BARBAROUS TONGUES

...

.

I have a story to tell. It is a long one. I know from the site counter that people tend to skip over my site when I have a longer post; but I think this one will be rewarding to the patient. It explains a good deal of my attitude, for those who may have wondered just what drives such bitter hatred toward Christendom. I believe these incidents to be oddly meaningful.
The truth is, I despise Christianity for a number of reasons; they’re largely unimportant. You will all have to wait for the book. Others have questioned why I seem so deadset upon protesting it so much—if it’s all a lie, why not just let the people dream of their pretty Heaven and fluffy angels and zombie messiahs? I’ll tell you: It’s because these people vote. And a lot of the things they vote for can affect even those who don’t believe a word.

I have no other valid reasons for relating this grandiose, off-topic tale, apart that is weird, and I also. Welcome to my world. It’s just sideways from here.

Here is some background to the story:

The year was likely 1990, or at the latest, early 1991. I was young—barely a teen. I had been through quite a bit, having been somewhat of a professional punching bag at my prior school, a redneck wide spot in the road, wherein collecting dust became a hobby, and all farmers merely grew cobwebs. Knuckle-dragging country boys and soon-to-be-a-teenage-mother girls reinforced over and again that I was not one of them because I wasn’t born there, and by the great god Bocephus, I’d learn, even if they had to pound it into me. Meanwhile the teachers verbally abused me for not standing up to get my ass kicked again, or participating in more sports (which apparently, through some rural “down home” wisdom that I fail to understand, is a cure-all for the ills of all mankind).
I had thus grown up within a rather small circle, and had become prone to staying indoors, as I retreated within my own strange adolescent world, where the bullies were dead, the girls were naked, and God did not create me just to suffer at the hands of “His” creations.

I had begun a new life at the Ministry; it was much different than before—people were friendlier, and less abusive towards those who might be different (unless, of course, you had doctrinal issues). Still, in retrospect, I was poorly socialized, from those years lived in the sticks: when I spoke, I spoke too much, and felt compelled, often, to confide in strangers details that none needed to know. When I was silent, it was awkward, as I would fidget like a junkie, or blankly stare into the vast reaches of space. I probably creeped people out.
I was going through an Awkward Stage: I was pale, and overweight. I had a peculiar walk. I had little tact in approaching people, and zero sense of timing. I was book-smart, but clueless interacting with human beings. I was desperate to find anyone who regarded me as human, much less warmly, or as an equal of some sort. So at 13, I sought pale shelter in the Church.
(Boo hoo. Are your innards gooey with empathy yet?)
Though a difficult transition, I found myself surrounded with fellows tripping over one another to mentor me. They seemed impressed by my potential—I was a fast learner; and once I understood a Biblical concept, I was frequently able to converse freely about it with even the passing pastor or professor (I may have been weird and aloof, but I had a terrific vocabulary for my age); they were delighted—not many 13-year-olds caught on so quick, or cared about such things. I embraced this newfound faith with vigor—albeit an awkward one. Puberty had me by the balls—I did everything awkwardly, in some sense.

Moving right along...

I’d begun attending Monday Morning Prayer. Largely, it was an excuse to hang out with these newfound friends and “mentors.” They prayed and wailed to God aloud, in what seemed to me as marathon pleads for mercy and for help. They often spoke in tongues.
Prayer was such a simple issue to me—I couldn’t imagine it lasting for more than a few minutes. In fact, I pretty much ran out of things to say after about five minutes. I kept it short; in my mind, “He” already knew how great “He” was, and the Scriptures said “He” already knew of all our needs. If “He” already knew what I needed, and what other people needed, and already understood that I worshipped “Him,” really, what was there to say but ‘thanks’ and ‘keep up the good work’?
Why did I need to spend two hours wailing for poor starving Shadrach of Kenya, when if God was truly God, “He” already knew who Shadrach was, and knew exactly what he needed. If God was letting the poor boy starve, it wasn’t any of my business—it was between the boy and God. Besides—it seemed to me that God declined such requests for assistance quite routinely; otherwise Sally Struthers would require fresh employment.
If I was crippled by a Buick in broad daylight, why must I tearfully wail aloud for Jesus’ help? Didn’t “He” see it happen? Do not the Scriptures teach that everything that happens on this Earth occurs because God caused it or allows it? And if “He” knows the contents of my heart, would “He” not also know full well that I desired such a healing to occur? What did I need to say, apart from “I don’t know why You allow(ed) this, but I hope You make it better, because I understand You can”?
It all seemed so unnecessary. Did the Creator of the universe really enjoy hearing the overwrought sobs and whispers offered unto “Him” by the millions—much less, hours upon hours of them? If so, it painted a rather sinister picture of the Divine. Did the Lord really have such an ego, that “He” required 24-hour gibbering praise? What did this prove? If you praised the Lord once in a prayer, and meant it, why did you need to babble on for hours in repetition? When you tell your wife or girlfriend that you love her, would you really feel the need to sob and plead it over and over again for another two hours? (That is, if you weren’t drunk or cheating…)
That was my attitude toward prayer at age 13. In some ways it was quite astute; in others, it was hopelessly naïve.

