I pray through to vic-trah, with Phil's hand on my....

 

When I was growing up in the Nazarene Church,  most church services ended with an altar call: an invitation (or exhortation) to come down to the front of the sanctuary, kneel at the long, low wooden rail, and Pray Through to Victory (all preachers had a Southern accent, so they said "Vic-trah"). 

 It was similar to Catholic confession, with no priest: you asked God to forgive all the sins you could think of, and if He decided to, you became a Christian or got saved (from an eternity in hell).

Praying through to Vic-trah  wasn't easy -- God wasn't really keen on forgiveness, so you had to work, sobbing and begging and moaning, for at least ten minutes, until He consented.  And afterwards, the most trivial of sins -- an angry word, a lustful thought, a glance at the Sunday newspaper -- would negate your salvation, so you'd have to start all over again.  It was not unusual to go down several times a year, and some especially sensitive types went down at almost every service.

Usually just adults went down -- kids were excused, and teens had regular invitations to "bow your head right here and ask God to forgive you" in Sunday School (just before the morning service) and NYPS (just before the evening service), so we were usually saved by the time the altar call came around.

But in ninth grade, the first year that I was officially a teenager, I discovered a benefit to going down to the altar (other than the not going to hell thing).

Praying Through to Vic-trah was such hard work that you needed someone by your side, entreating God on your behalf.  So whenever you went to the altar, Christians (people who were saved) rushed down to help.  Only the same sex.  Two, three, or even more, depending on your popularity. 

They pressed against you, hugging and holding, arms around waists and shoulders, even pressed on your butt as if trying to push you into heaven (don’t worry, only other teens did the butt pushing, I guess because we also pushed butts at jump quiz practice). And when you successfully Prayed Through, you became a single mass, bear-hugging and back-slapping and pressing together.  During those moments, I felt a lifetime's worth of hard muscle, and sometimes even private parts pressed surreptitiously against me.

Going down to the altar allowed me to get hugged, held, and caressed by the preacher, the preacher's son, my Sunday school teacher  and lots of other cute boys and men.

And the next service, if I was still saved, I had carte blanche to go down and touch, hold, hug, and fondle any guy I liked.

But never the guy I wanted most: Phil, a 12th grader, president of the Nazarene Young People's Society, and Captain of the Jump Quiz Team, tall and broad-shouldered, with black wavy hair and round professors' glasses. And planning to become a preacher!  I would not figure "it" out for three years, but I already knew that I had a special interest in preachers, preachers' kids, seminarians, even the Catholic priests and rabbis on tv.

Phil was not only hunky, he was the coolest guy I had ever met: he and his parents lived in an apartment (how cool was that?), he worked at the Country Style ice cream shop, and could get us free milkshakes; he had actually read The Hobbit instead of dismissing it as Satanic; and he wasn't afraid to make friends with Catholics -- "if you don't talk to them, how will you ever win them for Christ?"

More Phil fondling after the break

During every altar call, I eyed Phil hungrily, praying for him to go down.  And when I went down myself, part of my prayer was for "Phil to be here."  But it never happened.

Most likely Phil never went down himself because he had achieved entire sanctification, where you are literally unable to commit sins.  But even the sanctified could go down to help others pray through!  His reluctance was infuriating!

Obviously going down during the altar call wasn't going to work.  Maybe I could get physical with Phil in an intimate, informal setting: like the Afterglow, the teen party held at someone's house after every Sunday evening service. 

The Afterglow Strategy

One night I approached Phil while he was supervising the teens in a game of Bible charades (we weren't permitted games with cards or dice).  "I'm troubled about something, and I want to ask for God's guidance.  Could you help me?"

"Is it about girls?"  Like my parents, friends, teachers, coaches, and everyone else in the world, Phil assumed that a boy's only concern was with meeting, impressing, or winning the Girl of His Dreams.

"Um..sure, I guess."

He led me into a smaller room and motioned for me to kneel against a couch.  Then he knelt beside me -- not touching!  After about five minutes of listening to him implore God to keep me safe from temptation, I had enough and got up.

The Emotional Song Strategy

Nazarene men were not allowed to touch each other except for handshakes, the altar call, and hugs after emotional songs.  So one night during NYPS, I positioned myself next to Phil and suggested singing "They'll Know We Are Christians," the most emotional song in the teen hymnal.

At the line "We will walk with each other, we will walk hand in hand," I took his hand.  He looked at me oddly, but didn't resist, and everyone else took his lead and held hands with their neighbor in a sort of prayer circle.

Afterwards I reached over to hug him, but he quickly disentangled himself, sprang to the center of the circle.  "Ok, who has a testimony?" he exclaimed, his cheeks somewhat ruddy with embarrassment.  

Darn it!  

It looked like the only way I was going to get physical with Phil was to get him to Pray through to Vic-trah.  Theoretically the sanctified were incapable of committing sins, but in fact they often backslid, and had to start the whole process over again. I didn't want Phil to commit an actual sin and risk hellfire, but maybe something a bit questionable, something that would make him wonder if he had backslid and rush down to the altar to check.

How about doubting the Word of God?   The church taught that the Bible was literally dictated by God.  It was historically accurate, and without textual error.  It wasn't a sin to believe otherwise, but it was suspect.

The Doubt Strategy

One morning during Sunday School, I said "David killed Goliath with his slingshot.  That's an incontrovertable fact, right?"  David was one of my favorite beefcake stars of the Bible.

"Of course," Phil said.  "It's the Word of God."

"But 2 Samuel 2:19 says that Goliath was killed by Elhanan.  How can you be killed by two people at once?"

He looked up the passage.  "Wait..my Bible says the brother of Goliath."

"Oh, you're using the King James version.  It's a mistranslation.  The New International Version..."

"There's no such thing as a mistranslation," Phil said firmly.  God guides the hands of the translators..."

"Then how can it say 'brother' in one version and not in another?"

"It must be a mistranslation."  The other teens twittered. He started to redden. "Don't be so nitpicky.  Just believe that the Bible is the Word of God, so there can't be any contradictions.  Period."

"Then Elphanan killed both Goliath and his brother, and then Goliath came back from the dead so David could kill him? Yeah, that makes perfect sense!"

"Dammit,  show some respect for  God's Word!"

The room got very quiet.  Phil paled as he realized that he had just lost his salvation.

I was choked with remorse.  I wanted Phil to experience doubt, not sin!  

At the next altar call, we both went down to the altar.  Phil finished praying through first, and wrapped his arm around my shoulders to help me pray through.  Then he pressed on my back, and on my butt, and when I finished, he wrapped me in a bear hug.

I felt like kissing him, but that was unheard-of. 

Note: none of these guys are me or Phil

See also: On my Knees in a Cute Boy's Bedroom

I Meet the Nazarene Teen Idol