I went to church. It was Great Faith Ministries in Detroit, and Bishop Wayne T. Jackson is the pastor. Yeah, I called his name. It was like *that*. I'm still a little upset about the whole thing.
This was about ten years ago. Ken and I were doing, what the old timers call 'cuttin' a fool'. There are other names for what Ken and I were doing, and we shouldn't have been doing any of it because we weren't married yet. This raggedy lifestyle was getting to me, and Jesus was having a problem with it, also. So, off to church I go, and I don't even know why I chose this church. I wasn't a member, and it wasn't even close to home. Maybe I was just hurting, and the place looked real good on television.
So there I was. The service was good, and the preaching was decent, but my favorite part was coming.
Let me tell you, raga can work an altar. It's something about them; they get me all down to my toes. It doesn't matter who's doing the calling during an altar call, when that altar opens up, they become Jesus, and Lamb of God, I come. I'll practically run the Lord over I get up there so fast.
Jesus called, and I ran to that altar like I was on fire and didn't remember to stop, drop, and roll. This was a special altar call. It was for fornicators like myself, who desperately needed to have that demon cast out, and replaced by a squeeky clean marriage angel, or something. I'm a little unsure what it was now. I'm a charismatic, and anything is liable to happen in church. In any case, whatever they were passing out on that altar, I needed a lot more than that nasty you-know-what demon.
I laid out before the Lord. I got to lifting my hands in the air, snotting and crying, and sorry for my sins. I'm serious. This was painful. I was hurt. I was hollering and screaming, and if it had been a different kind of church, one of those nurses that really aren't nurses would have gotten a hold of me, and got to ministering with her little smelling salts or something. I'm all folded up and beat down, crying out to the Lord. There was a young worship leader singing. His name is Fred Hammond. Yes, that one. You know this wasn't fair. An altar call for fornicators and luscious voiced Fred Hammond was singing "I am healing." Over and over. I came undone.
But the Lord met me there, and indeed, I was healing.
About a week later I get a phone call from one of my school mates at the Christian College I attended. "Turn it on channel (such and such), girl." This seemed like an innocent request.
If you thought I was upset on that altar, you should have seen me when I looked on television, and there I was, snotting and crying, tore up from the floor up, in living color. When I regained consciousness, I became my own Edvard Munch painting, only my Silent Scream wasn't silent. You can choose your sin, but you can't choose the consequences. I was on television, looking crazy in front of Wayne T. Jackson's veiwing audience.
Oh God!!!! How many people is that??? Don't they show that in Ohio??? Oh. MY. GAWD!!!!!
I was the featured broke down heifer on the altar. It would be different if I possessed the kind of delicate beauty that actually looks pretty crying. I looked like doo doo. And it was plain to everyone who saw it. Especially to me. The camera stayed on me. Honestly, it was like they knew they would never have that kind of high drama again. I know that tape is going to come back and haunt me one day. I just know it.
I've hated television ministries ever since.
Coming to an altar near you (and please, no pictures).