Meeting a Prophet Without Feeling Anything
The East Texas humidity pressed against my skin like a damp blanket. Sweat ran down my back, trapped under a too-tight white shirt, my dress shoes chewing at my toes. Tall and skinny is an unforgiving body type when your clothes are chosen from the “close enough” rack.
I stood in a low grassy field on the campus of Ambassador College in Big Sandy, surrounded by hundreds of students slowly drifting toward the edge of a small private runway. From above, we must have looked like a migration — bodies moving as one toward something important.
Something sacred.
We all knew why we were there.
Behind the hangar, pine trees stood motionless under a wide Texas sky. The heat hung heavy, the kind that makes time slow. Then someone pointed.
A dark dot appeared above the trees.
A murmur rippled through the crowd as the dot grew wings, then a tail, then a nose. The jet roared overhead, banking sharply like it was putting on a show just for us. Men in reflective vests hurried out of the hangar, their dress shirts soaked through. Campus security cars idled nearby, blue lights flashing, guarding the moment like it mattered.
Because to them, it did.
The jet circled and lined up for its final approach. When the wheels touched the runway, the crowd pressed closer. A white Cadillac rolled forward, followed by two smaller sedans. The students parted easily, instinctively, like the Red Sea opening on cue.
The plane door opened.
A staircase lowered.
And then he appeared.
Herbert W. Armstrong.
Thin white hair glowing in the sun. French cuffs perfectly pressed. A striped suit hanging awkwardly from his frail frame. He gripped the railing and descended slowly, deliberately — like a man stepping down from Mount Sinai.
At the bottom, he straightened, looked out over the crowd, and smiled.
Then came the wave.
The cheers erupted instantly. Whistles. Whoops. Hands in the air. Faces lit with awe. No words were spoken. None were needed. This was reverence without conversation.
I didn’t cheer.
I didn’t wave.
I didn’t feel anything at all.
I watched the crowd instead. The expressions. The devotion. The way people leaned forward, hungry for proximity to the man they believed God himself had chosen. The founder. The apostle. The prophet.
The little god of the Worldwide Church of God.
I’d seen this before.
At summer camp in Orr, Minnesota, when his white sedan rolled in and kids lined the road like he was royalty. At Feasts of Tabernacles, where that same white car carried him past crowds who smiled and waved as if acknowledgment itself was a blessing.
It never occurred to me that I was supposed to lose my mind over this.
Pedestals weren’t my thing.
Hero worship didn’t come naturally.
And fanatic devotion felt… embarrassing.
As Armstrong was ushered into the back seat of the Cadillac — no handshakes, no greetings, no acknowledgment of the students sweating in the field — the crowd closed in again, murmuring reverently.
I just stood there.
Watching believers believe.
That’s when it hit me — quietly, but unmistakably — that something in me didn’t line up with what was expected. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t questioned doctrine. I hadn’t rebelled.
I just didn’t feel awe.
And that absence scared me more than disbelief ever would.
A strange shame crept in. Shame for not reacting correctly. Shame for standing still while everyone else cheered. Shame for thinking the whole thing felt a little ridiculous.
Had I already started down the wrong path? Toward doubt? Toward the Lake of Fire?
Maybe.
But if I was afraid of anything in that moment, it wasn’t punishment.
It was the realization that I might be different in a way I didn’t yet understand — and that once you notice that kind of difference, you can’t unsee it.
That day didn’t make me stop believing.
But it did something quieter.
It taught me that belief isn’t just about what you accept — it’s about what you’re expected to feel.
And sometimes, the first crack isn’t doubt.
It’s the moment you realize the applause doesn’t make sense to you anymore.
Powerful observations, like a movie.
What a world you overcame.
It was “Interesting” for sure. I inherited Mr Armstrong, where as my parents sought him out. He was more “mascot” than mini-god/apostle to me. I guess those were the first cracks on the beam I’d built my life. 😎