Walk Away

The Rapture
By Skipp Porteous

The People's Tabernacle of Faith, a large wooden structure with peeling 
gray paint, reverberated with lively gospel singing, a hard-driven 
organ, and enthusiastic hand-clapping. As we left our convertible 
in the small parking lot next to the church, I cringed as I imagined 
the scene inside. I think Linda felt the same way, but even more so.

We slipped inside inconspicuously and found seats in the back. Even 
from that distant vantage point the pervasive music jolted our senses. 
Many of the people stood, clapping and waving their hands in the air, 
while others remained seated and just rocked back and forth. A heavy 
black woman in a white nurse's uniform danced, with closed eyes as 
if in a trance, at the front of the church.

Feeling uneasy, I decided we should leave, but a glance toward the 
exit revealed two large men - one black, one white - with folded arms, 
standing on either side of the door. Guards, I thought. Realizing 
we'd have to stay until the conclusion of the service, I hoped we 
weren't in any great danger from this strange cult.

Every time the singing subsided, the radiant red-robed choir inspired 
the church members to go on a little bit longer. Spontaneously, spirited 
soloists stepped out, and worked the congregation into a frenzy. The 
black organist, animated and full of energy, was obviously enjoying 
his gig. With its several rows of keys and numerous foot pedals, the 
organ resonated with seemingly impossible sounds; it was so unlike 
the church music I was used to back home. The music in the Methodist 
church, with its doleful organ, dragged; and the Baptists, although 
they couldn't afford an organ, performed the same dreadful music on 
their upright piano.

With such flair, I thought, this choir must be professional. Memories 
of the Apollo Theater flashed through my mind. Beginning to enjoy 
the show, I relaxed a bit, and before long, the merriment came to 
an end.

As the choir members took their seats, the minister stepped up to 
the microphone and announced the offering.

"Bring your tithes and offerings to the Lord!" he shouted.

With that, the organ burst forth with cheery music that brought the 
audience to its feet again. From all over the church people stood, 
with cash in hand, and walked to the front, where they dropped their 
offerings in a basket.

Then, after some announcements, the minister read some scripture passages 
and launched into his sermon. And what a sermon! In black churches, 
the minister and congregation have a sort of dialogue during the sermon. 
Whenever the preacher uttered something the congregation liked, they 
said so.

"Alright now."

"Preach it!"

"Amen, brother."

 This was unheard of in my tradition. If someone tried that back home, 
they'd surely be asked to leave, but here it was encouraged. Sometimes 
the minister actually said, "Can I hear an 'Amen'?"

After a brief warm-up, the minister got into a rhythm, pulling the 
audience along with him; it seemed as if a spell came upon the minister 
and the congregation. While the minister preached, many members of 
the congregation cooled themselves with funeral-parlor fans. I observed 
this with rapt attention.

At times the preacher broke away from the prevailing mood and thundered 
his utterances. Excitedly, he removed his eyeglasses, and now, like 
a 250-pound ballerina, jumped around the raised platform while continuing 
to shout. The audience, out of its trance, stomped its feet and clapped 
its hands. Suddenly, with a whoop, he threw his glasses into the air; 
they bounced off the ceiling and came crashing down on the floor. 
The audience went berserk. 

Then, with tears streaming down his cheeks, the minister wrapped up 
his sermon and made a plea to those who sought to know God to come 
down to the altar. As the organ came alive again, people went down 
to the front of the church. Two ladies tearfully knelt at the altar. 
The lady in the white nurse's uniform came bouncing down the center 
aisle, half dancing,half running; she picked up speed as she approached 
the altar, and, to my amazement, fell to her knees and slid about 
two yards, right up behind the two kneeling ladies, and with the palms 
of her hands, slapped them both on the backs of their heads. With 
her hands raised in the air, she blurted something in a strange language. 
Dazed, the two women lay across the altar. 

Apparently none of this came as a surprise to anyone else; most of 
the audience began to break up and turn toward the door. Anxious to 
leave, I grabbed Linda's hand and made a beeline for the exit. A large 
white woman with an exuberant smile stepped into our path. I smiled 
at her and was about to say, "Excuse me," as we attempted to go around 
her. No such luck; she threw her heavy arms around me and applied 
a bear hug.

"Where are you dears from?" she asked after letting me go. Almost 
before we could answer, other people either hugged us or pumped our 
hands. Linda and I became separated as enthusiastic parishioners greeted 
us. Everyone invited  us back, and reminded us that their next service 
was that evening. It was difficult to imagine that after two hours 
of what we'd just witnessed they'd go back that night for more.

When the dust settled, Linda and I regrouped and headed for our car, 
and as we left the parking lot people were still waving at us. We 
drove back to Harbor City in stunned silence.

