I Don't Want to Get Punched in the Face

I grew up in Kansas City. I went to the International House of Prayer all the time. I used to go with my mom and dance in the back when I was little. There’s a story that still goes around about when I was about 3 years old. I really wanted long, flowy hair. So I put a pair of tights on my head and danced around like I had long hair. And of course I would do this at the prayer room while trotting around. Cause you know, I was cute.

With a few of the schools I attended (I went to 9 schools in total during my academic career) going to the prayer room for a few hours a week was a requirement. I didn’t mind though. I liked it there. I would go to the coffee shop and get salt and vinegar chips and strawberry milk and sneak it in.

Apparently my siblings and I, and probably a few friends weren’t very popular with the section leaders (aka the yellow jackets). If you are unfamiliar with what a section leader is, they’re like hall monitors meant to keep everyone in order. Which really meant not letting people eat or drink in the prayer room (I did it anyway) and not letting people talk much (I also did that anyways). I don’t particularly like being told what to do, especially when I was a kid.

When we were kids we would go to the prayer room with our parents and sit near the front with our coloring pages and books. Being children of course, we would crawl around under the seats and chat with our friends. My parents had to remind us several times to keep our voices down. They would get regular emails from the yellow jackets reminding them of the rules and to get their kids to pipe down.

But I loved going. I also had no problem bucking up against authority I didn’t particularly like or respect.

As I grew older, I enjoyed the prayer room because I got to see my heroes and sing along with the songs. And sometimes pray on the mic. The older I got, the more appreciation I had for the prayer room.

When we moved to Brazil in 2013, my love for the prayer room grew exponentially. We started a church and a prayer room in Florianopolis, an island in the southeast of Brazil. We started it in our living room and it quickly grew. In that season that little prayer room became mine. I was deeply involved from day one. I had tremendous ownership of it. I encountered Jesus there. I sung in Portuguese on the microphone more that I’ve sung in English in my whole life.

But going to the prayer room in Kansas City during our yearly visit back to KC was always a treat. I got to sit back and listen to people I loved play and sing in English. I got to see lots of friends and try and catch up without a yellow jacket glaring at me.

When we moved back to Kansas City in July 2021, I was excited to go there more often. I quickly found my favorite set and went weekly. Yes I only went once a week. It took some time for me to detangle the idea that the more I go the prayer room the more spiritual I am. I had a full time job and lots of church activities. But I went to the one set religiously.

I loved the team and the prayer focus. I loved to pray on the mic and be myself. I went in the evening section, which in my opinion is one of the best times to go, less judgy eyes.

Going to that set started to become more and more difficult as time went on. Like I mentioned before, I found out about Mike Bickle’s nefarious actions before it went public. Going into the room was hard. I didn’t want to run into him, ever. I didn’t want to see really anyone in leadership. The internal traffic as I sat in that grey chair was pretty intense. It became increasingly hard to focus. It was hard to begin my process of sifting while sitting in Mike’s house.

When the news was about to break I stopped going. Whispers were starting to get out about Mike and my dad’s involvement in the situation. I didn’t want to get cornered and asked questions I couldn’t answer. I didn’t want to lie, but I also wasn’t gonna give anyone the answers they wanted.

In late November a good friend of mine from Brazil was visiting. I imagined she wanted to go the prayer room. So I offered to go to my old favorite set with her after we went to Dos De Oros (iykyk).

After our delicious Mexican feast, we went to the prayer room. I walked in the door with an elevated heart rate. I looked around, as if I was deciding where to sit. But I was looking around to see who was there. And I stopped in the corridor between the aisles, I could feel the panic welling up in my throat.

I felt like everyone was going to stare at me. I was scared someone I didn’t want to see would be there. And I felt all the emotions of the past several months smack me in the face. I almost turned around and walked out. But I didn’t.

I forced myself to stay. I went to my old spot in the front left section. I pushed through the fear of getting punched in the face and sat down.

At that point the news was out. It had gone far and wide. And my dad’s name, Dwayne Roberts, was very much at the forefront of the Advocate Group. People knew who I was. I didn’t know if I could go in that room and just sit in the presence of the Lord without looking over my shoulder.

Once I sat down, I tried to relax. I got out my books and starting reading and engaging in the worship intermittently. But I couldn’t settle. I was always looking over my shoulder. Starting at the side door that Mike would always come through.

I tried writing in my journal. The only thing on my mind was the Mike situation. I was paranoid about journaling about anything really, terrified someone was looking over my shoulder reading my innermost, and honestly quite intense, thoughts.

A lot of, well let’s call them “not very nice things”, had been said about my parents and my family. It’s really hard to not take personal offense when someone comes after your parents, especially for doing the right thing.

When I say I was nervous I might get punched in the face by some psycho, I wasn’t kidding. Charismatic communities always attract whack jobs. Now they had something, someone really, to turn their insanity towards.

But no one punched me in the face that night. Thankfully. I’m also not one to roll over and let myself get punched. I would hit back, and then end up on YouTube.

I left that night slightly relieved it went without any major incidents.

But it also broke my heart.

The place that I had grown up going to, the place my parents had labored in for 15 years, suddenly felt very unsafe. There was no way to sit in that room and turn off the internal traffic in my head.

That was the last time I went to the prayer room.

But, lucky for me, it turns out you can pray outside of a prayer room. I am still very much walking in communion with the Holy Spirit. But I miss it.

I miss standing in the room with lots of fellow believers singing and worshipping together. I miss hearing skilled, full bands go into musical selahs. I miss seeing my friends kill it on stage. I miss praying on the mic for whatever was on my heart. I miss the feeling of unity I had between myself and the worship team while praying together and pushing towards a common goal. I miss the feeling I had as a kid there, of safety and familiarity. I miss the happy feelings I would get when I’d see my little friend running around waiting to play or dance with me.

These feelings are one of the many casualties of this situation.

I don’t have an answer to these feelings right now. Most mornings I sit in my IKEA wingback chair in my room and listen to music. I open my bible and read 1 chapter (yup, just 1 chapter, not 25). I journal. I read whatever book I’m reading. And the Lord meets me there. It sets me up for success for the rest of my day. It calms my heart.

My heart is broken for everything happening at IHOP right now. My heart is broken over the fact that the place I used to call a second home makes my resting heart rate skyrocket. My heart is broken for all the other people who are in the same boat as me and all the people still trying to figure out what is going on.

I still love Jesus. I still pray, a lot. I still read my bible. But I don’t go to the prayer room anymore. There was a time in my life where I didn’t think that was even possible, but that was more Mike’s voice in my head, not the actual truth.

Lucky for me I still have a prayer room that is very special to me. It might be far away, but once or twice a year I get to go to Brazil and feel at home. Much less chance of me getting punched in the face there (though it’s not a 0% chance).

I have not given up on prayer. I am not succumbing to “persecution and the onslaught of the enemy” by not going to the prayer room. Some people might be ticked by this, but I could honestly care less. I feel no guilt by not going to the prayer room. The temple of God is no longer a physical place, it’s inside me. The Holy Spirit goes with me wherever I go, be it the prayer room or the gas station. So I think I’m good.

Photo by Daniel Pintilei on Unsplash