I Begin my Testimony.

 The first twenty years.

After clarifying what I believe in the Christian faith, and then giving a brief history of the Children of God movement, it's now time to begin with my testimony. I hope that within it, in the next few weeks, I will be able to highlight some Bible teachings that are directly relevant to my life experiences.

I wrote a similar life biography on the 11th June, 2022, which is connected to Travel, and at the bottom of this page, I have provided a link to that blog post. However, both start with the same beginning: I was born at Westminster Hospital, London, on September 16th, 1952, to Italian parents, Gaetano and Laura Blasi. As a baby, I was baptised at the baptistry in Westminster Cathedral, the spiritual home of the Catholic Cardinal of the UK, although it was most likely done by one of his priestly assistants.

According to Mum, during the baptismal ceremony, I was crying loudly, as if I was unwilling to be a Roman Catholic. This contrasted with the baptism of my atheistic brother, Robert, born over six years later, who slept peacefully through the ceremony.

As a baby in Pimlico, London.

Around 3 years old.

As I grew up in Pimlico, I became aware of the existence of Heaven and Hell. But the afterlife, according to Mum, was based entirely on my behaviour. If I were good, I would go up to Heaven in the sky. But if I were bad, then I would go down to Hell, as I imagined, some underground land where bonfires burned here and there. However, around the age of ten, I was told by Mum about Jesus Christ and how good he was. Nothing to do with his Saviourhood, rather a yardstick to measure my behaviour.

Yet, I recall that afternoon. I wanted to know this Jesus Christ. But did he want to know me? I knew that Jesus would want me to be good. Instead, I had thoughts and emotions which were self-centred, even to the discomfort and ill-treatment of others. However, I settled on one truth: Jesus Christ is God incarnate. Gradually, I developed in my subconscious that God was a heavenly reflection of my Dad, who was an agnostic, and administered smacking with his hand at every misdemeanour. This included only wanting something whenever I showed some affection.

You see, when Mum was still carrying me, he was hoping for a daughter who would learn fast and go to University. Instead, a son was born who was diagnosed by a professional as a slow learner, and I didn't begin to speak English until I was five. Although I had to go to a special school for slow-learning children, actually, I was becoming good at reading, writing and arithmetic, even sent by the teacher to show others in the classroom to read more difficult words. Yet, despite my progress at school, at home, I was compared unfavourably with the neighbour's children.

We moved to Bracknell from Pimlico during the autumn of 1963, then aged eleven, and my brother was four. Bracknell was built under the 1946 New Town scheme to relocate Londoners from the city to a self-contained community. Instead of all four of us sleeping in one bedroom, we now had our own rooms.

At age 13, I took the First Communion, also known as the Eucharist, at St Joseph Catholic Church in our hometown of Bracknell. There was a course held at St Joseph's Junior School, with Mr Shaw, the headmaster, leading the course. We learned much about how Jesus was crucified and rose again on the third day, and the host, about the size of the modern 2p coin, literally contained the body and blood of Jesus Christ (known as Transubstantiation). We also learned to go and confess our sins to a priest at least once a year, and do penance as set out by the priest. Missing Mass (the Eucharist) without a proper reason was considered a major sin and the loss of God's grace. In the class, there were just three of us. A girl of my age, named Christine, and another boy besides me. But the boy dropped out mid-course. After that, there was just Christine and me.

The Sunday I took my first communion, we dressed in our Sunday best. During the post-service photo session, Christine stood with us, dressed in a bride's dress. Posing together with Mum, Dad, and my brother Robert, we looked as if Christine and I had just married.

Family and a guest posed at the church.

A year or so later, I had to go through Confirmation. This ritual required a sponsor, my godfather Quirino Alfred Blasi, known by us as Uncle Fred. He was Dad's older brother with a military mentality, as he was a Warrant Officer in the British Royal Air Force. He carried a chip on his shoulder. As an Italian, due to nationality regulations, he was denied any promotion he felt eligible for.

Uncle was very particular about smart dress, and probably considered blasphemous to attend church dressed in casuals. So, that Sunday, I, along with a group of other children, was confirmed by the Bishop. This was supposed to empower me with the Holy Spirit for godly living, after Acts chapter 2, but without the fanfare the apostles had.

Uncle's strictness in smart dress wasn't confined to church attendance. One ordinary Saturday morning, while Uncle and his childless wife, Elizabeth, were staying with us, I slipped out, casually dressed, to the shops, about a twenty-minute walk from our house. After I returned, Uncle was waiting for me. He then gave me a severe telling off for leaving the house without a tie and being improperly dressed. This was his only chance. His rebuke took place in my parent's absense.

