I am a persistent person and I’ve always been fascinated
with God and religion. Even growing up in the FOC where answers were not
forthcoming about these things, I pestered and persisted in asking how things
were, why things were, what things were like back when…. Bad experiences
couldn’t keep me from trying again. I wandered into yet another church. It was
an Assemblies of God church. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.
This church was large. The pastor found his way to me
immediately, introduced himself, and made small talk. The church service was
nice, the message was fascinating (and convicting), the songs were the same
hymns I’d sang all those years in the FOC – only with emotion behind them,
harmonizing, instruments, etc.
So everything was fine and good until that final prayer.
Trouble. The pastor started calling people out – like he was reading their
minds! I’d heard many stories of Walter White rebuking people from the pulpit
and now I was experiencing something similar. He called people out and
they came forward to have their sins cast out. Nobody refused to go; nobody
seemed shocked that this man knew what they’d been up to.
I was, thankfully, in the back row. As this calling forward
of the sinners continued, I slumped lower in my seat. What if he read my mind?
What dark thoughts or deeds would be found? I moved on.
Did I mention that my dad grew up Pentecostal? Let me just stop and say that I have nothing against this form or Christianity; I have actually known some really wonderful Pentecostals. But you have to understand that my only knowledge of church was one where everyone, absolutely everyone – especially women and children – tried their very hardest to do nothing noticeable in church. And Pentecostals are not exactly known for quiet reverence in church.
I discovered a
new church in another town. I don’t remember the name of it. I figured it was
just a community church because it was operating out of an old school house. Nothing
fancy.
I went in and sat
down in the middle of the congregation. A few people came up and introduced
themselves. Friendly, but not pushy. And then the service began.
Whoa. These
people went wild. They danced and whooped – like everyone in the building. It
felt like a trippy dream or a movie. It couldn’t really be happening, could it?
These were the “holy rollers” I’d heard about growing up. Some were on the
floor. Most danced around and hollered words and phrases that made no sense.
Scary.
What could I do?
I was surrounded by these people on all sides. I was not getting up. I was not
going to dance around – it would’ve been fake if I had. I wanted to be anywhere
but there, but I was too scared to stand and walk out the door – what if
someone grabbed me and made me dance?
I have no idea
what the sermon was about. None. I was traumatized.
A few months
later, I was invited to community potluck. Cool. I like potlucks. I brought
some cookies and my appetite. Sometime in the middle of that meal I realized
what was going on. These people all belonged to that church. I was being recruited.
An older man
cornered me and began to explain how I couldn’t be saved unless I had the gift
of speaking in tongues. I politely disagreed – several times because he was adamant
about convincing me – and escaped to my car.
Lesson learned:
never go to a potluck unless you know what the agenda is.
