Roger Clibborn
In October 1965, I was working as a graphic artist for an ad agency in Christchurch and living at home with my parents and older brother. One Sunday afternoon, my mum asked me to go pick up some bread from the local store. We lived in Sumner, close to the ocean. I climbed over the wall onto the esplanade that overlooked the beach and began walking toward the shop when I noticed a guy about my age carrying a clipboard under his arm. As we passed, he stopped me.
“Excuse me,” he said, introducing himself as Dave. “I’m with a group, and we’re stopping people like yourself to ask what you think about Christianity. Would you mind answering a few questions?”
My first thought was, Oh shucks, some religious nut! But he looked pretty normal—sharp, confident, and not much older than I was. I figured there was no harm in talking and said, “Sure, go ahead.”
“Have you read the Bible at all?” he asked. Then followed with more questions: “Do you know who Jesus is? Why He came to live on earth? And why He died?”
I answered as best I could while he jotted notes on his clipboard. Then he looked at me directly and said, in a more serious tone: “I have one more question. You might like to think about it, and you don’t have to answer right away.”
“Okay,” I replied. “What’s the question?”
“If you got hit by a bus on your way home today and died, where do you think you’d go—heaven or hell?”
Whoa. That got my attention. “I don’t know much about hell,” I said, “and I’m not even sure it exists. But if it does, I don’t think I’m bad enough to go there. On the other hand, I like the idea of heaven, but I’m not sure I’d fit in there either.”
Dave didn’t push further. Instead, he asked, “Would you be interested in finding out what the Bible actually says about these things?”
That gave me pause. My lovely mother had recently attempted to take her own life, and the pain of that moment stirred a deeper desire in me to understand life, death, and what might lie beyond.
“Yes, I would,” I told him firmly.
Dave explained that he and a few friends met weekly to read the Bible together. He gave me the address and the time of their next gathering and invited me to come along.
This is worth a try, I thought. That week, I showed up at the address, where a tall, solidly built man greeted me at the door with a firm handshake and a warm smile.
“I’m Joe Simmons,” he said in a distinct UK accent. “This is my home. Dave and the other guys are playing volleyball in the backyard. Want to join them?”
After the game, Joe’s wife Marie served up some delicious snacks in the lounge. Joe then handed around a neat little question-and-answer booklet called Studies in Christian Living. We read through one of the studies together, answered questions, and looked up Bible verses. The discussion was informal, down-to-earth, and practical. No one pushed any particular church doctrine—they just shared personal discoveries and listened to one another.
Before I left, Joe told me the group was already on book six of the series. That felt like a challenge. I was determined to catch up, so I tore through books one to five and returned the following week, ready.
Book One explained the Gospel loud and clear. After finishing it, I felt a deep internal struggle. I heard an inner voice say, “Well Clibborn, you can’t sit on the fence with this one. What are you going to do? It’s all or nothing.” God was mercifully at work—bringing conviction, showing me the reality of my sin, and drawing me to His truth.
Three weeks later, late one night, I knelt beside my bed. Inside the first study was a prayer of commitment. I read it carefully and prayed it with all my heart. A powerful sense of forgiveness and cleansing washed over me. God was no longer an abstract idea. He became real—personal. I felt His fatherly love embrace me like never before.
As I continued studying the Bible with Joe and the group, he picked up on my growing hunger to learn more. Joe became my spiritual father—my mentor and coach—as I took my first steps in following Christ.
Each week, he met with me during my lunch break. We’d sit in his old Vanguard by the Avon River. Joe was serious about Scripture memory. He’d have me recite verses word-for-word. Then he’d ask what I was learning and how I was growing. At the end of our time, he’d read aloud letters from overseas missionaries, and we’d pray for them together.
On other occasions, Joe taught me how to have a meaningful Quiet Time with God. He’d open his Bible and slowly read through a passage, showing me how to draw insights from the verses and check cross-references for context. Then we’d pray using the Scripture as a guide. It was a simple, reproducible pattern—and I took it all in. I wanted to do the same things with someone else.
