Speaking in Tongues

We believe in speaking with other tongues as the Spirit gives utterance and that it is the initial evidence of the baptism of the Holy Ghost.

Was everyone just faking it?

That was the question. Speaking in tongues was supposed to be the sign that you were filled — filled with the Holy Spirit. Some said you had to say Jesus a thousand times. Most said it was a gift of the spirit. Either way, you were either in or you weren't, and you could tell by listening to a person's mouth.

The tongues at Pentecost were languages real people on the ground could understand. The tongues in our church were the language of angels. Nobody seemed to ask why the gift had changed.

I wanted to know for myself.

I was on the Youth Board, which meant I had a leadership role — helping plan programs, showing up to the things you were supposed to show up to. After service one Sunday, a few of us stayed behind to pray.

Like most prayer meetings, it got intense. There was always a weird feeling raising my hands in public, worshipping out loud, eyes possibly on me.

As we prayed in the circle, Sis. Kesha — standing next to me — put her hand on my stomach. She raised my hands in the air in surrender.

I was hungry for God. For truth. For whatever this was supposed to be.

I decided to let go.

The fear of being seen. The fear of being judged for how I worshipped. The watching of myself from outside myself.

Something opened. My tongue loosened. Syllables started flowing and I heard myself speaking in tongues.

It was like the first time I masturbated. The build-up to the unknown, then an ecstatic release at the climax.

What is this? I felt the presence of otherworldly beings — male and female. We were in communion.

The tongues kept flowing. I moved around the church, praying in the spirit. I couldn't believe it.

It was real.

Our impromptu prayer meeting turned into a revival.

Hearing me speak, the youth leaders called my best friend Courtney, the pastor's son. No one could believe Omari was speaking in tongues.

I'd been read in that church as the kid who asked too many questions. The one acting too smart in Sunday school. The one most likely to argue his way out of belief, not be overtaken by it. So the call went out: come see what's happening to him.

We prayed with Courtney. It touched him too.

By evening, every young person was back in the building. Fifty-three of us testified to the infilling of the Holy Ghost.

It was a real Pentecostal moment.

It didn't answer my question.

If 53 of us could be filled in one impromptu prayer meeting, what was happening at the school across town? What was happening to the 1,200 kids I sat next to all week who'd never even heard the language?

Mondays were my least favorite day.

When my peers were talking about weekend parties, I was quiet about church. How crazy would it have sounded to anyone outside this world? I prayed for three hours after service and felt the presence of male and female beings and ended up speaking syllables I'd never learned. You don't say that at lunch.

Which meant socially I didn't have any friends. None I could invite into my world.

Sometimes my mom would say, "Why don't you invite them to church?"

I was supposed to witness. I didn't want anyone to witness me. Not in this faith I wasn't sure about.

Besides — no one at school was saved. Twelve hundred kids. All on their way to hell?

I knew our church wasn't for everyone. But it made no sense that the rest of them would burn for not being one of us.