Long ago, I was dating this Christian woman, Sandy. In my own defense, let me say three things: 1) She was hot (I have my wife’s permission to tell you this, by the way); 2) I was a spankin’ new college freshman at UW-Milwaukee, and was opening myself up to new dating experiences; and 3) she struggled enough with her piety to make our relationship interesting.
Nonetheless, she did try to assuage her guilt (and I guess what she thought was mine) by taking me to some of the weirdest churches I have ever been to. I am a solid, German-stock Lutheran. The churches I had attended up to that point were on the morose side—Jesus Factories of stained mahogany with an Old Testament emphasis. You know the type… stand up, sit down, cue solemn organ music. I’m going to hell, you’re going to hell, let’s sing a song…
This church, though—wow, man! People were spinning in the aisles! A woman in our pew started having what looked like a seizure and fell to the floor. I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I was ready to kneel down and start CPR when Sandy restrained me. She explained later that the woman had been overcome by the Spirit and was now speaking in tongues. In a way, I was oddly relieved. For once in my life someone sounded like she was speaking in gibberish because she actually was speaking in gibberish!
Anyway, the service progressed, and after a while it was time for the faith healing segment. The pastor-slash-tent revivalist asked the “sick” to step up and receive the Spirit (presumably the same one that was causing seizures in the woman lying at my feet). I hesitated, unsure of what to do. I wasn’t that into Deaf Culture just yet—so I wasn’t well-versed in the whole “minority versus pathology” argument. It just didn’t seem polite to refuse. People were staring at me expectantly… and somewhat hungrily.
So I went up to the front of the church. I was instantly seized by the Revivalist’s henchmen: two guys in suits presumably there to catch me after the Spirit tackled my knees. Only they really weren’t. Within seconds, each had a firm grip on my arms, and I realized their actual job was to keep me from changing my mind and backing out of the deal.
The Revivalist placed his hands over my ears—thankfully he had seen Sandy signing to me, so I didn’t have to explain what I needed “healed”—and shouted. He might have been speaking in tongues too. We’ll never know.
I felt his arms tense up. Before I knew what was happening, he pulled my head into his chest, and then forcefully pushed me backward. The Henchmen, on cue, pulled back on my arms (one of them blocked my heel with his foot to speed the process along). You’ve never seen a smoother group takedown this side of COPS.
Bam, down I went, face flushed and brow wrinkled. I had to blink back the tears that suddenly formed in my eyes… not because I could miraculously hear again, but because when the Revivalist yanked my face into his chest, I banged my nose on his crucifix-reinforced breastbone.
What happened next? Not much. I got up and went back to my pew. People continued to look at me expectantly. But by the end of the service I was still deaf, and by the end of the day I was still deaf, and by the end of the week, well…
Sandy and I eventually broke up. Maybe she took it as a lack of faith on my part—the fact that the laying-on-of-hands “cure” didn’t take. I don’t know. Maybe not.
That was hardly the only evidence that I wasn’t a Christian of her caliber.
[Author's note: The orginal version of this article was published in Bug: Deaf Identity and Internal Revolution (2007) on pg. 15-17.]
