Fields of Grace Read online

  Maybe I was a traitor. But I was only sixteen. I can’t choose, I cried to myself. I want to love everybody. I want everyone to feel accepted. Why are you making me into a fighter? One of the protestors pushed his sign at me, as if insisting that I display my loyalty. My eyes filled with tears. I was so conflicted. I wanted them to know I cared, but I loved Papa, too. I wished they could have known him as I did, as a kind and well-meaning man. Or were they right when they called our group “Christian fascists. Racists. Sexists. Antigay”? I grabbed the sign, which read, “The Christian Right is Wrong.” I did it because I wanted the protestors to know I cared, even though it was clear from their faces that they didn’t care about me. It was my way of saying, “I’ve come from a life of pain, too. I want you to talk with me. I want to hear your stories and understand your pain!” But just as I did I felt nails digging into my arm. Someone was trying to pull me away.

  I swung around and came face-to-face with one of Papa’s beefy security guards. “Get away from those people and don’t hold their signs!” he shouted. I jerked my arm away from him. “Don’t touch me!” I shouted back. I looked around, first at the angry faces of the protestors, then at Papa’s people. Panic shot through my body. I have to get out of here. I have to get away, I said to myself. I was disgusted with myself for participating in a rally that hurt people on both sides, and I was disappointed at the rage and cruelty I felt from the protestors, whom I related to more than I did to my own people. So I bolted. I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t know where I was going. I just had to escape. My heart ached, and I felt utterly alone. I was swept with emotions I couldn’t express and didn’t understand anyway. I loved and respected Papa, but because of his harsh Christian judgments he and his ministry had become a lightning rod for anger and frustration.

  I’d read a statement attributed to the Nobel Prize–winning novelist and playwright, Sinclair Lewis, who said: “When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.” Was that my father? If so, I didn’t want any part of that. I needed to get away. Away from that rally. Away from Teen Mania. Away from the people I loved most in the world and the only life I knew.

  But where would I go?

  The only place I could go. Home. But the day I arrived back in Texas I made a deal with God. “Lord God,” I prayed. “I am beginning to doubt You. I’ve tried and tried to get You to speak to me. I’ve repeatedly prayed to be able to hear Your voice. Yet You stubbornly refuse to answer my prayers. From now on, You won’t be speaking through me until You can speak to me.

  “Amen.”

  9

  ORU

  It is not fashionable to teach college students to develop their spiritual life. Many university educations leave students virtually undeveloped in the most meaningful part of their existence. Indeed, some seriously damage what Christian convictions students may have had.

  —ORAL ROBERTS, FROM HIS ADDRESS TO THE FIRST CLASS AT ORU, SEPTEMBER 7, 1965

  I graduated high school ready to break free from my religious prison. I didn’t want to go to Oral Roberts University. My parents had both gone there, and I was in the middle of a major mutiny from my fundamentalist Christian upbringing. I’d jumped the evangelical ship, at least in my heart, and I was still treading water, trying to figure out where I might rediscover some kind of faith. What I knew for sure was that I wanted to get as far from my evangelical roots as I possibly could, and ORU is the largest charismatic Christian university in the world: certainly not the escape I was hoping for.

  I had seen the world through evangelical glasses, and I wanted to revisit some of my favorite places with fresh eyes, so I suggested a couple of universities in Europe. My parents pushed for ORU, saying that it was important to them that I continue to surround myself with good Christian people. How could they gauge my religiousness if I were far away at Oxford in England or at the University of Amsterdam or Stockholm University? But ORU had offered me a free ride, a full scholarship awarded to qualified students who exemplified “a whole person lifestyle in that they are desirous of developing not just intellectually, but emotionally, spiritually, and physically.” I figured the reason they wanted me there was more about Papa than me; he was on the board.

