Robert_H._Bridges
“I don’t remember he ever taughtme anything about God.”
We moved around quite a bit when I was young, and in each place wewent we found a new church. I believe it’s Dad who told me he lookedfor a place where they taught the Word, not so-called “social gospel”or “good thoughts”. (Maybe it was Mom told me that.) But while hetaught me to behave in a moral fashion, I don’t remember he ever taughtme anything about God.
Mom, on the other hand, was baptized in the Holy Spirit some timeduring my early childhood. At any rate, it seems to me she was mixedup with those tongue-speakers as far back as I can remember, though shetells me she re- ceived the baptism in the Holy Spirit some time in thelate ’60s. While I don’t remember her trying to ‘recruit’ us, I wasalways attracted to this life — possibly because of the tongues,though I don’t remember.
I have a vague memory of some of the women she hung around withpraying for me. She tells me there were prophecies about me, thoughtheir content isn’t clear to me now. And at one point I clearlyremember asking to receive the baptism, being prayed for and entirelyfailing to speak in tongues. I ran into my room, threw myself on thebed and cried with disappointment. I should reãterate, though, that Idon’t know what it is about the baptism that attracted me, and I mayhave been disappointed principally because I didn’t get to speak intongues.
Born Again
I was born in the Midwest, and we lived in a number of places therebefore we left when I was 13. Most of what I remember is centeredaround Minneapolis, Minnesota. I think I was about 7 when I was bornagain.
I remember two separate occasions on which I ‘gave my heart to theLord’. I put that in quotes because I don’t remember which came firstnor which one was the more sincere. Both of them are connected to afamily named MacNamara who lived about an hour away in Mound,Minnesota, on Lake Minnetonka where Tonka trucks are manufactured. They, too, were spirit-filled Christians, and we visited each otheroften. They consisted of Chuck and Alice, Jane, Brian (about my age),Susan (about Kathy’s age), and maybe one or two others. They hadanother baby rather later.
On the first occasion I’ll relate, Mrs. MacNamara — that is, Alice– was babysitting me for a few hours while Mom was away. I don’tremember that my brother and sister were even in the house; perhapsthey were with Mom, or maybe I was younger than I remember and onlyKathy was born. At any rate, Mrs. Mac- Namara found me with a bag ofpotato chips behind the sofa, munching away at a food I knew quite wellwas forbidden. So did Mrs. MacNamara. She chose this time — I surmiseit had been on her mind for a while — to set me in a chair facing herand require me to stay there ’til I had invited Jesus to come into myheart.
Those who know me today will not be surprised to read that I was notamenable to such an approach. I don’t remember what I said, but I satstubbornly, awaiting events. I believe now that I knew pretty wellthat I ought to do as she said — not, I mean, that while she was mybabysitter she had such auth- ority, but that what she was saying wasright on its own merits — but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, asI perceived it, since she demanded it. Eventually, she made a brieftrip to the bathroom; I took advantage of her absence to do as sheasked, and told her so when she returned. If she found thatanticlimactic, so did I. (Actually, I think it’s most likely that shedidn’t believe me. *I* wouldn’t have.) I’m afraid I got very littlesatis- faction from doing as I thought right, then, no doubt becauseof the execrable attitude from which I did it. Maybe the Holy Spiritknew I was not sincere, though it seems to me now that I was…mostly.
On the other occasion, which now that I’m telling the tale I thinkmust have been a few years later, we were all out at the MacNamara’shouse in Mound. That evening an evangelist was to speak at theirchurch, and Brian and I went out early — were sent out early, I think– to help the church set up chairs, or something. We met theevangelist, and he spent some time with the two of us, just talkingabout his work.
During the service he wished to demonstrate water baptism, andcalled me up as his model. I stiffened obligingly for him while he letme lean far back, as though I were in water being baptized.
When he asked for folks to come forward to be born again, I came. Iunderstood practically nothing of what it was Jesus was going to do,beside “come into my heart”, and at that time the Holy Ghost was justsome ghost who hovered around the corners of church ceilings. But Iunderstood that it was right for me to do this, and so I did.
Now What?
I don’t believe I looked for any change after that — I don’tremember that I even thought about it much. I’d simply heard a call,responded to it, and then gone on with whatever I was doing at thetime. Certainly I don’t see that my life changed, or that I evenslowed my headlong rush to become a more and more stubborn andrebellious little boy. This was the early to mid ’60s, and all thechildren a little older than I — that is, the teenagers — weretelling me only I could direct my life, and my parents shouldn’ttry. While I don’t re- member approving of so much of the rebellion ofthat time, I embraced my *own* autonomy as wholeheartedly as I knewhow. I never so much as saw drugs, I didn’t get into trouble withgirls — indeed I was heartily afraid of them — and I never *actually*ran away. But I fought and questioned and argued with my parents atevery turn, upon the slightest pretext, and found fault with everythought they expressed.
