What I’m about to share with you is based off of something that happened in my life – my personal experience with faith healers – but I’m telling it in the second person because I really think there are some people who may be able to relate:
You’ve all always wanted to believe in something epic, possibly supernatural or miraculous. Every kid wants a super power. It’d be marvelous to be able to summon the power of god with a prayer or to heal people with a touch of your hand. Sitting in church you reflect on miraculous tales you’ve heard: how god cured some old lady’s joint pain and your grandmother’s cancer vanished with a prayer. But doubt duels credulity in a tormented cognitive dialogue. “Are miracles real?” you wonder. Second-hand anecdotes carry no more weight than suspect mythology. Hearsay is hearsay and is utterly useless in the evidence department.
As for your grandma, misdiagnoses is in no way out of the question. Perhaps the doc’s treatment did the trick, or she experienced spontaneous remission as other cancer patients have. Besides, would god save her and not your 22 year old best friend you earnestly interceded with him for.
You’re standing in the aisle seat three rows back – music fostering familial solidarity. The preacher, filled with Charisma urges the sick forward. Mustering enough courage to cautiously proceed, you approach the faith healer and inform him of your previously dislocated shoulder’s recurring pain.
He prays over it once, the audience goes silent. Nothing happens! Twice, still nothing. You’re standing there at the front desperately wanting a miracle. All eyes are on you, the pressure is immense; your adrenaline: through the steeple. With a third attempt, the church band goes crazy in a melodic crescendo. You feel a wave wash over you excitement strikes as your pain dissipates! You’ve always desperately desired your own miracle. “I’m healed!” you yell, possibly prematurely, and are instantly greeted with a celebratory uproar before being ushered back to your seat.