By Langston Huges
I was saved from sin when I was going on thirteen. But not really saved. It happened like this. There was a big revival at my Auntie Reed's church. Every night for weeks there had been much preaching, singing, praying, and shouting, and some very hardened sinners had been brought to Christ, and the membership of the church had grown by leaps and bounds. Then just before the revival ended, they held a special meeting for children, "to bring the young lambs to the fold." My aunt spoke of it for days ahead. That night I was escorted to the front row and placed on the mourners' bench with all the other young sinners, who had not yet been brought to Jesus.
My aunt told me that when you were saved you saw a light, and something happened to you inside! And Jesus came into your life! And God was with you from then on! She said you could see and hear and feel Jesus in your soul. I believed her. I had heard a great many old people say the same thing and it seemed to me they ought to know. So I sat there calmly in the hot, crowded church, waiting for Jesus to come to me.
The preacher preached a wonderful rhythmical sermon, all moans and shouts and lonely cries and dire pictures of hell, and then he sang a song about the ninety and nine safe in the fold, but one little lamb was left out in the cold. Then he said: "Won't you come? Won't you come to Jesus? Young lambs, won't you come?" And he held out his arms to all us young sinners there on the mourners' bench. And the little girls cried. And some of them jumped up and went to Jesus right away. But most of us just sat there.
A great many old people came and knelt around us and prayed, old women with jet-black faces and braided hair, old men with work-gnarled hands. And the church sang a song about the lower lights are burning, some poor sinners to be saved. And the whole building rocked with prayer and song.
Still I kept waiting to see Jesus.
Finally all the young people had gone to the altar and were saved, but one boy and me. He was a rounder's son named Westley. Westley and I were surrounded by sisters and deacons praying. It was very hot in the church, and getting late now. Finally Westley said to me in a whisper: "God damn! I'm tired o' sitting here. Let's get up and be saved." So he got up and was saved.
Then I was left all alone on the mourners' bench. My aunt came and knelt at my knees and cried, while prayers and song swirled all around me in the little church. The whole congregation prayed for me alone, in a mighty wail of moans and voices. And I kept waiting serenely for Jesus, waiting, waiting - but he didn't come. I wanted to see him, but nothing happened to me. Nothing! I wanted something to happen to me, but nothing happened.
I heard the songs and the minister saying: "Why don't you come? My dear child, why don't you come to Jesus? Jesus is waiting for you. He wants you. Why don't you come? Sister Reed, what is this child's name?"
"Langston," my aunt sobbed.
"Langston, why don't you come? Why don't you come and be saved? Oh, Lamb of God! Why don't you come?"
Now it was really getting late. I began to be ashamed of myself, holding everything up so long. I began to wonder what God thought about Westley, who certainly hadn't seen Jesus either, but who was now sitting proudly on the platform, swinging his knickerbockered legs and grinning down at me, surrounded by deacons and old women on their knees praying. God had not struck Westley dead for taking his name in vain or for lying in the temple. So I decided that maybe to save further trouble, I'd better lie, too, and say that Jesus had come, and get up and be saved.
So I got up.
Suddenly the whole room broke into a sea of shouting, as they saw me rise. Waves of rejoicing swept the place. Women leaped in the air. My aunt threw her arms around me. The minister took me by the hand and led me to the platform.
When things quieted down, in a hushed silence, punctuated by a few ecstatic "Amens," all the new young lambs were blessed in the name of God. Then joyous singing filled the room.
That night, for the first time in my life but one for I was a big boy twelve years old - I cried. I cried, in bed alone, and couldn't stop. I buried my head under the quilts, but my aunt heard me. She woke up and told my uncle I was crying because the Holy Ghost had come into my life, and because I had seen Jesus. But I was really crying because I couldn't bear to tell her that I had lied, that I had deceived everybody in the church, that I hadn't seen Jesus, and that now I didn't believe there was a Jesus anymore, since he didn't come to help me.
This piece is very dear to me. I was in my second year of college when I read it. People react to it in different ways. I think it's important now and then to demonstrate how adult (and cult) behaviors can effect children. My personal experiences in church settings were very similar to this. It was like a weight on my mind until I was able to distance myself from people consumed by their ideology. Should children be raised in the manner demonstrated in this essay? It is my opinion that Hughes was brave for having written this. What's yours?
Langston Hughes, a poet, novelist, playwright, and short story writer, belonged to the group of black artists known as the Harlem Renaissance. His short story "Salvation," published as a chapter in his autobiographical work The Big Sea, and first published in 1940, relates an experience in a twelve-year-old boy's life. This event helped shape the boy's religious understanding far differently from what his Auntie Reed intended.
"Salvation" begins with the narrator stating he was "saved from sin" when he was twelve. Then he announces he was not really saved, explaining what happened.
A religious revival was in town and had proven quite popular. His Aunt Reed attended every night for a week. On the final evening, the churchgoers' children were invited to give them a chance at salvation.
If he was saved, Aunt Reed had told him, he would see a light, meaning Jesus had come into his life. The boy believed her very literally; he had heard other adults mention the same light. So he sat in church, waiting to see this mysterious light and for a big change.
The preacher's sermon was very powerful. His words made some young girls cry as they anxiously went to the preacher to be saved. Many youngsters, however, continued to sit, unmoved. Even after many adults prayed at the children's feet, the narrator refused to move until he saw Jesus. In the end, he and his friend Westley were the only ones left. Westley whispered that he was tired of sitting there, so he walked up as if he had seen the light, so he might be saved too.
Though his aunt continued to pray for him, nothing happened. He could not understand this and felt ashamed. He wondered what God thought of Westley; God had not, after all, struck him dead for lying. So the narrator decided it might make less trouble if he, too, lied about seeing Jesus. So he stood up, and the whole congregation burst into shouts of joy.
For the first time in his life, later that night, he cried. When his aunt heard, she believed the tears were caused by the Holy Ghost, but the boy was crying because he could not bear to tell her he had lied to her and the congregation. Not only had he not seen Jesus, the whole experience left his belief in shambles. If there were a God, why had Jesus not appeared to him to save him?