“Would you like to come with me to a prayer revival?” asked my new friend.

Since I was feeling a little empty spiritually, I said, “Sure. A good old-fashioned prayer revival sounds good. Let’s go.”

A few days later, she picked me up and we drove in her car to the church where the event was being held.

“What is this event going to be like? Will there be music?” I asked, looking at my friend expectantly.

“Don’t worry, you’ll like it,’ she assured me.  

When we arrived, I looked at the printed program and realized this was not a prayer revival at all! In fact, it was an anniversary celebration for the pastor’s many years in ministry. It appeared that I was about to be the unwitting participant in a very ‘unique’ evangelical event.

“Oh, no! What am I going to do?” I thought to myself. “I can’t leave; I don’t have my own car here. Oh, man, I am stuck here till it is over. I hope it does not last long.” That was wishful thinking on my part.

Once in the sanctuary, there were quiet murmurs of anticipation all around. It was already half an hour past the start time. I wondered what everyone was waiting for.

In the next moment, the pastor strutted into the altar area at the front of the church followed by an entourage of four male deacons. His commanding voice filled the sanctuary announcing his presence (as if we did not know) accompanied by the acknowledging responses of “Amen!” “Hallelujah!” and “Speak it, Brother!” from an all-female congregation.

“Let us sing to the Lord!” the pastor then commanded. And sing we did. All 42 verses of the same song, over, and over, and over, until the male choirmaster, as cued by the pastor, decided we could stop. One song was not sufficient however and once again, on demand, we sang all 42 verses of two other songs. I still cringe today when I sing “Every Time I Feel the Spirit,” thinking of the ‘command performance’ from that night at the ‘prayer revival.’

Then came the sermon. The pastor, like a pacing bull, literally stomped his way back and forth across the entire altar area as he bellowed out his message.

“The Lord this, and the Lord that,” he said [my paraphrasing]. “And I was a poor man, but the Lord picked me up and brought me here. God chose ME to save YOU all and this church.”

This pastor was God’s special messenger and he wanted to make sure we all knew! As with the singing, he went on, and on, and on. Sweat began pouring off his forehead and face. Several times the deacons provided him with a handkerchief as he mopped his brow and face during momentary pauses. I am not sure how long the sermon lasted. I stopped listening very early on and my mind wandered.

I was brought out of my reverie by a collective sound of moans and exclamations of “Thank you, Jesus!” from the congregation. Another turn of events.

The pastor’s voice level changed, and now, half cajoling and half chastising, he exclaimed, “Who among you will come up to the altar to receive God and accept Jesus as their savior? Who? You! You? I am waiting!” A few women went up. Then another one or two. And still the pastor demanded and waited, pacing all the while. I vaguely wondered if he would wait until every single woman in the congregation came forward.

Then, to my surprise, my friend started walking up to the altar. I was confused. Why was she going up to accept Jesus when she was already a follower?

Delighted at her presence, the pastor made a proclamation. “This woman needs supporters to stand with her as she accepts Jesus! Come forward and show your support of this woman on her new journey!”

Two people went up and stood by her as the pastor waited. Feeling somewhat intimidated, thinking that I too should be a ‘supportive’ friend, I walked up and stood at her side. Then my friend began doing a most peculiar thing, at least to me, she started speaking in tongues. What on earth was she saying? I admit to being mesmerized. ‘This is getting deep,’ I thought, as my mind drifted away once again.

The next thing I knew, I was by standing by myself in the altar area with the pastor smack dab in front of me about 6 inches from my face. He signaled to the deacon on his right who brought over a bowl full of something – oh my goodness, anointing oil! I so wanted to leave but all I could do was stand still like a statue. The pastor slathered a glob of oil on his right palm and then plastered it against my forehead and held it there.  

“Sister, tell me your name,” he demanded in a loud voice.

“Melinda,” I replied.

“Sister Melinda, the Lord is telling me to tell you to come to this church for three Sundays,” he exclaimed, his voice getting louder and sounding oddly satisfied.

“No,” I said.

“Why not?” he questioned, surprised at my answer.

“Because Mrs. Richey wouldn’t like it,” I said, thinking quickly.

“Who is Mrs. Richey?” he said, puzzled.

“She is the choir director at my church and she does not like it if we are not there to sing every Sunday.”

“Sister Melinda, you don’t understand,” he continued emphatically, “The LORD is telling ME to tell YOU to come to this church for three Sundays.”

“No,” I said once again much to his dismay.

“Why?” he demanded, clearly annoyed.

“Because I already have a church,” I said. He was not impressed.

“Sister Melinda,” he said for a third time, “You must understand that THE LORD is TELLING ME to TELL YOU to come to THIS CHURCH for THREE Sundays,” he said with quiet anger.

“No,” I said for the third time. “I cannot.”

Utter silence. No one moved or spoke for what seemed like five minutes. Finally, the pastor walked away to the other side of the altar, followed by the deacons. Neither the pastor nor anyone else would look at me. Not knowing what to do, I went and sat down in the pew. Still, no one spoke to me, not even my friend. 

On the way home, I asked my friend why she would not speak to me.

“You refused a direct order from God!” she declared emphatically.

“Oh no, I did not!” I declared right back. “If God wants to talk to me, he can do it directly! He does not have to go through someone else to give me a message. And I am not going to go to a new church when I already have a church home!”

We never spoke again.

When I related this account to the pastor at my church, he laughed heartily and said, “Melinda, don’t you realize what you did?”

“No,” I said, honestly unaware of my transgression. “What did I do?”

“You usurped that pastor’s power right in front of his congregation by denying him 3 times! Like Peter denied Jesus three times, remember? Melinda, believe me, you will never have to worry about your faith.”

And so be it. Amen.

Good day!

Melinda Grohol

4/7/2023

P.S. This is a true story. It is not meant to dis the event(s) or people involved in any way. It is simply my retelling of the event from my purview.