This is Pentecost Sunday, and the sparrows are going crazy in my front yard as the day begins to break. This day became special to me a few years back when I realized that Pentecost was not only a special day in Christianity, but also for the Jewish people for whom the feast was instituted. That's often the problem with Christianity. We often frame everything in terms of our faith in Christ, and neglect the Jewish roots from which we have our faith. I've been a Pentecostal Christian from the time I was a young child of about ten years old. I gave my heart and life to the Lord after hearing Rev. Gene Rayburn talking about the book of Revelation at a two week revival not long after my Mom started going to church again. My mother, who'd allowed her relationship with Christ to grow cold during the early part of my life, rededicated her life to Christ and began taking us to church on a regular basis just before I turned ten. Don't get me wrong, we'd gone to church before that, but not with any consistency. The name of the church was Glad Tidings Assembly of God, and it was a small cinder block building with a 'Spanish Mission' styling that was typical for El Paso, Texas. It was in this small church that I learned about Pentecost, and what it was all about. It was also here that I witnessed the power of Holy Spirit in almost every biblical manifestation. Sadly, it was also here that I saw how a people could lose their fire, and zeal for Christ through a love of this life more than a love for God.
As an adolescent I saw and heard things I'll never forget. I met a man who'd been through a fiery crash of a B-52, surviving only because an angel held him up after his parachute failed. I remember listening intently as he told how he plummeted to the earth below as the fiery wreckage fell around him. His parachute caught fire and disappeared in flaming tatters above his own burning flight suit. As he removed his shirt sleeve I was amazed to see the one inch wide band of perfect skin around his bicep framed by the horrific fire scarred skin covering the rest of his arm. It was then, without fanfare, I believed in the miracles of God. The man's quiet recitation of the event, coupled with his revelation that it was the fire that caused him to have faith in Christ, spoke to my young heart. God existed, and he cared.
After accepting Christ at ten years old, I soon found out something I didn't understand at all. There were about four or five ladies, and maybe three men who would often begin speaking loudly in a foreign language during the service. This would occur often times between songs, or during the transition between worship and the preaching of the word. Eventually someone would 'interpret' what the other person said, and I would be riveted in wonder. The messages were often calls for salvation to someone, or a warning to avoid sins, or a prediction of the future coming of Christ. Occasionally, a man or woman would get what I called 'happy' and start running around the the inside of the building. Then there was this sweet old man named Jimmy who rarely spoke or sang, but once in a while he would get 'happy' and start doing this funny dance that carried him all across the front of the church. I loved watching him get happy. He could dance without music, or with it, but I knew when he was dancing he was someplace else other than on earth.
My young life was filled with thousands of things like this, and they were part of the physical manifestation of God's Holy Spirit that worked to convince me of the genuineness of my faith,and cement that faith forever in God. I still remember Sister Mays lifting a 1957 Chevy off of her teenage son, Donny, after it fell on him while he was working under it. She told the church how when she saw her son under the car she asked God for strength and she lifted it with one arm while pulling him out with the other. There was no denying this miracle because we saw the bruises, and the Doctor's report.
There was the time my little brother Jeff contracted Leukemia when he was 3 or 4 years old. All I remember now, is that he was gone from us for almost a week, and whenever we saw our mom she was heartbroken. I remember the prayer meeting where our Pastor said we would stay there all night until my brother was healed. I remember the joyous call from my Mom saying that the doctors said his blood count had returned to normal overnight.
I know for a fact that many cancers were healed, and great wonders done. For me, it was a time of wonderment, and I've never been the same since. It wasn't perfect, and there are things that happened that caused me to wonder if I would be able to stay true till Christ returned.
You see, I saw many 'wrong' things in our little Pentecostal church. I saw people act with spiritual pettiness that was not born of the Spirit of Christ dwelling in them. I saw people come and go over silly things like whether we should wear jewelry or go to football games. It was in these things that I learned how Holy Spirit "guides" us into all truth. He doesn't drag us, he leads us, sometimes taking a long time to convince people of the truth. Other times He leads us away from error and mistakes in our doctrine, till one day, we are mature and able to stand in His power with the ability to overcome ourselves.
I've learned a lot since those early days. I've learned not to judge a persons faith by what they say or do, but how they change through time. I no longer think a person has to be perfect before being filled, and baptized with the Holy Spirit. One thing that hasn't changed through the years is my joy at seeing young children baptized in the Holy Spirit. I giggle when I see someone get happy, and dance a Pentecostal jig. I still celebrate when a teenager says; "I want that." Pentecost is the core of my being even after 50 years of having lived for Christ. I still get goose bumps when Holy Spirit nudges me to give a message. That's not to say I've been perfect or arrived at a place better than others. I haven't been a pillar of righteousness, but Holy Spirit is still my guide after all these years. I still get happy, and I still speak in tongues, I still interpret, and I still lay hands on the sick to heal them. These are the gifts God gives to those who believe.
Sadly, calling yourself a Pentecostal believer in today's world conjures up images of snake handlers, and frenetic, wild eyed people rolling in the aisles. According to scripture, none of these things are associated with being baptized in the Holy Spirit. Christ said those signs would accompany those that believe. (Mark 16:18) I grew up being teased mercilessly for being Pentecostal, but in the end, here I am at 65 years old, still in love with Christ, and in love with Holy Spirit. I'll go to my grave being a Pentecostal believer.