In Tongues

The words of a Pentecostal song woke me up: Sons of God march forward in the power of the latter rain. I had not heard these words in decades, not since Sunday evenings in the Pasco, Washington, church of my childhood, but they roused me from a dream: In a small, dimly lit auditorium, evangelist William Branham, self-proclaimed end-time prophet—a slim man, flamboyant in speech, conventional in dress—stood center stage and motioned my family to come forward out of the crowd. Mother led Anna, my brain-damaged younger sister, down the aisle. Branham placed his hands on Anna’s head. Everyone grew quiet.

Once fully awake, a memory returned—of an auditorium with Branham at the podium, preaching to women in hats and men in dark suits. Seeking the details of this memory from my 1940s childhood and curious to hear Branham’s voice again, I scanned a list of YouTube clips. From many choices I selected one with a mother and daughter. Over the din of a revival meeting, Branham shouted, “I am God’s prophet.” A slim brunette woman, child in hand, approached him from the prayer line. For a moment I thought it might be Mother in a flowered dress and Anna in white ankle socks. Branham commanded the child to be healed of leukemia, not brain damage, and I realized the child did not look like Anna. My sister was short for her age, with a prominent overbite, wispy hair, and spindly legs.

Famous in Pentecostal circles as an anointed healer, Branham scrutinized each person who came to him for healing, discerned personal facts, such as ailments, diagnosis, where the person had traveled from, and spoke this knowledge. Turning to those gathered in the auditorium, he picked out someone and shouted words of wisdom, knowledge only available through divine revelation. In this clip, he shouted: “There’s a colored lady from Detroit in the back. I see darkness around your neck. You’ve been diagnosed with cancer! Doctors give you two months to live. Stand up and claim your healing!”

Trembling, she raised her arms to God and rejoiced, her cries ringing out: “Amen! Hallelujah!” Voices rose from murmurs to cacophony, punctuated by shouts and wails. A tidal wave swept the crowd.

The clip brought back memories of searching for a miracle for Anna. Car rides to Boise, Idaho; overnight trips to Tieton, Washington. As we entered small churches or large auditoriums, mysterious sounds greeted us as people prayed to God. Like fires combusting in barren deserts, tongues lit up bleak landscapes. Needs flared in unintelligible words. Healers offered cessation of pain. I joined Mother in believing healing could bring normalcy to Anna. God would intervene.

As language flowed around me, I hoped for interpretation. At times a voice ringing with authority came forth with a message from God in tongues, followed by words of understanding. Silence ensued as listeners reflected—the fires damped.

We sang—This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine—as we drove through dark desert nights to our home in Richland, Washington. Anna and I fell asleep in the back seat of our ’46 Chevy.

The Biblical account of Pentecost in Acts II describes the gathering of Jesus’ followers–-one hundred and twenty men, women, and children—after He ascended to Heaven: “And suddenly there came a sound from heaven of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled the house where they were sitting. And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance.”

Devout Jewish men from far-flung parts of the ancient world were living in Jerusalem at that time. The Book of Acts cited countries exotic to my ears: Mesopotamia, Judea, Cappadocia, Phrygia, Pamphylia, Egypt, Libya, Rome, Crete, and Arabia. When these happenings were noised about, the men came to witness, stunned to hear the disciples speak their own languages: “How hear we every man in our own tongues, wherein...