During the week that followed I thought often about the previous Sunday's 
experience. While totally strange, perhaps fanatical, the event imparted 
a warm inner feeling. I arose early on the next Sunday and asked Linda 
if she was coming to church with me. Surprised that I was eager to 
go back, she declined. 

About the only difference I noticed from the previous Sunday was in 
my own response. Although not quite at home, I didn't feel like a 
stranger; the people accepted me like I was a member of the family. 


After the service a number of the mostly black church members approached 
me; they called me by name, and asked where Linda was. This impressed 
me, and brought to my mind my visit to the Methodist church in Manhattan 
a few years earlier; those people totally ignored me. I didn't know 
it at the time, but I was already hooked by this newfound church home.

I learned that the minister's name was Rev. Harley Akers. He had recently 
left the African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church to start the independent 
People's Tabernacle of Faith. His sister, Doris Akers, a gospel recording 
artist, joined his venture to lead the choir. Her previous choir, 
the Sky Pilot Choir, reached considerable fame among California churchgoers. 
Isaiah "Ike" Jones was the organist.

Bolstered by my new church affiliation, I told Ann I couldn't see 
her anymore, that our affair was over. Hurt, she asked why. I told 
her I'd found the Lord again. At first she didn't believe me; then 
she said I was crazy. Crazy or not, it came as a relief.

Determined to begin life anew, I immersed myself in Christianity. 
Southern California has several Christian radio stations, with KGER 
being the most prominent at that time. I listened to this station 
whenever I was in the car. (Incidentally, because of transmission 
problems with the Mustang, we traded it in for a Volkswagen bug. I 
think the sale of the Mustang was significant, marking the end of 
an era for me.) With the VW radio always tuned to KGER, I became a 
regular listener to Kathryn Kulhman, the healing evangelist; Garner 
Ted Armstrong, the voice of the Worldwide Church of God; J. Vernon 
McGee, the Bible-teacher from Los Angeles' Church of the Open Door 
- the first fundamentalist church in America; Demos Shakarian, founder 
of the Full Gospel Businessmen's Fellowship International; and a number 
of others.

The Sunday I attended People's Tabernacle of Faith alone was the only 
one Linda missed; she came with me the following week and we thoroughly 
enjoyed the services. A new soloist performed a riveting gospel number 
called "There's Power in the Blood." After the service we met him. 
Richard Durfield, a wiry young black, was a bit shy, but had a certain 
magnetism that made him extremely likable. Ric held a position as 
a court clerk at the California Superior Court in Santa Monica.

Ric was impressed that we had left New York, not really knowing where 
we were going or what we would do, to come to California. He indicated 
that he'd never do anything like that, but his inner strength was 
evident, and I figured he was just being modest.

In the weeks which followed we never missed a Sunday morning service, 
and even began attending the Sunday night services and Wednesday night 
prayer meetings. I felt good in my new environment and absorbed everything 
I could.

After one Sunday morning service, Rev. Akers and some other men prayed 
for a lady to be healed of some ailment. I wasn't invited to join 
in, but, out of curiosity, I hovered nearby because I'd noticed that 
they always put their hands on people when they prayed for them, and 
sometimes they spoke in a strange language, which I guessed was probably 
an African dialect.

I asked Ric about this and he said the Bible says, "The prayer of 
faith will heal the sick," and also, "You shall lay hands on the sick 
and they shall recover." Well, I knew that those things happened in 
the New Testament, but I didn't know the practice still existed today. 
Ric also said that the Holy Spirit gives some Christians a special 
language to pray in called "speaking in tongues." It comes, he said, 
with the "baptism in the Holy Spirit." Although I was pretty open 
to all these new spiritual things, this was a little too bizarre for 
me to swallow.

Just about the time all the new excitement began to wear off - not 
to say we didn't still enjoy going to church, because we did, with 
Rev. Akers' lively sermons, and the rousing choir, but it peaked and 
became a routine - a dramatic conversion took place at People's Tabernacle. 
Rev. Akers preached in his typical manner, the choir carried on as 
usual, and Ric sang "There's Power in the Blood." Then Pastor Akers 
gave the altar call and nobody responded. He instructed Ike to keep 
playing while he pleaded for someone to respond to the Lord's call. 
As he pleaded, a young woman stood up in the back and practically 
ran to the front of the church. Sobbing, she fell to her knees at 
the altar. Several members of the church joined Rev. Akers at the 
altar to pray with the young woman.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief because of the response to the 
altar call, for if there was no response, it could have meant that 
someone was disobeying God. And she seemed genuinely sincere, which 
made it even better.