  I went off to college, silently kicking and screaming. I tried focusing on the positives: ORU is a great school. It always made a good showing in college rankings, in respected publications like the Princeton Review and U.S. News. And at least it was in a city, Oklahoma’s second largest, on a river. I loved the water. I told myself there were congregations filled with good Christian girls who would kill to get into ORU. Who was I to grouse about it?

  My freshman year didn’t start off well.

  On the first day there, all of the incoming students are required to sign an honor code pledge.

  It began like this: “In signing the honor code pledge, I fully recognize that Oral Roberts University was founded to be and is committed to being a leading academic institution serving the interdenominational Body of Christ, offering a lifestyle of commitment to Jesus Christ of Nazareth as personal Savior and Lord. I further recognize that the university’s ministry is that of providing a Whole Person education with a charismatic distinctive. It is therefore my personal commitment to be a person of integrity in my attitude and respect for what Oral Roberts University is in its calling to be a Christian university.”

  These were some of the vows I was signing off on:

  To apply myself wholeheartedly to my intellectual pursuits and to use the full powers of my mind for the glory of God. (I promised myself I’d try.)

  To grow in my spirit, by developing my own relationship with God. (I’d been trying to do that for years.)

  To develop my body with sound health habits by completing the required aerobics program and by participating in wholesome physical activities. (Sounded good to me.)

  To cultivate good social relationships and to seek to love others as I love myself. I will not lie; I will not steal; I will not curse; I will not be a talebearer. I will not cheat or plagiarize; I will do my own academic work and will not inappropriately collaborate with other students on assignments. (I’d have to work on the cursing part.)

  To at all times keep my total being under subjection from all immoral and illegal actions and communications, whether on or off campus. I will not take any illegal drugs or misuse any drugs; I will not engage in or attempt to engage in any illicit, unscriptural sexual acts, which include any homosexual activity and sexual intercourse with one who is not my spouse through traditional marriage of one man and one woman. I will not drink alcoholic beverages of any kind; I will not use tobacco; I will not engage in other behavior that is contrary to the rules and regulations listed in the Student Handbook. (Wow.)

  I was always the kind of kid who sat in the front of the class. I loved learning, and I wanted to be as close to the teacher as I could get. My first class at ORU was a Spanish class and, as always, I took a seat in front.

  The teacher seemed nice enough. He was tall and gangly with chalky white skin and a seemingly mild manner. But as class got going, he stopped speaking en Español and began blabbering in tongues. His hands were shaking, his body was gyrating, and he was shouting unintelligible words. It sounded to me like the people in the movies when they were having sex.

  Once that was over, he pointed to a boy in the class and said, “I believe God has a word for you.” The boy resisted coming to the front of the class, but the professor insisted. “You never say never to God because He has a funny sense of humor, and He’ll get you back.” When the boy (reluctantly) walked up front, the teacher instructed all of us who were seated in the front two rows to pray over the kid.

  This professor began every class asking who needed a prayer. We’d pray over that person, then we’d pray over the school and go in whatever direction God was leading him. Aren’t we supposed to be learning Spanish? I asked myself. It was a rhetorical question. I already knew the answer: God trumped education, so who w
as he, the professor, to interrupt God’s words just because he was supposed to teach a class? The professor wasn’t dedicated to educating students. He was more interested in being on the front lines of the Christian battle to save them from missing their calling.

  That same professor then called me into his office one afternoon. Once we got inside he started doing his shaking, grinding, groaning thing. I didn’t think much of it. God’s comin’, I guess, I told myself. I sat there quietly for a while. Finally, I asked, “What’s going on, Professor?” He responded, “This always happens when God’s spirit starts speaking to me.”

  I’ll admit it. I was bitter and cynical. But I was still always interested when people said God spoke to them. I was always curious about what God had to say. So I decided to wait. He started speaking in tongues. Then he switched to English and said something about how I was meant to be a prophetess for my generation. God had chosen me as a chosen one. The professor got my attention. He closed his eyes, and then they flew open again. His face was flushed red. “That one!” he cried. I was startled. “What?” I asked. His eyes widened even more. He poked his index finger toward my wrist. “That!” he shouted, pointing. “That has a spirit in it!” He was talking about a bracelet I was wearing. “It’s a bad spirit! Take it off!” I explained that I had gotten the bracelet during a trip to Australia. I had worn it many times and never had a problem. “Maybe not now!” he said. “But it’s an evil spirit, and it will hinder your anointing.”

