MUST I chapter 20

(Parenthetically speaking…

It’s the first day of spring. Yeah. At least the sun was out — briefly. Now that I am up and mobile it appears to be clouding over. That’s the way it goes in the northwest. I suspect the snow is finished — I hope.)

      Now what do I do? There was so much happiness through the church when I publicly prayed the sinner’s prayer that I was sure my troubles would be over. My church pressured me to get with the program and get saved. Now they wanted me to be filled with the Holy Spirit. In my church, that meant speaking in tongues. I was so confused that I wasn’t even sure I was saved. Nothing had changed. Well there was one thing. I was becoming more nervous and fearful especially around things of faith.

Now I was confused. Confusion came either from my desire to be filled with the spirit or my desire to please the people of the church, especially my dad. Dad never put pressure on me. He never said a thing about it. If he cared, he kept his mouth closed. That did not seem to apply to others in the church.

Every service included a call to come forward, and pray for salvation and/or to be filled with the Spirit. I had seen people do this dozens of times. After several months of getting the evil eye and verbal encouragement I started going forward each week to pray. Just doing this made me wonder if maybe I was sincere about the sinner’s prayer, if maybe God had come into my life. How was I to be sure? After many weeks of going forward it was clear people were getting very concerned about me and were gathering around me putting their hands all over me and crying to God to give me the gift of tongues. I hated every moment of it. I just wanted to be left alone. I just wanted them to keep their hands off me.

I had thought about this for quite some time. Maybe I could fake the gift; maybe I should try to fake the gift. After all, it wasn’t like I didn’t already know plenty of phrases from a dozen or more people I would hear nearly every week. Also, I was a little mimic. Of course, if I did fake it, I would have to select parts of my dad’s tongue prayers. I knew them the best. Besides, he never came to the front to lay hands on me — it was just other people. Then there was sister Withrow. Her prayers were worth considering.  She spoke in tongues every Sunday and was heard about all other voices. I was a little concerned that everyone knew some of her comments, but I began to pick and choose phrases I could blend together with dads and others. I was going to do this. I felt like I had to do this. I didn’t want to do this.

I was a nervous wreck the Sunday I decided, “to be filled.” My palms were sweaty and sweat was rolling off my forehead. It was so bad that I almost decided not to do it, but I decided that it was more important to stop what I considered to be harassment — please stop. The moment came and I went forward, knelled down and went over and over what I planned to say and then began to let it out softly, but not slowly. As people near me heard the wonderful sounds flowing from me they began to gather around. I figured my performance was going well so picked up the volume a little and the crowd grew. I was careful not to let it go on too long lest I stumble. As I quieted down the rejoicing began in serious and the groups praise in tongues more enthusiastic. When the opportunity permitted, I stood up to return the pew, but had to deal with the hugs and handshaking first. I felt like that was emotionally painful, but only part of the price I had to pay to end the demands.

It worked. There were no more demands that I do anything. The evil eyes stopped. The comment ceased. I went back to the way things were before I prayed the sinner’s prayer. The biggest problem was that I began to hate the church. I no longer had any interest attending church. I went, because I “still lived in my father’s house” and had to. But I no longer listened. I no longer seemed to care. I mentally mocked what was happening. I laughed to myself at the things I considered ridiculous or silly, especially the people.  Were they all hypocrites? I was comparing others things I knew about them to their behavior in church. I was emotionally demanding that they be perfect. The more I felt they had fallen short, the more I wanted out of church.

While my actions did not change and I played the good boy to those around me, I began to be bitter. I dreamed about what I could be doing if not forced to sit in church. I was sure my older siblings had the right idea. I wondered when they each had the courage to escape. They were all married with children now and only Doris went to church. I figured she had to. Her father-in-law was the preacher.

As for me, I became unsure about God. Was He really there? Did He really care? Was I part of the group he loved? I didn’t know. Why did “His people” seem so demanding and cruel? At least, that was how I saw it.

I wanted to know God. I wanted Him to know me. But the process seemed to be complicated. If people were really converted, how did it happen? Maybe someday…