Vol II: #54 Each & Every Time
I sat in my ill-padded green chair and scribbled impressions in my sketch pad. My drawings tried to capture the zealous energy bouncing off the drab concrete walls. In combination with shouts and flailing bodies, it was a chaotic but not uncommon scene at BSSM. These moments are filled with anticipation and expectation, and I assume people encounter Jesus in these meetings. And if they do, it matters not if the encounter is a slight boost to get them through the evening or a life-changing exchange of faith for pain.
For my part, I do not encounter the Lord in such ways. The God I know is gentle and kind and quiet. His hand is always open and His commands sound like invitations. I am loved in His arms and always safe. I know my Father and He leads me.
After six months, with less than two to go, one more ugly fact remains unburied. Some religious professionals think they know best for the rest of us. And, they will likely never understand me. I don’t jump when they say jump or fall over myself at the sight of Bill Johnson. My age, experience, and faith have produced confidence in my ability to hear and respond to the Holy Spirit without the input of “leadership.” My external behavior is often weighed and misjudged. I find humor in these misunderstandings. They preach about being strong, bold, and courageous, yet do not recognize it when they see it. They believe courage is shouting the gospel on an airplane. I think it’s following the Holy Spirit.
To this last point, one of my revival group pastors totally shit on me during our meeting this evening. She judged the look on my face- which she deemed to be troublesome- and decided to interrupt my moment with the Lord. (And what a sweet moment it was.) From what I could make out between shouts and songs, she believed I needed to join in the human circus. I disagreed. My attempts to explain my perspective fell on deaf ears and I left soon after.
Since my retreat from the drab gray room, I’ve argued with Sarah and myself over the last six hours…in my head. These imaginary exchanges include tact, anger, outrage, and frustration. The most simple truth is I feel attacked. Belittled even. I want to defend myself and push her away. The end is months away, and my only goal is to finish. I had hoped to stroll without incident down the final stretch. Unfortunately, the enemy is not going to relent in his plan to turn me against the church.
I believe Ms. Sarah was used to get at me, at my most vulnerable spot. So, I forgive her. She didn’t know what she was doing. To hold her feet to the flames would only tie a rock around my heart and sink it into the depths of resentment and shame. I choose to love her even in her immature approach to our conversation. How many people have and will endure my immaturity and pride? More importantly, how much more has the Lord forgiven me? Each and every time.
