Pentecost and me
When I was thirteen my family took a road trip to visit some friends in western
One this particular trip, the destination was in the mountains outside of
This is taking a long time, but what I’m getting at is this: I was raised in a very conservative church. The type of place that believed that any musical instrument was the work of the devil, that women should never speak, lead, or pray in front of the congregation, and that women who wore pants were most likely lesbians. I was thirteen when I visited my first Pentecostal church service. We attended the Sunday service with our parent’s friends and I have to tell you, I think the outright rowdiness of the service, the noise, the dancing, the shouting, and the blazing-hot rock band offended our middleclass faith. People danced up and down the aisles to rock-n-roll versions of classic hymns, prayed on their knees, spoke in tongues, rolled around on the floor. My family quietly exited the church and stood out in the grassy parking lot among the pick-ups and muscle cars waiting for the end of the service.
When my wife and I lived in
My experiences in those Pentecostal churches have always led me to wonder about the Holy Spirit. But the book I started reading this week has got me wondering in a major way. I’m reading Dennis Covington’s Salvation on Sand Mountain: Snake Handling and Redemption in Southern Appalachia. Review to come.