1967

In 1967, my father and his wife consigned me to spend three weeks of my summer vacation at a Pentecostal church camp in Missouri. This experience indelibly marked my life.

Many people grow up in horrendously dysfunctional homes, complete with extreme violence and emotional abuse; such was the situation of my childhood.

Because of certain nervous habits and idiosyncrasies that set me apart, the “nice” children in the schools nearly unanimously rejected me. I found friendship and camaraderie among the outlaws.

By 1967, I was a bona fide juvenile delinquent.

I will never forget the day I was deposited at that camp. My father had sold my 1954 Ford so that I could pay for this adventure. Many of you might be thinking this was all a caring father’s attempt to straighten out an errant son. Think what you will, but I assure you that was not the case.

The camp was situated in a heavily wooded area, by a lake. It swarmed with the natural beauty of the outdoors. There was a huge tent, complete with wooden benches, a sawdust floor and a large platform up front, where the nightly meetings were to be held.

As I scanned the crowd, I deduced this was going to be quite a challenge. I saw nobody that I believed I could even remotely relate to. The vast majority was adult. The smattering of youth sprinkled among them appeared to be out of step with the times; they had all stepped directly out of the Pentecostal holiness movement and into my life and were to be my sole contact with human beings for the next three weeks.

I was nearly overcome with despair, when I spotted two boys leaning against a tree, wearing scowls on their faces. They were dressed in jeans and tee-shirts and sported long hair, just like me. Soon, we were talking and comparing notes. I had connected with kindred spirits.

At some point, the three of us wandered into the woods for a smoke. We were alarmed to discover that we had less than a pack and a half of cigarettes between us. Fearing a major nicotine meltdown, we decided to split up and scour the crowd in an attempt to find someone that might be persuaded to help us with some tobacco and possibly a little alcohol to dull the pain.

When we came together again, we all agreed we were sorely out of luck.

Some guy came through blowing a whistle and instructing everyone to grab a tent and pitch it at one of the campsites. My two new friends, Paul and Joey invited me to share a tent. As we worked together to set it up, I learned that they were from California.

Much to their chagrin, they had been shipped to Missouri to spend the summer with their grandparents and had been shuttled out to the camp, despite their protests.

We barely had our tent situated, when a jeep drove through the camping area and the pencil-neck with the whistle instructed everyone to meet at the mess hall for dinner. This camp was extremely regimented. We were given precious little free time.

The day’s climax came that evening under the big-top. This was a genuine, old time, fire-breathing, tongue speaking tent revival, complete with all the trappings. Little did we know what we were in for and three weeks of it no less.

We shuffled in and sat down in the back row of the tent seating. Many people were already seated, with more arriving by the minute. This was a huge tent--the crowd was very large--but there was plenty of room for all.

As we sat there joking and talking, we heard some loud chatter, “Prenta kay sa da da da, kasanda praenta kay sada.” We assumed the person was speaking in some foreign language, but as other’s chimed in, it began to sound like gibberish. The tongue speakers were getting louder; some of them were kneeling and crying. It was a surreal scene and one that we were ill equipped to deal with.

Soon, the singers took the platform along with an organist; the worship director stepped forward as the music segment for the evening got underway. The tempo increased with every song until the frenzy reached its crescendo. At the peak, an older man in a crisp, white suit entered stage right. What a show this was turning out to be. My two friends and I braced ourselves.

”Praise the Lord,” he said, “Is there anyone here that loves Jesus?” The audience exploded. The tongue speakers jabbered away--shouts of amen thundered through the crowd—many of the people crying uncontrollably.

“Let’s love Jesus friends.” The man in the white suit called forth the ushers as the first collection of the evening was taken. They passed white cardboard buckets down the aisles. “Dig deeply brothers and sisters, that the message of the Kingdom can go forward unhindered!” He said. “We live in a world of lost and dying people; they need to know Jesus!” The man had a most unusual cadence.

Paul, Joey and I could scarcely believe what we were witnessing. Again, surreal comes to mind; the energy was incredible, yet the program was barely underway.

After a couple more songs, the man grabbed a microphone and lit into it. He told of a fiery hell where the thirst is not quenched and the “worm will not die.” He talked about how sinful, awful and ugly this world is and even mentioned the Rolling Stones by name.

“We live in a world where adultery, homosexuality and bestiality are practiced and shoved in our faces by Hollywood and the television industry.” He lectured. “Every one of you was born in sin and has taken to it like a duck to the water. Hell is what you deserve and Hell is what you’re going to get…a hell that burns forever… a just punishment for a life of sin…”

It was looking pretty bleak for us.

“…but lest you despair, there is a way out.” He took out a cloth and wiped the sweat from his brow. He began to speak more softly. “There is a way out folks, and that way out is Jesus!”

Once again the crowd reverberated with a chorus of amens and smatterings of tongue-speaking gibberish with weeping and wailing. This was quite a scene. There I sat, with my two friends; just the three of us against this very strange world. Can you spell emotional abuse?



To Be Continued...