I didn’t get the whole “hands raised in submission” thing either, at first. When Rev. Joe sat quietly on the pew, head lifted to heaven and right-hand raised, I assumed he was signaling me, and high-fived him when I passed. I did this more than once.
And I certainly didn’t understand this “speaking in tongues” business. When Rev. Pat mumbled in silence, and in unknown tongues, I elbowed him and asked him what he said. When Pastor Dino paced back and forth by the pulpit entrance, head raised and mouth stammering, I’d walk on over, and tap him on the back—I wanted to know if he was speaking into the intercom, and if so, who was in the office to hear it (it was 6am, you know…).

The final straw was when we all joined hands in prayer, and formed some sort of “prayer circle” around some young man who was setting off to sail, a first-time missionary. Everyone was to pray and give their blessing, only breaking the circle for the laying on of hands. (Sounds a bit pagan, eh?). We would take turns, going in order, counterclockwise. This was not so fearsome. That is, until I realized that we were supposed to pray out loud.
They all spoke with those “tongues of fire,” and yelled grandiose commands of praise and blessing from on high. This was going to suck. When it came my turn, I froze at once…then babbled incoherently, and prayed dearly with dread within, that the others would assume I prayed “in tongues.” Then, following another awkward silence, I sheepishly raised my voice like the others, but since I had nothing to say, really, my prayer seemed understated. Everyone else had moaned and wailed for twenty-minute stretches; I had barely filled six minutes. My eyes were on the clock. (It was way up on the wall, above me, so I figured they’d assume that my eyes were “transfixed to yonder heaven.”). I began filling in space with whatever came to mind—I went way the hell off-topic, and began to simply copy prayers I’d heard cried out in church. I started rambling about abortionists and heathens teaching evolution in our schools, and those poor Catholics who didn’t know the true blessings of Pentecost or the pagan goddess-worship origins of their Virgin Adorations…I pretty much just started making things up at this point. Then, when I totally ran out of steam, I began lowering my voice and mumbling incoherently again.
After the service, Pastor Dino and Rev. Pat pulled me aside. It was time, they said, emphatically, that I was “filled with the Holy Spirit.” (Sounds naughty…) The concept scared me half to death. I didn’t want to be possessed! It was, however, made extremely clear that they were “ready…very ready,” for me to “grow in the Lord…as soon as humanly possible.”
I was told that when we spoke in tongues, God was giving us the words to say…to “Him,” that “He” is “speaking through us” (to “Himself.”) Wait…Let me get this straight…God knows all before we ask, making much of what we say irrelevant…and then “He” is going to give us the words? So “God” wants to speak to “Himself,” but through us… Perhaps I should digress.
I was told to kneel, with my hands raised skyward. This sounded suspiciously like a hostage situation. Everyone surrounded me, praying loudly, shouting. They proceeded with the laying on of hands (insert snide double-entendre here). It was very forceful; they kept pushing me, as if they were trying to punch me with their palms (I call it the “Christian Dim Mak”). Pastor Dino had his huge man-sausage hands wrapped tightly around the top of my scruffy teenage head; he shook so hard, I thought he would give me whiplash. From afar, it had to look like some sort of quasi-Pentecostal gang-rape. In the hour or so that this occurred, what with all the shouting, weeping and shaking, I seemed to lose track of the time. The next thing that I knew, it was over, and I was on my feet again. I don’t know how many minutes that I lost; it was all rather a blur.
I am told I spoke in tongues. Dino, Pat, and Joe insisted on it. I don’t remember a thing. They took me out to lunch afterwards, convincing me of all I’d “prophesied.” Whatever…it seemed real enough to make me wonder if God now lived inside of me. I was repeatedly assured “He” did, and that if I questioned it too much, “He” would leave (and we’d have to start again).
It might not have been divine, but it did keep me in line. If nothing else, my instincts did improve. I learned not to ask too many questions. This experience would, in fact, prepare me for something strangely meaningful that would occur much later on:

It may seem like this isn’t going anywhere, but I assure you that it is.

Fast Forward: Years passed; I matured into a ministry of my own. I never did get the hang of glossolalia, and I was still a strange young man, but I was confident in my attitude toward “God,” and had finally earned some semblance of respect among my peers.

