At first, only one woman’s voice dominated the large synagogue-like room. Even the ethereal piano had stopped to make sonic room for her wailing.

“Torrelaish obababababay torreleysh bobobobobobui…,” she cried into the microphone, her voice rasping with each sharp, sobbing intake of breath.

No curious child tugged at his or her mother’s shirt-sleeve, whispering frantic questions about who the woman was or what she was saying.

The choir of four or five stood still and silent, the band’s instruments down. The two large screens flanking each side of the altar remained black or flashed fleeting messages such as “‘nino #10” [“child #10”] [or] “nino #35” is running around’”—the congregants’ kids numbered that their parents not worry about their whereabouts during the service—and his or her guardians should keep an eye on the wayward child.

The wood-backed, frayed blue velvet chairs forming a half-moon around the altar and pulpit were empty as everyone, even the older gentlemen and ladies in the room, remained standing.

The women wore lacy headscarves that covered their hair; the men went hat-less. All possessed Hispanic faces. Each lifted his or her right hand in a gesture reminiscent of the one witnesses adopt when taking an oath in an American court.

A few others had both arms up and out, leaning forward slightly in a gesture of enthusiastic supplication.

Tears rolled down their cheeks as they vocally voiced the love and admiration they felt for God.

“How beautiful you are, Jesus!” a middle-aged man said.

“Forgive my sins!” the woman behind him yelled.

Not long afterward, a thrumming sound of high-pitched howling filled the room as members of south L.A.‘s Elim Central church began to emit ululations akin to those Arab women let out during weddings.

They were speaking in tongues.

Some explained they can control when they would do so, others saying the Spirit overtook them. And some said they remembered the act; others had to rely on the observations of their neighbors—often friends and family—who would tell them later “yes, you were speaking in tongues.”

Tongues, or “glossolalia”—as scholars call them, could either signify a conversation with God or God’s communication to others—a prophecy, perhaps—through a human vessel.

“Sometimes there’s a call,” Alex Avalar, a 33-year-old El Salvadoran-American explained after services at Downey-based Megachurch, Llamada Final (or “Final Call”) on a Sunday morning in June.

“It’s almost as if my spirit, inside, has made a connection to the degree that I’ve found peace and whatever was inside would find God,” he continued. “It’s speaking in another language, and you have no idea what you’re saying, but it’s a communication your spirit has with the Lord, and it’s an amazing experience.”

Donald Miller also acknowledged that the manner in which lay people could get involved in the Pentecostal Movement—through prayer cell group leadership or through speaking in tongues with God—originally attracted those who came from poorer backgrounds or were new to a country as it gave them the important role of communicating with God themselves.

“They can feel that they have equality before God on the same level with the pastor who may be leading them,” he began. “And so you don’t get the same sort of class differentiation they would experience within a more hierarchical, Roman Catholic structure.”

Reina Duenas, a 32-year-old El Salvadoran convert who had grown up Catholic until she found Pentecostalism at 13, further elaborated on the direct relationship with God speaking in tongues afforded her.

“It’s an intimacy you have with the Holy Spirit that you can have at any moment, in any place,” she said in Spanish.  “God accompanies you at all times, and when the speaking happens, it’s a transformation that happens in your heart and soul that is absolutely inexplicable.”

Elim Central’s Pastor Jorge Fuentes became a Pentecostal in his home of Guatemala 24 years ago because he, a textile engineer in his mid-thirties, was impressed that a pediatrician was leading the original Elim Central’s services.

“A professional—technically a layman and a man of science—was preaching,” he said in Spanish with a smile, sitting behind a desk filled with biblically-related notes, offering a card-holder engraved with the word “Guatemala” onto its wooden surface, near a set of shelves boasting menorahs missionaries had brought him as souvenirs from their trips to Israel.

“Seeing a layman up there had a very deep impact on me because I was a professional, and that meant I could be up there too,” he continued, thinking of his old teacher and inspiration, Dr. Otonel Rios.

“I had never seen anything like that in the Catholic Church,” he concluded, appreciating his adopted movement, one that allowed him to take part in its leadership despite his professional background.