He was also particular about my hairstyle. It had to be short back-and-sides in accordance with military regulations. On another occasion, when he visited us, my hair had grown slightly longer than normal. He then criticised Dad for showing neglect towards my upkeep. My brother also recalls one Christmas morning. The roof of one of his brand-new train set carriages came off intact. Uncle saw this, and, in ire, asked how his nephew could be so careless so soon. Luckily, the plastic roof was clicked back into place by another family member. As Robert said to me just this Christmas gone, Uncle had no idea how to handle children.

Uncle made sure that I was smartly dressed at weekends.

Uncle and Aunt were posted abroad, at an RAF base in Bahrain, and for a few years, we were free from their presence. By the time they reappeared, I was of age and no longer subjected to their authority. When I was preparing to fly out to Israel in 1976, Uncle asked if he could accompany me. I firmly said, "No, not at all!" It was years later when I realised that, had I said, "Yes, come with me." He would pause for a day or two, then approach me with an apologetic tone, saying he couldn't make the trip after all. That would have been his way to test how I felt towards him.

Within the two remaining years at school, our new Deputy Head, Mr Chapman, wielded his cane rather liberally. I have seen pupils caned across the palm of the hand for simply talking during morning assembly. The cane was also administered for not having a hymnbook during the singing. The service was based on the Church of England liturgy. With this "Heaven by works" ethic, both at school and at home, my growing dislike of God was expressed with my denial of his existence. I turned atheist, along with some other boys.

And here's the point. There is no such thing as atheism. During that time, although I said that God doesn't exist, in my heart I knew better, as God shines his light into every man born into the world (John 1: 9). The real truth was, if my father, his older brother, and particularly Mr Chapman, all represented God's character, then hating him was justified.

Entering the World of Work.

I left school in 1968 without any qualifications. Back then, this was relatively normal. In Bracknell, the Western and the Eastern industrial estates offered plenty of jobs in manufacturing, and after leaving school, the following Monday morning, I took up my post at A.G. Clarke and Sons, a family-owned business which went out of existence by the mid-1980s. Bill Ryder was the foreman in the wood finishing department of a workplace that specialised in period furniture. These are the furniture which normally finds its way into mansions and larger homes. Four other employees worked in this department: Alf, Walter, Ken, and Ray, all of them older than I was.

My first task of the day was to sweep the floor. This became habitual for the next three years of the five years I worked there. As this was an all-male environment, Alfie, who fought in the Second World War and witnessed the deaths of his close friends and colleagues, spewed out sexual smut which would have embarrassed any trooper. By 1973, I left that workshop with a knowledge of every sexual intimacy known. On the other hand, Walter, roughly the same age as Alfie, was much quieter, but he was obsessed with not receiving recognition for his service during the War.

I was verbally bullied by Raymond, who used me to lift his own low self-esteem, and Ken had a terrible habit of pressing a cloth soaked with flammable spirit into my backside, causing a burning pain which lasted up to ten minutes. That was his way of intimidating. He tried the same on another youth, but without realising that the other adolescent had some street fighting experience!

Working at Clarke's was a rough and tough experience, all five years of it (1968-1973). But the experience turned this boy into a man. However, it was compulsory by law that all school leavers attend a day release at college, specifying in the trade. I always looked forward to this weekly day off work to board a train to London, then the tube to Old Street Station, where a short walk along Pitfield Street led me to the London College of Furniture. These trips were the forerunner of a much larger realm of Travel in the years to come. While studying there, I became close friends with Andrew. By 1972, he and I had our first holiday abroad without our parents, at a resort in Spain.

In 1971, I was dating Sandra, who lived in Wimbledon, and I was teased at work for that, and pressing me with the question whether I was having sex with her. She was a little older than I was and wore glasses. But I was too immature for marriage responsibilities, and she eventually realised that. After one year of courtship, I was dumped, and her father closed the front door in my face. That day, I was literally weeping as I sat on the train home.

1972 indeed was a turbulent year. I was dumped by my girlfriend. But it was also the year I picked up a tract at Trafalgar Square. The tract highlighted my sins and the wrath of God. I soon became aware of God's displeasure, and not knowing anything about salvation, I began to do good works in the hope of allaying his wrath.

Approaching my 20th Birthday, 1972.

Then one Saturday evening, December 9th, I approached the Lyceum Ballroom (now a theatre) on Wellington Street, which leads onto Waterloo Bridge, with the hope that I might find a new girlfriend. Instead, the two doormen blocked my entry and ordered me to beat it. Feeling very dejected, I walked along the Strand towards Trafalgar Square in the cold rain.

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Next Week, The Pub on the Strand, London.

For the Travel version of my childhood and adolescence, click here.