  I was shocked; I hadn’t heard stuff like that in a while. I removed the bracelet anyway. I just wanted to learn Spanish. After that I moved to the back of the class.

  I tried to stay positive that first semester. I kept telling myself that you always have to take the good with the bad. But the bad just kept on coming. I knew I was partially responsible for the way things were going. I was a creative person in an advertising and marketing major, so I didn’t like my classes, and I was a Christian contrarian in a Christian university that wasn’t known for tolerating any kind of religious dissent.

  At least I didn’t think so then.

  My attitude affected my whole beginning college experience, and I wasn’t a good student. Some of it was my fault. But some of it was that I just didn’t belong. Hardcore Christians don’t take well to rebels. One professor in particular that semester was especially put off by me and my way of thinking. She taught an advertising class I was taking, and she began every session the way my Spanish professor did, by asking who in the class needed prayers then ordering a group of us to pray over each person with a request. The prayer requests ranged from, “I need prayer for a class assignment,” or “I need prayer because I need to lose weight and I gorged at lunch,” to “I need prayer because my father is dying” and “I need prayer for an unspoken,” which meant it was something really bad that the person wasn’t willing to share.

  I didn’t like the professor—I thought she was a poser—so when she called on me, I told her I didn’t pray in public. It was just to get under her skin. Of course I prayed in public! I had just prayed with my Dad at one of his events in front of thousands of people. When I told her, respectfully, no, she walked me out of the classroom and insisted on knowing why I was defying her. I said, “I just don’t feel comfortable doing that.” She looked at me with disgust, but what could she do?

  The next time we had class, she announced that things were going to change a little. She said rather than asking everyone to “pray in public” (and she emphasized the phrase), we were to turn to our neighbor and pray. I was seventeen years old and trying to be the best Christian I could, but I was still going through the despair of my predicament with God, and this woman was trying to force me to pray. She watched as I turned to my neighbor, a nice girl named Mary. “What do you need prayer over?” I asked my classmate. She named a couple of things, and I told her I’d prayer for her privately, on my own time.

  The professor came over to Mary and asked about me, as if I wasn’t even there. “Is she giving you a hard time?” Poor Mary. She was caught in between. “Oh, no,” she said timidly. “Has she prayed over you?” Mary fidgeted for a minute. The teacher put her hands on her hips. ”Well?” she asked. “No,” Mary said, sighing. “She doesn’t feel comfortable praying in class.”

  I should have just dropped the class, but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of giving me an F. After that I was dead to her—until it came to our final presentation, which would result in a make-or-break grade.

  Each of us had to come up with a theme for an advertising campaign. Mine was, “Treasure Island: Where Your Dreams Come True.” Knowing the odds were against me, I put everything I had into that project. I painted my own poster with a colorful scene of a mysterious but beautiful place I called Treasure Island. I wrote a pitch to go with it. My idea was to sell this elusive place. One of the criteria of the project was that we had to include a contact number. At the bottom of the poster I wrote: “For more information, call 1-800-PSYCHIC.” I thought it was clever. From the ad, you didn’t really know what you’d be getting into if you traveled to Treasure Island, but call the number and you’d find out which of your dreams could come true.

  The class loved it. But when the poster was handed back, I turned it over and saw a big, red D. I went to the teacher and asked why. She stammered and said that she would have given me an A except for the 1-800-PSYCHIC reference. Everyone knew that psychics practiced black magic, she said, and that went against the university’s honor code.

  I was livid. “This isn’t fair,” I said. “I did everything right. You were just looking for something to catch me on.” I was surprised, but she took pity on me. She said if I removed the number from my poster, she’d change my grade to a C. I needed the passing grade more than the pride of upholding my principles, so I did, and she did.

