Saved

"Lord Jesus, I need You. Thank You for dying on the cross for my sins. I open the door of my life and receive You as my Savior and Lord. Thank You for forgiving my sins and giving me eternal life. Take control of the throne of my life. Make me the kind of person You want me to be.” —-Sinners Prayer, Bill Bright 1950s

The church had red carpet. I always thought it was strange that a church would have red carpet because it reminded me of the “lake of fire” spoken of in scripture. So I would play a sort of “the floor is lava” game as I stayed up off the floor and on the gray cloth covered pews drawing on the little notepad I was given to occupy my time while the 45 minute sermon commenced. We started attending the Assembly of God when I was around 5 years old. My mother had gotten “saved” in a big pentecostal church in Kentucky while home visiting her parents in the late 1980s. Some lady with big hair was guest speaking at the church during a revival and pronounced that “the spirit of God” was about to hit my mom. Down she went in a heap of holy ghost inspired fainting. Slain in the sprit they call it, or sometimes “falling out”. This was all rather odd to my Father who spoke with her on the phone later that night. As she recounted the experience, he nodded his head, gave a few polite affirmations and went about his going to bed, I’m sure scratching his head. Dad grew up a nominal Methodist, baptized as a baby and attended Sunday school. The family wasn’t particularly religious, but like many small town upstanding citizens in the 1950s and 60s its simply “what you did”. His basic religious assumption by the time he was an adult was that as long as he didn’t murder anyone, he was probably bound for glory. So he didn’t pay it much mind. His church as an adult was a fairly liberal Presbyterian church where, rather than preach from the gospels, the sermons were usually reflections on “I’m Ok, You’re Ok” or the latest self help book polluting the minds of housewives and sensitive men around the country at the time. 


Pentecostals, Holiness and Evangelical types often talk about a “salvation message”. Meaning that, for one to be a proper minister of the gospel, sermons must always, no matter the subject, come back around to what’s most important...salvation. Making sure that the sinners in the pews understand how to “get saved”. This salvation message can and should be repeated every Sunday, so as to make sure that everyone has been given the opportunity to hear about the free gift of salvation. It was on such a Sunday that my Dad found himself sitting alone in the gray cloth covered pew, the red carpet under his feet, hearing the salvation message, and his life would forever change. All the exits were blocked as he recalled wishing he could make a break for it. The altar call was given. Sweat ran down his cheek. Conviction was upon him, so he stood up and walked towards the low wooden bench altars that ran from one side of the church to the other. And right there, on the lake of fire carpet, my father was saved.

Getting saved seemed to be simple enough. Say a contrite prayer from the heart and just like that, Jesus takes up residence. To this day I have yet to find this method of salvation taking place in the scriptures, but it was all the rage in the 90s. Especially since the time of the TV evangelists, namely Billy Graham. But it’s actually much older and a uniquely American. From Eleazar Wheelocks “mourners seat” to the Cane Ridge revivals in Kentucky to Charles Finney, this method of an experience became the gold standard by which the masses were converted in the 19th and 20th century while baptism became merely an outward sign of an inner reality.

 What I have no doubts about is this——My Dad. His sincerity.. His true earnest conviction that he was in need of a savior. My mother was happy and the two of them set out on this new journey together, trying to understand. My dad studying the scriptures diligently. I really don’t know that I saw him read much else in all those years.

This would be the church, the community and the environment of my earliest memories. I loved going to church. Playing with friends in the little nursery room became a favorite pastime. We’d play house mostly in those early days, later graduating to playing football and baseball in the side yard of the church, kickball under the the big trees next to the parking lot or sometimes games of cops and robbers. I was part of Royal Rangers, the Assembly of God sponsored version of the Boy Scouts. But amongst all this play, there was a spirituality that began to take over our thoughts, our ideas, our perception of the world and our place in it.