Soon we began to observe which preachers guaranteed some demonic action following their altar call. Mostly they were white-haired Americans, but then there was Derek Prince. Dr Prince’s prayers were guaranteed to lead to some outburst of dark powers. Charlie loved it and would stand on the concrete ramp leading up to the barn, tucking into his chips, the edges of his mouth vaguely turning up, a studiedly nonchalant observer. I marvelled at the coolness with which he took in what was still a spectacle that surely blew Ghostbusters out of the water.
I was neither cool nor amused. I was listening obsessively for the precise wording of Dr Prince’s prayer. Because within moments of rounding it up with an, “In Jesus’ name. Amen”, an agonized wail, a dying shriek or desperate roars would be heard from somewhere deep within the rows of people standing waiting. Placing myself close enough to the wide open door not to appear chicken to Charlie, I stood distanced from the blocks of worshippers, maintaining a tight-lipped silence throughout the whole prayer.
The troubling reality was that a startling number of Christians were being exorcised every night. And I couldn’t shake the fear that I too might have unwittingly contracted a demon, like a virus that suddenly, unexpectedly, announces its presence with an embarrassing manifestation of symptoms. I wanted to tell someone my fear, but I couldn’t in case the demon started kicking off and I had to be carried out by six strong men from the team, foaming at the mouth and roaring with a man’s voice like one woman we’d seen. It wasn’t much of a choice but I would rather remain ignorantly demonized than go through the public humiliation of descending into excruciating howls. Especially in front of Charlie Fox.
So I worked on my insurance policy. I went to all the meetings, I studied my Bible and lifted up my hands in worship to God, hoping that this would be enough to persuade Him that I really was good, that I was on His side.
When, two years after that first demonic encounter, Peter Cabot invited us to be baptised in the Holy Spirit, I knew this was my moment to notch up some spiritual fortification. I would have the secret language of God: the groans of the Spirit, which St Paul says is God praying within us. Then I would have proof that I really did belong to Christ and wasn’t going to end up in hell.
Mum had told me that beginning to pray in tongues felt strange because you have to just open your mouth and start. “It’s like learning a new language, with new sounds and noises.” And now, here at the front of the Power Pack tent, Peter Cabot told us to do the same. “You’ve got faith to ask for the Holy Spirit to come and overpower you, now you need to have faith to open your mouth and start speaking in the power of that Spirit.”
At school I wasn’t very good at languages, but at least there was a textbook answer for how the words ought to sound. Now there was nothing except the hum of children beginning to make their first faltering sounds in the language of God’s Spirit and the promise of a more exhilarating fluency than I would ever achieve in French lessons. It wasn’t exactly a textbook but the thought of the words my Mum said when praying in tongues was enough to give me something to start with. And so it began: these higgledy-piggledy sounds spilling from my mouth in a language that sounded too odd and disappointing to be the sound of God speaking through me.
It happened to each of us that day. Julia, Charlie, me and Katie pouring out of the Power Pack marquee with everyone else, excited by the buzz of having newly received God’s power, laughing about the funny sounds we made, sometimes unsure of whether we had actually prayed in tongues or whether we had slipped into mere imitation of our parents. “I’m sure I was saying ‘Shall-I-buy-a-Honda’ at one stage”, shrieked Julia, recalling the phrase that we had always used when impersonating praying grown-ups at church.
So when, that evening, Hannah found out that we were all changed, filled with the Spirit and spouting tongues in New Testament style, she begged us for a recitation. None of us were prepared to perform for Hannah, Joel and Anthony – the three who had skived off the morning meeting – and their pestering soon gave way to frustrated resentment.
Now there was a divide: those who had and those who had not. Those who spoke in tongues and those who didn’t. Perhaps that’s where it began to turn sour. Perhaps even in a Bible camp the fear of being left out leaves a kid ready to lash out in any way they can to even the score.
“Go on, just say a few words.” Anthony turned to me.
“I’m not going to …”
“Why not?” he persisted.
“It’s meant to be prayer, not a performance. Anyway you can hear people speaking in tongues in the meeting tomorrow.”
“But I want to hear you …”
“Why me?”
He grinned and settled his gaze on my mouth.
“I want to hear if tongues are easier for you to get your teeth around than English.”
Katie flushed, her smile at the banter turning to embarrassment at what Anthony was getting at.
This was the kind of moment I needed Charlie’s sharp tongue, but he was busy flirting with Hannah.
Only Julia pushed him. “What did you say to her?”
Anthony with his cocky half-smile didn’t bother to repeat what he’d said. He just took aim once more.
“I just wondered if her teeth get in the way when she speaks in tongues …” His voice trailed into laughter.
And I began to trail off into the darkness.
Speaking in tongues seemed to have spoiled everything. Three of our gang were left out, and now Anthony had reduced my kindling hopeful prayers to the ugliness of the mouth that tried to utter them. I could speak in tongues but Anthony and his identical twin Joel were dark-eyed boys of epic handsomeness. And now it came down to what mattered more: baptism in the Holy Spirit, or the incontrovertible truth of good looks.
Clearly the Holy Spirit was the one I needed to care about more, the baptism into which I wanted my life to be wholly immersed and transfigured. And yet it wasn’t.
Slinking off across the field towards the Severn Barn I thought about praying in tongues right now. Wouldn’t this be the moment to pray? With those sighs and groans of the Spirit speaking hopes and longings into life within me? I tried to start; recalling some of the strange phrases my mouth had formed earlier that day. But the sighs of my own spirit were louder and soon hot tears blurred across my eyes and fell onto the grass at my feet. My ambivalence about the Spirit’s presence weighed me down in heavy guilt. Despite trying to push away the thought that good looks would have been far better ammunition to deal with life’s battles, I knew that it was too late. God knew what I was thinking and I anticipated His displeasure. I couldn’t pretend to pray. God was probably regretting wasting this kind of power on such an ungrateful girl. A story surfaced in my mind: the one in Matthew’s Gospel where Jesus says to those who claimed they had faithfully followed him, “I never knew you!” I began to picture God booming down at me too, with an exasperated wave of His all-powerful arm, the one He probably used for smiting. “Joanna who? Pah! I never knew you.”
But the sound of someone actually calling my name, not in a smitey way, pulled me back from my tearful churning. I recognized the voice, at least, I could narrow it down to one of two people – Anthony or Joel Lowder. While I would never have anticipated Anthony coming to apologize, nor could I have envisaged his twin coming to make amends for his brother’s unkindness. And yet, here Joel was, jogging to catch me up and shyly reaching me with the words, “Don’t go. Forget what he said.”
There was nothing more than that, just his uncomplicated kindness, which, for a moment, rearranged the Laws of Physics. Because someone, to whom the phrase “drop dead gorgeous” evidently belonged, being moved to leave his football alone for a moment and come and find me, defied all I knew about the ways of the world so far.