I’ve been sharing about my experiences growing up in an ultra-conservative Christian family and church. I would be dishonest if I said that everything I learned and absorbed in the process was toxic. It wasn’t. I learned many things about God and faith and service that have helped move me through tough times in life with more purpose. However, the danger of accepting everything we are taught related to spirituality without taking the time to question is that we run the risk of accepting the toxic parts as fact. Accepting the toxic as fact only serves to narrow our perspective and thereby truncate our effectiveness.
When I was about ten years old, we lived in Waco, TX. My father was in the middle of yet another attempt to “settle down” and stay in one place for a while as the pastor of a church. We were there approximately 1.5 years. Not a long time, but certainly long enough for me to learn how deception can sometimes serve a purpose . . . at least in the short term.
You might recall in a previous post how I described being part of a group discussion with other PKEKMKs during a revival meeting series. You might also recall how I described feeling as if I were a second class Christian because I had not “received the special gift of tongues.” I carried that sense of shame for a couple of years before I figured a way out.
You see, it seems that many in the church of which my dad was a pastor in Waco, were worried about me! They were worried about my “lack of spiritual depth and power” because I could not speak in tongues (Remember, I’m only 10 years old). They were so “concerned” about the precarious nature of my soul that a group of them took me on as a sort of “project.” The goal of the project? Get me to the point where I would be “baptized in the Spirit as evidenced by speaking in tongues.” Yep! That was it! So, over a period of several weeks if not months, I was subjected to a sort of ritualized coercion designed to “loosen me up” and guide me in the art of “receiving the Spirit” and “speaking in tongues.”
The process was specific. At the end of each Sunday night service, I was led down the aisle, instructed to kneel at the “altar,” raise my arms over my head, tilt my head backward a bit, loosen my jaw and begin to “beg God”to bless me with this gift. They were relentless! They worked and worked and worked . . . to no avail! I began to believe that perhaps I was as defective as my peers had announced previously. I was doomed to live a second class existence. Then one day, I had an idea!
I had had it! I was tired of the ritual! I was exhausted from the abuse! I was determined to find some relief. And I did.
Having grown up in groups for which “speaking in tongues” was part and parcel of their practice of the Faith, I had picked up words and phrases that appeared to be fairly common. Early one Monday morning following yet another “onslaught from the faithful,” I began to practice. Yes, I practiced the words and phrases I had heard so many times in my short life. I practiced and practiced and practiced! By the time the next Sunday rolled around, I was ready! Nervous but ready!
As if scripted, when the customary “altar call” was extended, the two men designated as my “coaches” took me by the arms and gently led me to the front of the church. I dutifully and obediently took my place on the floor, kneeling in humility. I positioned my body in the manner in which I had become accustomed and began quietly spouting vowels and syllables as previously instructed. After what I believed to be an “appropriate amount of time,” I let go with a string of rehearsed words and phrases sounding like a pro! The response was immediate and explosive.
All of my cadre of spiritual guides were elated! Another notch on their belts! Another leak-sealed Christian added to the fold. Another one bites the dust, YEE HAW!
Although I experienced a certain guilt related to my actions, at least I had some peace. From that night on when the altar call was given and I sat quietly in my pew, no one bothered me anymore. When asked if I wanted to join the people down front, I timidly responded, “No thank you. I’m happy praying here where I am.”
In those quiet moments, surrounded by all manner of noise, I reconnected with that still, quiet, powerful Presence that invited me into a Place of Passage that I still visit today. A place filled with wonder, awe, intrigue, mystery, love and purpose. I’m not so sure that that Presence blames me for my small deception. I believe that Presence would tell me, “Mark, sometimes you have to Fake it til . . .”
Peace!
Mark E. Hundley
