The summer after eighth grade, dad took the family to the last revival meeting I would ever attend. It was in a tent with sawdust on the ground and only a few blocks from the Union Pacific repair yards where dad worked.
Preaching had a different focus in the 50’s to that of 2012. At least it did in my church. I had never heard that God loved me, other than in the children’s song we sang, but I sure knew I was in great danger of going to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. God was a mighty and awful judge. Slip up and you were doomed. I lived in fear of being doomed. I never felt forgiven and never believed I could be forgiven.
Our church had shown a movie earlier that year about what it would be like in the end times. The moon would turn to blood and the rivers would turn to blood. I saw all these things turning red and there were forest fires and one awful scene after another but the voice over was the most frightening. God was an angry God and He would judge severely. That was followed by a very long sermon on God’s eternal damnation. I already knew I was destined to hell in a hand basket. The revival meeting was the final straw. I was terrified. I wanted some fire insurance.
After a full week of the evangelist pounding away at us sinner, I finally raised my hand at the alter call. I believe it was during the 17th singing of “Just As I Am.” I no sooner raised my hand before I regretted it. I was afraid of walking to the front f that tent. I had no intention of going forward, but they had spotters. There were people standing at the back watching for raised hands and one approached me and asked if I would like him to walk with me to the front. I wanted to say no, but I turned and looked up at my dads face on my left and saw tears running down his cheek and the joy in his eyes so I went forward.
We no sooner got the front then I was surrounded by three or four more men all gathered around landing hands on ma and holding me down while screaming to God to save me. I was creeped out and scared. I began to cry. When I started crying, they started rejoicing and then one of them moved on to praying in tongues. That frightened me even more so I cried louder. The louder I got the happier they got. When I ran out of tears they began thanking Jesus and the rejoicing went on and on. When they finally let me go I went back and stood next to dad. He reached down and gave me a hug. I was just thankful I had escaped from the angry men at the alter, but was I “saved.” I wasn’t sure. I didn’t feel differently. I didn’t feel thankful no did I feel like I was avoiding eternal damnation.
I thought it was over. I was saved as far as they were concerned and they would now leave me alone. If they thought I was saved, maybe I was. I didn’t know. The next Sunday I was surround by people at church congratulating me. You would have thought I had won a lottery. My Sunday school teacher wanted me to teach the lesson the next Sunday. As she said, all I had to do was tell the story of Joseph being sold into slavery. Easy. I could do that. I had gone to Sunday school my whole life. I knew the all the kids stories of the Bible. Having taught my class I was even more of a hero to the adults. The kids weren’t too proud of me. What they didn’t know was that I had not known if I was sincere or serious at that alter. I only knew I was a frightened 13-year-old boy. The preacher and the prayer scared the living day lights out of me. I didn’t want to be a sinner any more, but nothing in my life changed. I had heard that there would be a dramatic change when we accepted Jesus. I was pretty sure I was the same ole guy.
However, as far as the church was concerned, I was saved. I was one of them. I was heading to the great kingdom in the sky. I was sure that meant the questioning looks and the constant questions about my salvation were now over.
Wrong. The concern for my spiritual wellbeing only increased. More was expected. More was being demanded.
No comments:
Post a Comment