The one time I lost the Holy Ghost

CW: mention of mental health and suicide.

I remember the first time I met the Holy Ghost. I was a lil’ baby at eight years old. I was listening to a song about Jesus and the Cross. At the time I didn’t know how I knew that I was meeting the Spirit of God, but I let the tears roll down my face. I didn’t understand much of what was happening, but I knew my life was different now. This moment was so powerful to me that I remember exactly where I was, what I was wearing, etc.

I’d always been a churchy girl. The first song I learned to sing as a baby was a song asking baby Jesus to come into my heart. I’d sing that song every day at 6:00 AM on the clock. Poor baby Jesus though, I’m sure he just wanted to chill like I was chilling. I was also my neighbor’s daily alarm.

The first time I read the book of Acts I was also eight years old and loved it! I have quite a bit of stories on my experience with Holy Spirit. For a while there I used to read the book, Good morning Holy Spirit by Benny Hinn at least once a year, God, I just wanted to know this God who communed with us so badly. (Confession: I started reading it again because I read this book for the first time as a child and I need to know what my subconscious understood as truth. So far it is as cringy as you might think it is.)

I remember in college one time a friend told me another group of friends didn’t like that I talked about the Holy Spirit so much, I was heartbroken and I told her, “I talk about Holy Spirit because He is the closest friend I have. I wouldn’t be here without Holy Spirit.”. I didn’t specify then, but I was not exaggerating. At the time only Holy Spirit knew my mental health struggles (which included multiple suicide attempts), only Holy Spirit was there when all I wanted to do was be back home in Peru, but couldn’t. Holy Spirit was there when I dreamed of the Pacific Ocean. Holy Spirit was there when I experienced anti-blackness and rejection in ways that still make me cry. Holy Spirit walked with me when my aunt fell into a coma she’d never wake up from, and I didn’t get to say goodbye because of colonial borders. Holy Spirit knew the weight I carried as an undocumented citizen. I could go on forever. Holy Spirit was my best friend because no one else could ever understand, how could I ever live without Holy Spirit?

If you know me, you know that I am curious about everything, but when I am truly curious about something or someone, I will hyper-focus until I have an acceptable answer. In my pursuit of wanting to know and understand who Holy Spirit is I found myself in questionable spaces, like Hillsong, IHOPKC, Bethel, El Rey Jesus (iykyk), and so many other places in between.

That is until 2016.

When suddenly all these folks who claimed to love Jesus also loved the soon to be 45th president of the United States. Perhaps for me, seeing the folks from Bethel (and my own church in Michigan) was the most heartbreaking. I never talk about this because I didn’t spend a lot of physical time at Bethel and many other ministries connected to them, but I spent a lot of money and resources learning from them. How can so many folks who claimed to hear from the Holy Spirit all be hearing that someone so evil was good?

Their words, excuses, and their actions crushed my soul. I had known Holy Spirit my whole life, but these folks had taught me different ways to connect with Her in ways I didn’t know before.

I could go into the details as I saw their social media posts, and they became so hostile towards other Jesus followers. And while for me it showed up as annoyance or anger in conversation (even to this day I roll my eyes) what I really felt was my heart breaking.

I know I didn’t always get it right. I made a million mistakes in attempting to always be connected with Holy Spirit, but I knew that I wasn’t wrong about this.

As the 2016 election results came in and the next four years unfolded I knew that I could never be part of the white charismatic church ever again, and in my shipwreck I decided that maybe I was the one who was wrong, and maybe the beautiful Spirit of God wasn’t talking to me anymore.

As I started making the shift in my life to leave the white evangelical church and already losing so many people in my life, whom and what I grieved the most were the ways in which I couldn’t even look at Holy Spirit.

I lost the Holy Ghost. I lost the Holy Ghost because I was scared. But She didn’t lose me.

Like the deer who longed for flowing streams, so my soul longed for the Holy Ghost. She was after all, my best friend, yet I couldn’t make myself to even talk to Her.

I was terrified of getting it wrong all over again, of listening to false prophets, of learning from folks who (even to this day) uphold white supremacy, I was terrified and ashamed that I had been lied to and I couldn’t recognize the lies for so long.

But Holy Spirit never lost me. I remember one Saturday afternoon I clearly heard Her say to read a book, and in it my friend Jonathan writes, “Spirit is in the wind.” And I cried and cried and cried and cried.

Not because this was new information to me, but because I knew that if I never ever could speak to Holy Spirit ever again, Holy Spirit was never going to stop speaking to me. Every day there is wind, you can ask the flowers, and the branches of the trees who have been here for hundreds of years.

Spirit is in the wind, and that meant Holy Spirit was faithful, steady, everyday-occurring, wild and tamed, and every time the grass moved I knew the Spirit of God was hovering the earth. When there was no sky or sea the Spirit of God hovered over my tears, patient enough to wait for the day when new life was ready to bloom.

For years, on and off, I’d dip a toe in the water, wondering what it would be like to talk to Holy Spirit again. To tell her all the things I was thinking and learning, to ask for wisdom, to ask for help, to celebrate and to cry together, but I was too scared.

And if I’m being honest even to this day I’m a little scared, but we’ve been rebuilding together. Rebuilding my trust in Her and the voice I knew I heard when I was eight years old. The kin_dom belongs to the little children because they know the voice of kindness when they hear it. I’m getting there.

I am learning that hearing from Holy Spirit is not contained by the previous teachings I once believed. I can now hear Holy Spirit in the voice of my friends, whether they believe in Jesus or not. I have danced to Bad Bunny with Holy Spirit — She always meets me here, en el reggaeton. I have felt Holy Spirit when my sister’s teacup yorkie jumps for joy when she sees me, and when she cuddles up to me when I am sad. The loudest I have heard Spirit is when my queer siblings speak the Word of God and live it out by being their full selves. The Spirit of God holds this heart of mine in ways I will never understand. The Spirit of God is not afraid, and not once has She used my silence against me, instead it was an invitation to love me when I couldn’t even say a word.

So today, on Pentecost Sunday, I celebrate my best friend. We’re healing together. We’re remembering together. We’re loving together. We’re asking questions together. We’re letting go together.

The Holy Ghost doesn’t belong to the false prophets. They don’t get to keep Her from me any longer.

The Holy Ghost is instead found here, in the margins, in the question-askers, in the ones looking for intimacy as we learn the new tongues of fire that require trust, confidence and silliness. We are learning the tongues of fire that bring liberation.

Hallelujah, I have never walked alone because Spirit is in the wind.

“And I’m speaking in tongues, ‘cause I need a Holy Ghost.” - JMM