It was one of those Saturdays—you know the kind. You don’t wake up quite on time and from that point on everything is sort of disjointed and out of phase. And that’s how it was that she talked me into driving all the way to Kissimmee to attend this healing service at a friend’s house.
Before this I had never really understood the word ‘charismatic’, but I do now. Because that is what the preacher was, charismatic. From the moment he arrived, until he anointed my head with oil and told me he knew how I was suffering, he was the center of attention. With his hand on my head, he whispered in my ear about my sins and pain until I found myself repeating after him with a shout Help me, Jesus! and In the name of Jesus and Halleluiah!
And then he moved on to save someone else and I had to ask my wife what the hell just happened. That this little West Indian preacher could touch me on such a personal level was discomforting—and downright creepy. He and the others at the service were, in many ways, like characters from a Stephen King novel.
Would it be rude to say that while he was laying on hands I fully expected his head to split open and a serpent to pop out?