Or so it seems to me now, in this context. But now I remember mydad explain- ing why I shouldn’t believe everything I read about theworld, and how things can be explained so as to sound a certain waywhen they really aren’t, and I believed him then. Certainly I thoughthe didn’t understand me, that the lack of comprehension between us wasmutual! Of course it couldn’t have been.
It must have been around this time that I experimented with lying. I say “experimented” as though it were only a brief, tentative fling,but really I was a fearful liar for what must have been several years. But during that time, Mom got into the habit of asking the Holy Spiritwhether I were lying, and when she did that I don’t remember that Iever got away with one. I do remember her saying “I’m sorry, Bobby,but I believe the Lord is saying you’re lying”, and then thrashing meon the basis of what she’d heard, though she could have had no otherevidence but the knowledge that I did lie from time to time. I musthave been much impressed by this, judging by how clearly I remember thecircumstances.
Baptism in the Holy Spirit
When I was 13, just out of 7th grade, we moved from the Midwest toPittsburgh. We attended St. Martins Episcopal church in Munroeville,PA, pastored (if that’s the word for an Episcopalian priest addressedas “Father”) by George Stockhowe. I don’t know whether my parents knewit at the time — certainly I didn’t — but he’d recently been baptizedin the Holy Spirit, and events were heating up at that church. (Helater wrote a book about this period entitled, I think, “He’s Alive”,after a sign kept lighted all year ’round facing the interstate. Ithad been put up one Christmas and never taken down.)
In March 1970 Dennis and Rita Bennett, spirit-filled Episcopals whowrote “Nine o’Clock in the Morning”, came a second time to minister thebaptism at St. Martins. While Dennis taught the adults in thesantuary, Rita addressed the younger ones, mostly 10 to 16, in thechurch library. I was nearly 16 at the time, my sister Kathy was 14,Bill had just turned 13. We all went.
After she had explained that certain occult practices couldinterfere with the baptism in the Holy Spirit and led us in a prayerrenouncing such things, she began to pray for the group to receive theHoly Spirit. One after another we began to speak in tongues. I wasone of the last, but eventually most of us were praying in ourindividual languages. Though at the time this seemed to go on forperhaps an hour or a little less, I learned afterward we’d been in thelibrary for 3 hours. I was told that at one point a parent, becomingimpatient to take his daughter home, opened the library door andimmediately closed it again, feeling something of the Spirit inside. No one interrupted us that I was aware.
I’m ashamed at what follows. Dad picked us up and took us home. Idon’t think we said a word more to him than usual all the way home,probably less. I think it was a pretty silent trip. When we got home,all three of us ran into the den, or wherever it was we found Mom, andthrew our arms around her, rejoicing silently or perhaps crying alittle, and then told her what had happened to us. I didn’t think untillater how that must have felt to Dad.
I’m not the same man I was.
March 8, 1970. “It was on a Monday, Somebody touched me.” Formonths, perhaps years, after that I counted it as my spiritualbirthday. Certainly I saw chan- ges in my life that I hadn’t seen whenI gave my heart to the Lord; the biggest was that I *wanted* to change.Another I think it worthwhile to mention is that from about that timeI have truly believed in eternal life, and am not afraid to die. (I amnot suggesting this should be considered usual for spirit-filledChristians. Many who truly believe on Jesus believe only intel-lectually in everlasting life, and though I exhort them tochange their habits of thought I don’t think less of them for theirfailure to do so.)
But eventually the Holy Spirit corrected, even gently rebuked me. “Don’t discount the work I did in you” between my rebirth and hisbaptism, is what he said. Though I didn’t see that work, I accepted thecorrection.
One thing more I want to relate. Quite a number of children from myneighbour- hood had attended that meeting, and all, so far as I know,received the bap- tism. (Several sets of parents were alreadySpirit-baptized, I think.) The next day at school I had a terrible day.I don’t want to underemphasize this; I had a *rotten* day! I camehome possibly as grouchy as I’ve ever been in my life, and that’ssaying a lot. I frowned my way through the bus ride, stomped my wayhome from the bus stop, slammed the door behind me and there was Mom.
“How was your day?”, she asked innocently. And I told her in twoor three choice words.
I don’t remember her exact words, then, but she informed me thateveryone else who’d been to that meeting had experienced pretty muchthe same sort of day. She went on to point out, as I hadn’t understoodthe point yet, that Satan was mad about us all receiving the baptism,and was bent on destroying our joy and, if possible, convincing us toabandon it.
I cannot describe how completely and helplessly my filthy moodevaporated as I heard that. Not by any coîperative effort of my will,but simply by the word of the Lord, my grouchiness dropped from me andI laughed exhultantly. I’d been set free simply by seeing thespiritual roots of a situation. If I didn’t say that just right, thenlet me put it this way: I heard the truth, and the truth made me free. Not just any truth, but the word of the Lord as he spoke it to me.
Robert H. Bridges
August 10, 1989