On Fire For Jesus

It was October 1996, and I was in Irwindale, California, at a Speaking in Tongues Conference. I looked out at the people talking to Jesus in their special language. I saw the light in their eyes, the passion on their faces and I thought, What the heck am I doing here? How did I start on a path of wanting to know God, and end up with a bunch of white trashers shouting Shambala? It was because of the fire.

Growing up my Lutheran Pastor, Torvald Ingebretsen, talked about the fire of God like it was this deep, powerful mystery, like Harry Potter magic. Fire was a sign of God’s presence. He appeared to Moses in a burning bush; He led the Israelites out of Egypt in a pillar of fire. And at Pentecost when the apostles got the Holy Spirit, tongues of fire rested on them and they started talking other languages. It was like being in a yoga trance, only not as cool. I was six: I didn’t want to be cool; I just wanted that fire.

But by the time I was 16, the only thing I was on fire for was John Lennon and my boyfriend. Then I got dumped, John Lennon got shot, and I got lost. Sitting alone in my room, I thought of what my sister had said: “Susan, when all your actor friends have dropped out or gotten thrown in jail, you might want to read it.” Then I thought, that self-righteous brat … where’s that Holly Hobby study Bible she gave me?

So I read it, about how God loved me and he had good plans for my life. I thought back about the fire. So I asked God, and Jesus, and the Holy … - OK all three of them — into my life. And you know what? I felt peace. I felt loved. It was like God was saying: “I’m here. You’re going to be okay. IN fact, your life is going to be an adventure!”

I started going to a surfer church that met in a circus tent. It was there that Pastor Craig asked us, Are you on fire for Jesus? Are you like, so in love with Jesus, that you just want to spend all your time with him, knowing what his will is for your life, letting him love on you? Because that’s your love story, man!

If this was a love story, then I was in the infatuation stage. I’d wake up full of expectation and pray: Jesus, I just want to be with you. I just want to know your what your will is for me, man! Every moment! I don’t want to do anything, make any decision, without your will! Like this morning: Should I eat frosted flakes or eggs? Just show me! Sometimes it took a long time to get out of the room.

But that’s how it is when you’re in love. Everything changes: the way you look at the world, the future. Even your senses are heightened. I’d smell a gardenia, or see the stars, and I’d think, Wow, God, that is so You! You are such an artist! Even my angry music had new meaning. I mean, what WAS so funny about peace, love and understanding?

Which brings up music at church. It was like Metallica got religion. I remember one song we tranced out to every Sunday:

“All Consuming Fire” (pronounced Fye-Yuhhhhh);

“You’re my heart’s desire” (dee-zye-yuhh) …

Well, after a few years of trancing out to Jesus music, the infatuation wore off. I went to see Pastor Craig.

“Pastor Craig? Look gardenias are great, and I love the stars. But what are we doing here? What those plans God had for my life?”

“You just gotta wait on God,” he said. “Just gotta wait on God.”

“But Pastor Craig,” I protested, “I have waited on God. And I’ve gone to the conferences: Inner Healing, Healing the Father Wound, Fathering your Wounded Healer. I’ve been washed in the blood, slain in the spirit, zapped. You know what I haven’t done? I haven’t LIVED! - not outside this circus tent! No one at this church has time to date or get a real job!”

“Well, Suz, I’d rather be on fire for Jesus in the unemployment line, than working at some cush job for Satan!”

Pastor Craig saw me turn for the door: “Have you told God how you really feel? You should check out this Speaking in Tongue Conference in Irwindale. Blow your doors off, man!”

You know that bad boyfriend you know you shouldn’t give another chance? Well, I prayed, “God, I want what you have for me, I swear I do. And if this is it, show me.”

I drove out to Irwindale, a landlocked town an hour east of Los Angeles, home of the largest rock quarry west of Pittsburgh. The Malibu fires had been raging. The skies were red, and smoke had blown east all the way to Barstow. The church was in a concrete warehouse off of the freeway. It was like Costco for Christ. The place made me miss the circus tent.

The pastor was an ex-WWF wrestler. Maybe he found Jesus during a steroid blackout. He looked like the Incredible Hulk, ready to explode. He got up on the stage, flexed his arms and shouted to the crowd: “Have you been shredding the scriptures for Jesus?”

And that’s when I heard it, behind me: the Shambalas. I was terrified. But like a chump in a horror movie, I was compelled to turn and look. It was a woman in a perm mullet. Her eyes were closed and her body writhed like a downed power line. She got up to speak. Thankfully, in English.

“I see a film of gold dust in the air,” she cried (Never mind it was sunset and we were downwind from a rock quarry). “The Lord is turning our silver fillings into gold!”