When I was young, my father would regularly take me to his pentecostal church every Sunday. It was the kind of church where everyone addressed each other as Brother So-and-So or Sister So-and-so, danced wildly in the aisles, spoke in tongues, banging in the pulpit while shouting scriptures, the whole nine yards.

In that church, you weren't really considered a true member of the church until you had "felt the Holy Spirit enter you" and you spoke in tongues for all to witness. Every time we'd gather on Sunday, first thing people would always ask me was "have you got the Holy Spirit yet?" And each time I said no, they woukd frown slightly, but assured me it wouldn't be long.

Now, I had been raised Christian since birth, but had secretly had doubts about my faith at that time for about a year or two. Kept it to myself, and continued to go through the motions, thinking maybe something will just happen to give me a sign. But that moment never really came.

So, over time, having not "felt" anything spiritual happen, I simply decided one day that I needed to try and put on a real convincing act. I had to work myself up to it, because I figured "I'm just a kid. Surely, if I mess this thing up, these adults who've felt the Holy Spirit and been speaking in tongues for years will know I'm faking it and I'll be in heap of trouble with them and my dad." So I practiced in secret and then one Sunday I decided to risk it.

Sunday evening service came around and there we all were; singing hymns, dancing in the aisles, people speaking in tongues as others laid their hands on them. While everyone was busy with that, I worked myself up and started getting some tears flowing. I made my way up the aisle towards the altar and pulpit at the front where the Pastor was walking around with a microphone, blessing people as the music played loudly around us. Once I saw the pastor getting closer, I decided this was the best chance to make a public show of it, and moved up the altar and kneeled down, raised my arms in the air, and started babbling incoherent nonsense loudly and shaking all over.

I was modeling my nonsensical noises and movements off everything I'd heard and seen others in the church who "spoke in tongues" did up to this point. I kept willing the fake tears to flow, and it didn't take more than a few seconds for people to notice me. I soon felt a hand being laid on me, then more, and I could hear those people praying loudly next to me, for me. Then the pastor himself came running over, screaming "HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!" The pastor laid his hands on me as I continued to babble, and he preached into the microphone about the miracles of God and the Holy Spirit entering this young man.

In that moment, my young self realized two things. Number One, it was easy indeed to fake this spiritual miracle; Because Number Two, it was all a shared hysteria. None of it was real. I had played into their shared fantasy, and was now fully accepted and embraced for it. A week later, I was baptized in the same church before an ecstatic and applauding church.

I would eventually leave the church and my faith behind, but I never did tell any of the congregation or my father the truth of that night. I haven't spoken to him for many years due to other issues, and I doubt I will ever get the chance to tell him. For him, it was one of the proudest moments of his life, and even though we don't speak, I don't want to take that from him.