, but He did. He’s good at that sort of thing. One night, after the meeting ended, Lyle took a knee in front of me and asked if I’d like to receive Jesus as my Savior and Lord. “Why not?” I replied. “Let’s pray,” he said, and this time I did. Short, simple—no tongues or wriggling, just Jesus and me. That was the beginning.

But this story isn’t about Lyle, who led me to Jesus—it’s about Ray who helped me to know Him…

Five years later I was living with my parents in southern California—a sophomore in High School, majoring in the survival skills of fending off bullies. I was almost a straight-A student (very unpopular among my peers) and had become philosophically, very rational. This, of course began to eat away at my now marginal Christian faith, which was still present enough to fend off youthful inclinations to drugs, booze and heavy partying—but teenage angst, not so much. Late one Wednesday night while lying in bed, I began to ponder life and meaning and God—about the meaning of everything if He existed—and the hopelessness and non-significance of life if He didn’t.

That night I made a decision that took the form of an awful prayer: “God, if you’re there, you need to show yourself by tomorrow night or I’ll kill myself.” This prayer, to me, was a reasonable test—not intended as the spiritual blackmail of the God of the universe. It was simply abandonment to God, or to the inevitable fate of the universe…

The next morning started painfully early at school gym class. I was pacing, shivering in my all-white shorts and shirt, prepping for calisthenics. The usual two morning-friends meandered over—like me, both non-athletes and uniformly attired. But rather than indulging the usual small talk, they surrounded me and said, “You need to come to Campus Life tonight.”

I had heard of this club, but wanted nothing to do with it, mistaking it for a coven of jocks and cheerleaders. ‘No’, I replied, and reminded them that I was already in three school clubs and president of two of them—I didn’t need to join another one. Besides, I had other plans that night. My friends persisted. “If we pick you up, will you come?” I really didn’t want to go, but their persistence was annoying and I gave in. “All right—if you pick me up, I’ll go.” I had no idea what I was getting into.

We arrived at the school in the early evening and made our way to one of the multi-purpose rooms. It was already packed with students and laughter—the carrying-on made for a deafening social roar. Then he stepped up to the stage, and the room calmed.

He was big and blonde—he had on an open-collar shirt and dark polyester slacks (rare in hippie-days). Perched on his round face was a pair of thick horned-rim glasses resting over his slightly cross-eyes. He didn’t introduce himself and no one told me his name. The big man immediately launched into a noisy clapping game that I immediately lost, finding myself getting ‘zapped’ as a penalty on the infamous ‘Campus Life Electric Chair’. Ouch. “Welcome to the club,” I thought, “I could be home killing myself right now.”

The big man led two more games and then sat down on the little electrified stool (now disabled) and began to ask ‘discussion’ questions to the group—reasonable and introspective. This caught me off guard—this was a social club, wasn’t it? The students devoured the questions, often giving personal, unguarded answers. What was happening? Where was this going?

I still don’t remember the specific questions asked by the big man that night, but I never forgot his words as he ended the discussion. He said, “In case you haven’t noticed, our topic tonight is hope—and I’m here to tell you that if you don’t have Jesus Christ, you don’t have hope…”

I went numb. God just spoke. He answered my foolish threat. He’s really there. Under my breath in that crowded room, I said, “Okay, God—I’m listening.”

I found out that the big man’s name was Ray Schmautz, former middle linebacker for the Oakland Raiders, student-body president of Talbot Theological Seminary and Campus Life Director at my alma mater, Glen A. Wilson High School. It was also obvious to me that God was using him and spoke through him—and I needed to know God.

Everything changed over the next few weeks—my priorities, my goals—life itself. I felt the need to pursue this ‘God Who is There’—and at the time, Ray was the key to unlocking Him. I began attending a weekly Bible study he was teaching at a friend’s house, where Ray revealed a Jesus I never saw before. I wanted more. The more I learned about Jesus, the hungrier I got.

I didn’t know Ray well at that time, but he treated me with surprising attention and invited me to a discipleship group that taught the basics of being a Christian. I started to grow. I attended a small, three-day retreat in the desert (led by Ray), where he introduced me to some of his friends—pastor John McArthur (the retreat speaker) and musician Dennis Agajanian. I grew more. A few months later I invited myself to twelve-week discipleship group he was starting for student-leaders (which I wasn’t), and he reluctantly acquiesced to my pleas even though I didn’t fit the profile. By the end of the twelve weeks, I was the only one still attending. He seemed perplexed. I grew more…

A year and a half passed since I first met Ray, and there was to be another retreat in the desert—this time he was the main speaker, and the topic was the Holy Spirit. Ray was a Talbot-man, which meant he was not a Pentecostal, theologically speaking—and him talking about the Holy Spirit for an entire weekend was unexpected. What occurred late on the second night of the retreat was even more unexpected.

The retreat was in late November—our high desert camp was buffeted by a relentless sandstorm and sub-freezing temperatures. Despite the forbidding conditions, Ray was at his best—his speaking skills and charismatic personality painted an electrifying portrait of the person and work of Holy Spirit. God was again speaking about Himself through this man. Every meeting was a spiritual feast—especially that final evening session. As he concluded, Ray instructed us to observe a ‘discipline of silence’—speaking only to God until breakfast the next morning. “Go outside and spend some time with the Holy Spirit,” he said, “Ask Him to fill you…” And despite the harsh, windy night, we did.

I wandered into the freezing desert a short distance from the camp and prayed just as Ray said. “God, fill me with your Holy Spirit…” He did. I was suddenly on my face in the stinging, blowing sand, unable to stand or speak. God was here—not as a burning in a bush or voice booming out of the freezing darkness—just a deep silence filled with meaning, purpose and affection. I was hearing—knowing—so much in the silence of that incomparable moment. Only God could do something like that. For me, everything changed that night, forever. I felt a call to ministry (which, in my purview, was crazy) and knew with certainty that God was Lord. It was an unanticipated outcome for the student of a Talbot man…

I was to graduate from High School the following June, and during that home-stretch Ray began to pour his life into me. He took me on weekend retreats where he was the keynote speaker, and we frequently roomed together. It became my ‘seminary’. He assigned me tasks that shattered the borders of my comfort zones—sharing Christ with grocery store clerks or praying with people we met at gas stations. More small group Bible studies were in store, more introductions to new subjects like apologetics and Christian leadership—more than I can remember. It was all so much more than a spiritual beginning for me—Ray poured the foundation of my Christian life.

After graduation (mine and his), I rarely saw Ray again. He coached me when I wanted to to become a Campus Life staff member. He baptized me in a freezing swimming pool on Easter Sunday in 1975; I attended his wedding and in 1979, he agreed to be one of my groomsmen in mine. Afterwards, we had occasional phone conversations, the last occurring sometime in the ‘90’s. It was one of the most stunning conversations with Ray I ever had, and its subject is not part of this tribute. I heard over the years that he endured many struggles and challenges in ministry but I never heard the specifics—only that he remained in my memory as a rock—a big man with a bigger heart who was utterly sold out to God.

I remember thinking—even praying—I want to be like Ray. A noble thought and worthy prayer—but God said “No—I want you to be like Jesus.” I think Ray would be pleased. God used Ray to shake the world—He certainly used him to shape mine.

Whenever I’m asked how I got into ministry, the story begins with, “I met a man named Ray—here’s what happened…”

Jay McCarl
Jan. 24, 2024