On Route 19 alone, between Pittsburgh and Wexford, there are over 19 Christian churches... And every congregation thinks they worship the right way. 🙌 ✝️ Now, I'm not dissing anyone here -- quite the opposite. 🤔 I implore everyone to be a "church-hopper", especially throughout your twenties; attend any church when someone invites you, listen with truly open ears, and articulate your experience afterwards.👂 This episode of THE NOMAD THEORY is a narrated short story describing my experience while attending an apparently Pentecostal church (City Reach) on the North Side of Pittsburgh, although they would describe themselves as "non-denominational." 🔥 Follow this link for the Show Notes and Quotes: https://simplecast.com/s/5e69ef8a Would I call myself a devout Christian? Probably not in the same way that the members of City Reach do, but I do believe that the idea of Jesus (or at least the way he supposedly lived) carries extraordinary power and truth. ⛪ I think Jesus was a Nomad, traveling from town to town with his dirty backpack and worn out shoes. He talked with and helped whoever he could. ☮️💜 Beyond that, I imagine he was the ultimate "chill dude", who got along in any situation -- with any crowd. 😇 So yes, we should be more like Jesus ... and chill a lil, ya feel?🙏 Thanks for listening to THE NOMAD THEORY 🌎 I'm A.C. Ridenour🍌, Stay Wild Folks! P.S. As always, find THE NOMAD THEORY on Spotify, Apple Podcasts and Google Play. (Just don't forget the "THE" ;)
(Heavy Breathing while rolling on the ground)
(I act like my arm is stretched out and I’m trying to break scissor lock, then I tap out)
“You keep your arm inside Charlie, inside, or I’m going to break it off next time.” said the burnished man, unlatching his scissor lock from my abdomen.
“You’re too freaking strong Rodrigo, I don’t stand a chance.” Sweat poured from my scalp, mixing with the puddles already pooling beneath our bodies.
“This is not true, man -- look at your big muscles. It is all in the position of my body, the position of my mind. Nothing else.”
We indulged in a few gasping breaths of sweaty air, shared a high-five-fist-bump, and started rolling again.
I began Jiu Jitsu last week, thinking it would keep me focused, and perhaps give me reason to not eat 19 cookies for breakfast every Sunday morning. Little did I know, I’d get my butt kicked by another mysterious force, with even more power.
At home, I showered, flipped on Adventure Time, and prepared a piping hot bowl of veggie chili with creamy guacamole. Like every good Millenial, I checked my phone for the 150th time that day, only this time was different. The glowing screen made me spit a glob of guac on my Grandma’s Persian rug.
“I need you to call me” said the message, displaying a profile picture of a 12 year old boy with a blonde Justin Bieber haircut and black sunglasses.
“I have your wallet”
Coming from a rando requesting this on Facebook, I naturally assumed it was a scam. But after searching my usual wallet storage locations, and finding them empty, I gave him a call.
The guy found my leatherbound life floating in a toilet.
“I don’t know if it counts for anything” he said, “but I’m a Pastor at the Church behind your Jiu Jitsu dojo. Your wallet’s drying out in my office.” We agreed on a time the next morning when I’d retrieve it.
As planned, we united outside his Chapel and conversed briefly. I tried giving a donation, but he wouldn’t accept it. Instead, inviting me to a service at his church that Sunday, and making the statement that, “I don’t believe in coincidence. Your wallet falling in the toilet could have been the best thing to ever happen to you”. His words were certainly heavy, but I don’t believe in coincidence either.
Not 5 minutes after that meeting, my best friend, a devout Christian, delivered a text message inviting me to join him for a service at his church on the North Side. I knew the church he was referring to. Well, from the outside at least. It sat on a hill in my old neighborhood, providing some pretty architecture on my walk to the bus stop.
This congregation partially consists of people participating in a rehab program. People recovering from opiate addiction, who somehow find themselves pulled in from the streets, and end up falling in love with God’s word, using it as a motivation to stop the drugs. Based in their charismatic engagement with the live band and gospel readings, I’d say the program is working.
Not entirely unfamiliar with the Christian concept, I let myself absorb their teachings openly. We listened to stories from the pastor’s days as an addict. About how he thought he was destined for life as a “ghetto rat” (as he put it), but through accepting God’s plan for his life, ascended the darkness and found Love. It was a powerful story, to say the least, and really hit home as I was personally battling an unhealthy dependence to cannabis.
Towards the end of the service I decided to meditate and started seeing closed-eyed visuals within moments. Visions of a glowing purple and blue ribbon falling from the sky and twisting itself around my head and body, accompanied with physical sensations I can only describe as being gently wrapped by a warm cloth.
As soon as the invisible ribbon reached my foot, the pastor called out, “If anyone feels extra connected to the Holy Spirit right now, I want them to come up to the Altar and receive a blessing.” I had no idea what he meant by a blessing, but certainly felt connected to something. It was organic, like I almost didn’t have another choice, and left the chair walking towards the front. With the band jamming, the entire church started cheering and clapping for me.
I was directed towards a large man, wearing a flat brim hat turned backwards that brandished the word, “AWAKEN”, in all caps.
He touched my shoulder and asked if there were any special prayers in my soul. Without thinking, I mentioned my aging Grandmother and her recent stroke. The man began calling upon the Holy Spirit, seeking a cleansing of her dementia and my anxiety from it. To say I was touched would be an understatement. My closed eyes began to swell, a physical pressure fell upon my body, and I wept. Wept uncontrollably, in front of the entire church, nearly falling to my knees, but was held up by 3 or 4 other people who now also had their hands on my shoulders.
Someone passed me a handful of tissues and the big man asked if I wanted to be instilled directly by the Holy Spirit. Again, this carried no previous significance to me, but I was already that deep into it, so, still balling my eyes out, I said “Sure”.
He promptly explained, almost hugging me, that he would begin speaking and it wouldn't necessarily make sense, but that if I felt inclined by something inside me, I could share my own articulation. Over the pounding drums I heard his voice: Commence speaking in tongues , and I eventually felt an urge to open my own mouth. In a trance-like rush, I responded, void of self jurisdiction ** my own articulation of the tongues **.
As if in a dream, I was visually transported to the outside of the church, walking along the street by my old house, looking at the steeple and re-experiencing my consciousness I possessed as a child. It was an impossible clarity of mind, like I could feel what was meant for my life, all through a lens where I’d never been influenced by any drugs -- not even coffee.
Clutching that lingering feeling of possibility, I opened my eyes, present again -- looking at the big man.
My mind clambered with words, like a cosmic black belt Jiu Jitsu master had me clamped in a spiritual scissor-lock around my consciousness, but was finally relieved when I “tapped out”, so to speak. Allowing myself a few deep breaths, I remembered one thing -- I am strong -- and sincerely thanked whatever touched me that night. Amen.