But when I was in ninth grade, we got a Youth Minister, in charge of kid and teen activities like Junior Joys, Nazarene Young People's Society, the Afterglow (a party after the Sunday evening service), and Canvassing (going door to door to witness).
The Preacher might be elderly, but the Youth Minister had to be young, cool, and attractive enough to keep kids interested. Ours was Brother Bob, fresh out of Olivet, in his early 20s, tall, with enormously broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and gigantic hands.
Unfortunately, I never saw him shirtless -- he always wore a suit and tie, the Nazarene equivalent of a clerical collar. But when I went down to the altar to get saved or sanctified, he came down and wrapped his huge hard arm around me, and I could feel his hard barrel chest against my back.
You could hardly miss the gigantic Mortadella+ swinging around in his pants every time he moved. Particularly in NYPS, when we were kneeling to pray, and he walked from person to person to see if we needed help: his crotch was exactly at eye level. And at least once, when he hugged me after altar call, I felt it press against me like a salami stuffed in his pants.
One Sunday night during the summer after ninth grade, I walked out into the parking lot during altar call to escape from the frenetic shouting, and saw Terry and Dave, twelfth grade best buddies, talking in the shadowy area by the church bus.
The Preacher might be elderly, but the Youth Minister had to be young, cool, and attractive enough to keep kids interested. Ours was Brother Bob, fresh out of Olivet, in his early 20s, tall, with enormously broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and gigantic hands.
Unfortunately, I never saw him shirtless -- he always wore a suit and tie, the Nazarene equivalent of a clerical collar. But when I went down to the altar to get saved or sanctified, he came down and wrapped his huge hard arm around me, and I could feel his hard barrel chest against my back.
You could hardly miss the gigantic Mortadella+ swinging around in his pants every time he moved. Particularly in NYPS, when we were kneeling to pray, and he walked from person to person to see if we needed help: his crotch was exactly at eye level. And at least once, when he hugged me after altar call, I felt it press against me like a salami stuffed in his pants.
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