On a suffocatingly hot night in July of 1991, I find myself in the middle of nowhere Indiana at the United Pentecostal Church camp.
The night is thick with humidity and prayers. The sanctuary has giant fans that mix the murmur of tongues with the heat. A group of adults wail prayers in a semi-circle behind me. My aunt and my mom are there. In front of me a round man wearing a suit with a loose tie, drips sweat as he screams prayers in my face. I’m 9, or maybe 10. I wait for the Holy Ghost to rain down on me but so far it’s just this man’s spit.
I’m desperate for this elusive Holy Ghost. I’m not interested in burning in hell, maybe, it’ll make my crushes on girls disappear, too? My cries echo the adults behind me. “Lord, God, please, Lord. I praise Jesus. I love you, Jesus.” My arms raise up higher into the air and my hands stretch wider. I imagine God touching my fingertips and I feel electricity in them.
My aunt leans in to hear if I’m speaking in tongues, the only physical evidence of receiving the Holy Ghost. My words have begun to slur because I’ve been praying for at least an hour, maybe more. The fervent need to be saved shakes my entire body. Someone grips my wrist and lifts my hand higher. I don’t like this. God’s fingertips ascend and the electricity dies. More hands find their way onto my back. Who is touching me? As hands find their way onto me, I can’t concentrate on God. Well-meaning adults surround me screaming “Hallelujah” and “Praise Jesus” in my ear.
As I grow more exhausted, my lip stutters and my tongue flops in my mouth. I’m speaking in tongues. I have the Holy Ghost. Some of the adults clap and some dance. My mom cries tears of joy. I’m relieved to be spared eternal damnation.
That night I return to the floor of the workers’ bunks, too afraid to stay with my fellow campers. I lay quietly wondering if I was really saved. What if the Holy Ghost didn’t take? I’d hate for a failed Holy Ghost attempt to keep me from entering the pearly gates. As I lay in the dark I search my heart, did I still love the neighbor girl who actually put ribbons in her hair at bedtime? Maybe? But probably not, right, Holy Ghost? Holy Ghost? Are you there? Silence. I adjust my body on the blanket on top of the cold concrete. I listen for my mom’s breathing. She was my first peace. But even feeling her presence is no longer comforting. My innocent brain needs to confirm I am saved and I will not go to hell. Not even my mom can stop me from going to hell. I fall asleep.
The next night I find that place again. I fall out in the spirit and lay near the altar blissfully speaking in tongues – exhausted.
I found myself in that place night after night. Within minutes of beginning to pray, I’d begin to speak in tongues. The warmth of salvation washed over my entire body.
But I also found another warmth, the hand of a Pentecostal girl. In a dark van on the way to youth camp, she grabbed my hand and held it the entire hour drive. Maybe to her, it was normal pre-teen affections, but, in me, it created an urgency to find God even more frequently.
So, I did. I went to church on Sundays, Wednesday and Fridays. I did prayer shut-ins and prayed for hours upon hours overnight. I sought God in every action. I spoke in tongues nearly as often as I spoke in words.
I don’t know what it was that created this movement called the Holy Ghost. Was it the intensity of energy of all those gathered seeking the same salvation that created that experience? Was it “God” manifesting themselves in us? Was it that I simply wanted to believe so I did?
Often when I get bodywork these days, I feel the sensation of being lifted up by many hands and many words. The adults of my youth rhythmically praying for my continued salvation. I was a promise fulfilled.
I felt like that promise fulfilled, until the sermons on homosexuality. I’d be reminded no matter the amount of Holy Ghost, these adults would never allow me into heaven. It didn’t matter how pure of heart I was, if I went to church four times a week or did the overnight prayer sessions. I still held her hand every chance I got.
Somehow 18 years after leaving the church, I’ve realized that holding “her” hand, holding “her” heart, loving “her” body does not condemn me to a fiery pit. I sought peace in salvation, only to have to fight the torment of that salvation for over half my life. It took every single one of those 18 years to find that peace.
Now I speak in a different sort of tongues.
Beautifully written. Your words resonate with many who grew up in churches all across the country. No matter the religion, there are many for whom you speak. You are the voice for many who came in the generations before you, and for the youth who will follow you. I am so glad you’re getting back into your writing and I look forward to reading more. I remember meeting a young individualin theor late teens who had a mystical silence about them and a story that needed to come out. An ability to break from the cocoon they were in, to become the beautiful butterfly that God intended. The butterfly that broke free from that cocoon, is simply magnificent!
Awww, Brett! I’m literally tearing up here. I’m so happy you were in my life in those early years. I was definitely searching for community and validation. I’m so happy I found it in Muncie’s queer scene. I miss you all so much. Thank you for reading and for your continued kindness. xoxo