Afterwards, Linda and I met the new convert. Her name was Renee King, 
and she, like us, had come to California searching, except she was 
from Pittsburgh, Kathryn Kuhlman's hometown. Renee was an attractive, 
light-skinned black, so light that she often passed for white. Linda 
and I liked Renee immediately because she was so outgoing and friendly.

 A week later Renee arrived well before the service was to begin. 
We were glad to see her, and the three of us sat together. Afterwards, 
Ric approached us, and to our delight, we learned that he'd seen Renee 
during the week. Someone suggested we have lunch, and so the four 
of us went out and had a nice time. It was obvious that Ric and Renee 
had hit it off, and even at this early point, it looked serious. Linda 
and I were thrilled to have another couple close to our age as friends.

Ric grew up in the Church of God in Christ, in Pacoima, a black church 
out in the San Fernando Valley. From his youth he had been exposed 
to a variety of Pentecostal doctrines and practices. And, like me, 
he experienced periods of wavering, commonly known as backsliding. 
His mother, a very spiritual woman, exerted a strong influence on 
Ric, which always drew him back to the church whenever he wavered.

Renee, in Pittsburgh, had some experience with spiritual practices, 
but she too had fallen prey to the things of the world. She recounted 
the time when she stopped believing in God; she said it happened when 
she realized her parents lied to her as a child about Santa Claus. 
If they lied about that, she reasoned, the story of Jesus dying for 
her sins must be a lie, too. Renee's newfound salvation marked the 
end of the road for her waywardness.

More and more, the four of us did things together. Soon, Ric and Renee 
announced their plans to marry. This solidified the bonding among 
the four of us.

Renee joined Ric in the choir, and our relationship as a foursome 
continued to grow. Ric, full of stories about evangelists and faith 
healers, stimulated our interest in learning all we could about this 
new born-again life. He told tales of Oral Roberts raising people 
from the dead; of the Christian mystic, Brother William Branham, who, 
after finding a dying turkey in the woods, laid his hands on the stinking 
bird, and the bird jumped up and ran off, completely healed; of A. 
Earl Lee and his supernatural visitations; of A. A. Allen's Arizona 
community called Miracle Valley, where it was common to see angels 
on the street; and many more amazing events that demonstrated the 
power of God. In addition, he seemed to know something about every 
evangelical Christian group or activity in Southern California. Night 
after night, he took us to various evangelistic services and healing 
meetings.

At the old Embassy Hotel in downtown Los Angeles, we went to see the 
healing evangelist Leroy Jenkins. Jenkins used prayer cloths and anointed 
oil to inspire the faithful to believe. I was amazed how God used 
this man to help others to make shortened legs normal, to give sight 
to the blind, hearing to the deaf, and the power to walk again to 
the crippled - right before our eyes. At one point during the service, 
Leroy, as he was always referred to by Ric, picked out three people 
from different sections of the audience. He said the three would each 
be healed,one in the name of the Father, one in the name of the Son, 
and one in the name of the Holy Ghost. As Jenkins prayed the prayer 
of faith, one lady fell to the floor. He went over to one of the others 
and laid hands on the man, and he too, fell. The third person, even 
with Jenkins' hands on him, didn't fall down, so Jenkins ordered the 
man to go home and claim his healing, without stopping to talk to 
anyone. Immediately, the man left the auditorium. I asked Ric why 
the people fell down, and he said they were being "slain in the spirit," 
or "going down under the power" as some people put it.

On the way back from the meeting, as the four of us cruised happily 
down the Hollywood Freeway in Ric's long and loaded Pontiac, he told 
Linda and me about the Rapture.

The Rapture, we learned, was a worldwide miraculous event about to 
take place - at any moment - in which every born-again Christian would 
suddenly be swept into the sky to meet Jesus in the air. For some 
reason, in all my years in and out of church, I didn't remember ever 
hearing about this. We were astounded at such a possibility, but Ric, 
always certain about spiritual things, spoke with such authority that 
we believed every word of this incredible thing. (Ric's air of certainty 
was such that even Superior Court judges sought his counsel on court 
decisions.) When Ric said we were in the last days, the end times, 
and that it was all in the Bible, Renee dutifully turned on the car's 
inside lights, opened up Ric's red, leather-covered Scofield Reference 
Bible, and turned to the appropriate scriptures. Ric had been telling 
Renee everything he knew about the Bible.

Learning about the Rapture was a milestone for me; it was awesome 
to think that millions of people were totally unprepared for such 
an event. I felt privileged to have knowledge of this, and realized 
that, for some reason, the Lord had held this knowledge back until 
now; perhaps because at any other time in my life I would have laughed 
at it. Now, though, I could handle it responsibly and use it to win 
souls for Jesus. At that moment, I made a secret decision to become 
a minister and serve the Lord full time.

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