  At the end of the semester I sought her out and apologized for being disrespectful at the beginning of the school year. “I’m truly sorry,” I said. “I was out of line and I’d like to take you to coffee to make up for it.” She took me up on the offer. We went to a coffee house in town and, over lattes, she told me that I’d reminded her of herself when she was young. “I see a lot of me in you,” she said. I thought that was going overboard. Then she said, “I sense there’s an anointing on you, and you’re choosing to ignore it.” I took a breath and waited for her to lay her hands over me and start speaking in tongues, but she didn’t.

  She finished her latte and picked up the tab, and we left.

  That teacher embodied everything I expected to dislike about my college experience. She had expectations of me because of who I was and where we were. But I just wanted to be me.

  10

  Fitting In

  Well, I can’t figure out God.

  —ORAL ROBERTS, IN AN INTERVIEW WITH LARRY KING

  I almost failed my first semester, so after that I switched my major from advertising and marketing to theological historical studies. My main reason for doing it was that I was hoping to gain insight into why I was the way I was. And, deep, deep down I was still harboring the tiniest bit of hope that I’d come to better understand the Christian faith of my family. The other reason is that I was more artsy than business-minded, and if I never had to take another accounting or advertising class I’d be a happy camper. Strike that. I’d be a happier camper. Meaning that I’d be less miserable.

  Honestly, I didn’t have high hopes for my new major. More religion? Sometimes I wondered if I had a sadistic streak. At least with business courses I’d only have to crunch numbers and give presentations about fake places and products. Now I’d have to study the same books and listen to the same stuff that had been crammed down my throat my whole life. “Oh, stop your complaining, Hannah,” I told myself. I did, and I prayed for the best.

  It was my first day in my Christian Ethics class. Dr. Chris Green was our professor. He was young and handsome, with kind of spiky blond hair, and he dressed more like us than the other professors. He intr
oduced himself and said, “Before we start,” then asked those of us with evangelical backgrounds to raise our hands. Of course, almost everyone did. Then he said the life-changing words I will never forget. He said that for most of us, everything we’d been taught about Christianity thus far was wrong. I waited for the punch line. “In this class, we will tear down your Christian foundation, and you’ll feel homeless for a while,” he said. “But if you stick with it, your faith will be rebuilt on a foundation of what Christianity is really meant to be.”

  I burst into tears.

  For most of my life, for as long as I had been able to think for myself, every time I asked questions about Christianity, I was told either that I was being rebellious or that I was flat-out wrong. With that one introduction Dr. Green had given me the gift of redemption from my Christian guilt. What I drew from his words was that everything I had been taught my whole life about God and His expectations of me might not be completely right, and maybe I had some legitimate questions, and maybe I still had a chance to get some of the answers I had been seeking for a lifetime. Maybe it was Dr. Green’s voice, and not necessarily God’s voice, that could help me find my faith. I couldn’t wait to get started.

  I was the only girl in my theological history major, and most of us were seditious pastors’ kids. We were a class of only fifty or so students, and a lot of the other students on campus ostracized us. I think they were perplexed by us, really. They didn’t understand why we were studying things like Islam and Hindu customs and probing the origins of the charismatic arm of Christianity and its relevance in contemporary society. Occasionally one of us was approached by one of the more radical charismatic Christian students objecting to our presence on campus, but that didn’t happen too often, and when it did, we calmly held our own because our classes had primed us for good debates.

  My classmates in my major affirmed my feelings of isolation from the church. I saw myself in them, and they saw themselves in me, and we saw ourselves as the “free thinkers” in a culture of closed minds. I loved what I was learning. Our studies called for us to question and challenge religious dogma, and our professors provoked our thoughts. I took classes like Divine Healing, Christian Apologetics, Charismatic Theory, and The History of Christianity. One of my favorite courses was all about the major religions of the world.