Would You Take Your Child to a Holy Roller Tent Meeting?

First, let me apologize in advance for any language that offends. In this era of wording that has been Sanitized For Your Protection (like the paper strips they used to put across motel toilet seats), too many people have lost their ability to handle strong language.

I do not mean swear words (or four-letter words as they used to be called) which are used all too often and demonstrate a lack of vocabulary and sensitivity. What I mean are descriptive, tough and leathery words that mean exactly what they say.

I also want to add an apology in advance to all Evangelical Christians everywhere, especially those who embrace robust worship and enjoy a first-person experience that most people never have.  

But, all that said, consider Holy Rollers. As I grew up, it defined a certain group of evangelical Christians who, I was told, would get so swept up in the fervor of the worship service that they would throw themselves down in the aisles, rolling from back to front. (Thinking back, I think they must have been rolling in place.)

But I loved the term, and in the mind-movie I created back then I pictured sincere people of middle age, in cotton dresses and well-pressed slacks, rolling the length of the aisles, crashing against the altar steps like waves against the shore.

As you can imagine, then, I was delighted (and a little frightened) when my parents (along with another family) decided to visit a tent revival that set up for a week on 40 Highway in the late 1950s.

It was Elmer Gantry without Burt Lancaster. Hot, sweaty canvas. Wooden folding chairs that had held up too many well-cushioned bottoms. The preacher was all hair oil and sweat. A woman in a flowered dress played strong piano, but she had the floppy arms that meant she had (in my father’s terms) Seen Better Days.

Everyone in the tent (it seemed) was having a genuine experience. They were having a wonderful time, shouting and singing. One old woman got up from a wheelchair. One man threw away his cane.

I was deeply disappointed that no one rolled down the aisle.

 As we were leaving, it struck me that my parents had taken us to see this as you would take your children to a movie or a zoo. I didn’t for one minute think that we had been exposed to this because they (the parents) had ever been or would ever contemplate being Holy Rollers.

They just wanted to see it, and I suppose wanted us to see it, too. An unforgettable experience (although I’m still not sure what to make of it) – but it raises the question: Would you take your kids to a Holy Roller tent meeting?