November Writing Challenge, Day 5

Holy. 

How fitting that it’s Sunday. But then, not everybody worships on Sunday. Not everyone worships at all. 

 I’ve fallen out of church, myself, I’m sorry to say. The reason isn’t because I’ve had second thoughts on religion. No, nothing like that. More like laziness. And I guess the best way for me to keep today holy is to stay away from other people. Because, face it, people annoy me. 

So anyway. I’ve known holy rollers and I’ve known spiritual people who have more compassion in them than people who are self proclaimed born again Christians who go to church every time the doors are open. Of course, we all know sitting in church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car. 

Of course I should be witnessing to readers instead of bashing people who are probably doing more than me to get right. So. I’ll tell you about the time I was baptised in the Spirit. Never heard of it? Neither had I. (Mark 1:8 touches on it, along with a few other passages). We were attending this little church in South Knoxville-in Vestal-to beat all…Shug likes the tiny churches. And I will admit to feeling more in touch with the Lord in them little places where your voice is clearly heard when you sing and they wait on you to find your place in your Bible before beginning reading the scripture. This place wasn’t as big as a gas station, set right against the road on a gravel lot and a rusty chain link fence barely kept the blackberry bushes at bay out back. Nothing matched on the inside and lots of Sundays we drew almost as many homeless as we did home dwellers. It was an eye opening experience for me, but I constantly reminded myself that I was offended by people who volunteered and sent money to third world countries instead of helping at home. There is need in Knoxville, y’all. There is need in Sevierville, there’s need everywhere you look. You don’t have to get on an airplane to find it. This church helped locally. And I would hazard to say most of its members didn’t have charity to give. Anyway. It was a stirring Sunday and some crazy stuff was happening, a lady walking around blessing the pews and curtains and some guy blowing into an oxen horn, I don’t know what all. I was mesmerized and just a little terrified. You know me, always scared somebody’s gonna break out the snakes. It IS East Tennessee, after all. We’re not as removed as people would lead you to believe. 

Pastor John is getting people to the altar left and right and everybody is just captivated and swept away on this spiritual torrent. I’d never seen anything like it. They were shouting and praising God and Kim was annointing members and I was just struck at how beautiful and moving it all was. Next thing I know, this woman that got annointed was being lowered to the floor and she was smiling serenely. Thankfully she wasn’t thrashing around or I would have been beating the door down. That stuff makes me nervous. I had enough seizure phone calls to do me while I was dispatching. John was explaining to the congregation that she had been baptised In the Spirit and went on to describe what that entailed, exactly. I was intrigued. I wanted it. But I was wearing a skirt. 

Pastor John must have seen the want in my eyes and offered. I used my skirt as an excuse. No problem, he said, we could wait till most everybody cleared out and they had a blanket to cover me with. And they did. And I was so warm and when John smacked me on the head and my knees went weak and it wasn’t stupid and I wasn’t acting and I fell into Johnny’s arms and that was that. 

Holy cow. 

Holy moley. 

After my many years in and out of various churches (my great grandmother was a Jehovah’s Witness and that will leave a bad taste in a kid’s mouth because they are incredibly forceful at that tender age), I hadn’t really let myself go. I took a smirking approach to so many others’ beliefs and gritted my teeth on many an occasion. The big church I steadfastly attended for several years, even participating as an Angel in Heaven for their Judgement House, had never stirred me like this. Everything-the singing, the worship, the prayers, always felt so rehearsed, so fake in that sanctuary. I’m sure plenty of people like it and feel touched or they wouldn’t have such a prosperous congregation. 

I don’t know what’s become of Pastor John and Kim, I hope he’s still preaching the truth somewhere and she’s still singing “He Knows My Name”, because they had the gift of reaching many and truly making a difference because of what they’d come from- what they’d overcome. They could relate to people that probably wouldn’t be comfortable approaching some more refined houses of worship. They made you feel welcome, whether you were fresh from the bar the night before, determined that was the last time, or dressed in your best. He encouraged us all to keep a dust-free Bible. 

And that’s my definition of holy.