I attended a morning chapel service at my school. I had not desired to go, but attendance was mandatory, though I was in my last year. It’s not that I dreaded school chapel—far from it, I’d actually preached there once. Rather, I resented the choice of speakers for the day: it was a newer teacher known for being a Fundamentalist’s Fundamentalist, topical and hostile, and straight-ticket GOP. As a student at Jimmy Swaggart Ministries, I had studied under some of the greatest Evangelical preachers of our day; admittedly, I had high standards, and knew a con job when I saw it. I had heard this fellow preach before, and thought he was derivative and simplistic, reactionary and ignorant. I was not alone; many of the adults, who were not obligated to attend, were conspicuously missing on that day.
The opening music—which he had requested—sickened and embarrassed me. This guy ranted and raved at every opportunity about the “evils of Christian Rock,” which he likened to “Christian drug use” or “Christian prostitution.” And yet, he chose to precede his fiery morning diatribe with a bastardized version of Joe Cocker’s “Love Lift Us Up Where We Belong.” This was not even a Christian song, and they had to change the lyrics to make it fit (it became “LORD Lift Us Up…”). And they sang like fifteen repetitions of it! It got worse…
His “sermon” was pure hatred—a virtual string of slogans, scare tactics, and Christian Urban Legends. But he was very emotional, and very loud. And when he ran out of topical items to rant against and popular prejudices to exploit, he started up the music again—that same damned song, and twenty repetitions to follow. And did I mention that the girl he handpicked to “lead the music service” was in fact, herself, about as “spiritual” as a rock, and the class whore? Did I mention that, no less than a month after the service, she was discovered to be pregnant?
But I digress, again.
His accusing, nearly all-inclusive altar call was highly effective: there wasn’t a “sin” in the book he’d failed to mention and condemn—the chances of nobody “struggling” with at least one of these things was infinitesimal, as was the intent. He didn’t want reflection or “repentance”—he wanted a widely sweeping roll call; he wanted a reaction from the crowd. Nearly everyone in the first six rows went tumbling, tears streaming, to the altar. That left us “sinners” on the back three rows. I watched and observed for what seemed like forever. It was like a dream—like I wasn’t really there. People writhed and swarmed at the base of the altar—it was like a gigantic, writhing orgy of limbs and tears. People made terrifying noises. People broke down. Certainly, some movement, some mass hysteria was sweeping across the chapel. And I was not involved, nor wished to be.
This created a problem; I was supposed to be a “spiritual example.” Now, I was “revealing” myself to be a “sinner” or worse yet, “out of the Will,” and “out of touch with God.” While the wailing masses swayed, en masse, a number of sweaty, nervous counselors and “spiritual leaders” began to approach me, one by one. They asked if there was a problem. I insisted there was not. They asked if I had “received the Spirit” or had even been “properly saved.” I assured them that I had and I was; I just wasn’t “feeling it” today…not from this mess.
One after another, they sat next to me, and prodded, chiding me to confess some secret sin. There was none I was aware of, above and beyond those things which all teens, Christian or otherwise, dealt with. I was not going to bestow my blessing upon this fiasco, or endorse it, by stumbling down to the altar just to keep appearance up. I was perfectly happy to pray where I was sitting—in fact, each time they bothered me, I was just reading my Bible.
At some point, perhaps in an effort to bring in the stragglers, one of the teachers having an “experience” at the altar, cried loudly into the microphone, “How can you people sit there?! God is moving in this place! If you don’t feel this, you are dead—you’re spiritually dead inside!!”
I resented that so fucking much. How dare her. How fucking dare her bait us like that. Something didn’t feel right to me. I would worship as I pleased, and I would not be moved by threats. Yet, I was almost entirely alone. Even the “unsaved” kids went up, because they didn’t want to be hassled after school, and because the longer that this madness took, the more of class they missed. But I was resolute: My principles were not for sale, not even to the “God” that made their lips to tremble; not even with “revival in the land.”
I was almost universally alienated from the “Campus Club” clique after that. I was suddenly quite unwelcome by the “upper echelons,” whom I’d fought tooth and nail to be recognized by to begin with. And the “prophet” teacher? He was later promoted to Principal.

I would go on to encounter much the same and more, much later on. I still resent them all, to some degree. Even though I no longer believe, I certainly believed, with passion, at the time. I don’t know why this seems so meaningful—but I can’t help but think it strangely significant, representative of what we all, as a nation, should be prepared to battle, as Christendom takes Washington by force. This is what we’re dealing with.
And really, this incident remains ingrained in my memory as Christianity’s Defining Moment. I never forgot it. I never will. And neither should you.

Ultimately, in summary, when God says “To-MAY-to,” I say “To-MAH-to,” and the Christians say “to-hoe-hoe-toe-hee-hee-ree-blah-blah-blah.” And, in the end, if God knows our hearts, and authors or approves all that transpires, and also knows what we have need of, knows what “He” wants us to say, and plans to either “give us the words” or “talk through us” when we talk to “Him” anyway, I say, save yourself the trouble—let the Christian God talk to “Himself” on our behalf without us—“He” clearly doesn’t want our input anyway. And besides, “He” is probably busy getting “Intelligent Design” into the schools, smiting homosexuals, and helping Bush destroy Social Security. Let’s not interrupt “Him;” “He” might have Gonzalez torture you in Guantanamo.
Send “Him” a card instead, preferably for “His” birthday; I hear it’s in December.

ECC. 5:2 “…and let not thine heart be hasty to utter any thing before God: for God is in heaven, and thou upon earth: therefore let thy words be few.” (KJV)