My grandmother’s faith, though admirable, often inclined toward the more exuberant expressions of the spirit.

She would whisk this boy-size heretic away every Friday through the hallowed backend of our local church toward “the true path of understanding.”

“Dragged” isn’t quite the word. There was no resistance, only resignation.

Clad in her confection of Sunday’s best, she’d march me into the congregation as if parading me before God.

It was less a charismatic church movement than a spiritual variety show: music, theatrics, public exorcism.

Here, faith is less about quiet reflection and more about waving one’s hands in the air like hailing an invisible taxi to salvation.

At once, I was swept away by what could only be described as a choir of rapturous souls, each flailing their arms in what passed for an invitation to watch them whip and nae nae.

God was certainly in that room, judging silently like the rest of us.

The pastor, whose voice could peel paint, took the stage with the flair of a televangelist crossed with a drill sergeant.

His sermon was an unbroken stream of invectives against sin, self-help anecdotes, and the constant assurance that miracles were not only possible but conveniently available to those who believed and gave generously.

He stalked the stage, Bible in hand, barking out crowd prompts like, “Can I get an Amen?” and “Who here is ready for a miracle today?”

As if spring-loaded, a middle-aged man shot up from the crowd, raised his arms, and trembled with anticipation.

The pastor stepped toward him and planted a firm hand on his head.

By the time he screamed, “BEEEEE HEEEALED!” I had already pretended twice.

The man collapsed, his head hitting a chair.

Faith, I learned, was louder than reason and considerably harder on furniture.

The room turned silent, but no one flinched. A woman near me whispered, “He’s touched.” Either it was the spirit or his blood sugar.

The Holy Spirit descended. So did my expectation.

He lay twitching, hailed as a miracle. I assumed he was reconsidering the entire course of his life.

Then again, he raised his hands and declared a feeble “Hallelujah!”

I thought we might need an ambulance, but this was church, so we just called it a blessing and kept singing.

The crowd erupted in praise, as if Jesus had returned. My grandmother clapped furiously and cried tears of joy.

It was either a spiritual awakening or a mass psychotic break. If that was the Holy Spirit, he needs to be sedated.

It wasn’t a miracle. It was poor balance and peer pressure. And I realized people would rather faint for Christ than admit they were dizzy. There’s a fine line between being slain in the spirit and just needing a glass of water.

Apparently, the more brain damage, the closer to God. By that logic, the holier you looked, the less oxygen your brain had.

One man fainted. Another barked. I just hoped they wouldn’t pass me the mic.

I was terrified I’d be next, the pastor singling me out with a righteous finger and shouting, “YOUU, BOOOY!”

He made eye contact. I renounced all of my sins out of fear. I’ve seen less coercion in hostage negotiations.

The air was thick with a kind of tension, like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the next divine faceplant.

It was on their faces—the kind that says, “I’ve left myself behind. I don’t know what’s in me now.”

There was laying of hands, gnashing of teeth; I stopped trying to tell the difference between a religious experience and a mental breakdown, before a woman ever tried to bite her tongue clean off.

Either way, the fundraiser always came, like a divine invoice — non-negotiable. The pastor’s tone shifted from salvation to sales pitch, as if the Almighty moonlighted as a landlord.

There’s something deeply unsettling about a God who won’t fix your spine until you’ve chipped in for His overhead.

You realize faith had a service charge. That’s when you see the light. It was an exit sign.