By Amber Gordon When I was nine years old, my mother and I decided to attend a fairly large church in Missouri, where people believed in possession, speaking in tongues, and falling under the Spirit. The broad, white building always seemed to look dirty, and despite the high ceilings and wide walls, the room still felt cramped.  The pastor was a short man with a thick, black mustache, receding hair line, and puffed cheeks.  Every Sunday morning he would call forth everyone who wanted to be healed, be saved, or just feel the presence of the Lord. Anybody who wanted to participate would gather at the front of the church and stand in a crowded semicircle.  Each person would have hands laid on them…