At the fellowship I'm a part of, it's
not too uncommon to hear phrases like this bantered about: “I got a
download from God last night” or “God really down-loaded on me
while in prayer this morning.” It's 21st Century lingo
to describe those “light-bulb moments” (yes, a 20th
Century descriptive phrase)
when we suddenly have personal insight into a verse of Scripture or
the character of God. As much as I get what they mean, my experience
suggests that God rarely deposits truth into our soul in toto as
you would get a string of binary code in a software program; rather,
he sows a seed into the soil of our heart that in time, given the
soil is good, bears fruit. But the moment the seed is cast a subtle
turning point
in your spiritual development occurs even though you may or may not
be cognizant of that fact at the moment. But the truth remains that
something new is growing in secret.
Turning Point : Fall
1993 – Manifestations Happen
This was the sanctuary I was used to |
I
wasn't raised in Pentecost. I was raised Lutheran (ALC, for those who
care). So when
I began attending Madison Gospel Tabernacle (MGT), a Pentecostal
assembly, following my graduation from high school I was not only a
new Christian but new to Pentecostal culture as well. Instead of
standing sober in a chancel of wood and stone, people worshiped
exuberantly with hands raised in a carpeted, modern sanctuary.
Instead of the pastor leading us reverently from the Lutheran Book of
Worship, a happy-go-lucky worship leader flanked by his band of
guitarists, drummer and back-up singers led us joyously in gospel
choruses projected on an overhead. Unlike a normal worship gathering
of Lutherans where everything was done according to the book, many at
MGT felt compelled to belt out a “Praise the Lord!” or
“Alleluia!” during worship as the whimsy suited them. Frankly, if
the worship hadn't made me feel so alive inside, I might have
sneaked out the back door for all the noise.
And this is the one I moved to |
But there were other things that took getting acclimated
to as well, namely prophecy, tongues and interpretation of the same.
At many of the Sunday evening worship gatherings of MGT, a person or
two would speak out in tongues and either give the interpretation or
someone else at the gathering would. It took some time getting used
to. I don't recall hearing anything that I felt personally applied to
me but often after the tongue and interpretation were given several
people would cry or give thanks to God for speaking to them. It
didn't seem to do me any good but I was new to the group and
apparently this is the way church “was done.” Shortly after I
had become a Christian, I had been baptized in the Spirit and spoken
in tongues myself but the experience was anything but ecstatic. In
fact, in the first two years of my Christian experience in Pentecost,
I attended a lot of prayer meetings, special services and went
witnessing on Thursday nights but for all that I don't recall any
specific “encounters” that made me open to the life of the
Spirit. So, by the time I left for Bible school in the fall of 1982,
in retrospect I was a Pentecostal who knew some of the lingo but
lacked personal experience of the same.
I
attended Christian Life College (CLC), a small Pentecostal Bible
school in northwestern Chicago whose forte was preparing people for
ministry. There was a prayer room there though as I recall it, it was
rarely used. The main officers of the Bible college were committed
Pentecostals, spoke in tongues frequently during chapel and in the
worship services of the church that the school was connected to but
for all that I don't remember a lot of out-of-the-norm spiritual
activity. If anything, I heard a lot of mildly sarcastic comments
from some of my instructors, many of whom were pastors, about,
frankly, weird people in the congregations they used to serve. We
were required to take a class called “Pentecostal Distinctives”
but it was only 1 semester in 4 years and its focus was on past
experiences as opposed to modern occurrences of the manifestation of
the Holy Spirit in the life of a local congregation. I cannot speak
for the rest of my classmates but for me the cumulative affect of all
this was that by the time I graduated from CLC, my basic
understanding of Pentecost was the “crazy”-stuff was behind us
and as a movement Pentecost was becoming more mature and, er,
palatable to the uninitiated.
This is my normal worship mode today |
What this all meant, ultimately, was that five years
later when I arrived at Chetek Full Gospel Tabernacle (CFGT), I was
ill-equipped to deal with the committed Pentecostals in our midst. As
I shared in the last installment of this series (Turning Points: Perspective), we were at that time an odd assortment of old-time
Pentecostals mixed in with a lot of former Lutherans, Catholics and
Methodists who were drawn to the non-liturgical style of our worship
service. One dear lady named Grace who dressed odd and sounded like
she was from somewhere way south, felt persuaded that it was her
ministry to prophesy in every service and when she did there was no
need for her to use a microphone. Her, “Yeah, thus saith the Lord”s
were like a freight train coming through our little sanctuary. Her
husband was a decidedly quieter man but I remember being weirded-out
for awhile by the fact that he seemed to reference the prophecies he
felt he had received in prayer and recorded in the back pages of his
Bible as much as he referenced Scripture. The adult Sunday School
class, that met in the sanctuary right before Sunday morning worship,
to me often felt like listening to “Dueling Banjos” as two women
– one “old school” Pentecost and the other from the Charismatic
renewal of the 60s and 70s – would verbally spar over various
topics as it related to the ministry of the Holy Spirit in our midst.
I liked them both and that old school lady and her dear husband
enriched my life on those Friday afternoon visits at their home west
of town in my early years in Chetek. But personally my agenda became
how to nudge sacred cows like tongues and prophecy out to pasture –
or at least to a pasture that was not visited on Sunday morning. I
never spoke out against them but people who were close to me knew
that I had issues when either or both or people of their ilk did
something to disrupt the service I had planned.
Sometime during 1993, however, I struck up a friendship
with a pastor from Cumberland and we began to meet regularly for
prayer and fellowship. Kent pastored a fellowship size-wise much like
CFGT but his background was very different than mine. Unlike me, he
had lots of experience with manifestations of the Spirit –
prophecy, deliverance, healing and the like. In fact, what so
endeared him to me is that here was guy who I could relate to, who
laughed at some of the silly things unique to our Pentecostal
tradition, but made the life of the Spirit sound so...well...normal.
So in the fall of 1993 when he invited me over on a Sunday night for
a series of revival meetings his fellowship was hosting, I went. I
had no idea what was in store for me nor how pivotal that night would
become in my personal journey as well in the life of our
congregation.
There were about sixty people present and after a few
songs, Kent introduced the speaker – Robert Fisher – who though
from the States had spent a lot of time in South Africa and so there
was at times a slight Afrikaaner lilt to his accent. He was a lanky
guy dressed in a sharp suit but he looked like he was here to make
hay. After he stepped into the pulpit he didn't attempt any small
talk or share a humorous anecdote to endear himself to the audience.
No, as I recall it, he went right for the jugular. “You think
you're hungry for God?” I recall him asking rhetorically, “Well,
you're not and here's why.” In the span of fifteen minutes he
shared whatever message he was going to share in John-the-Baptist
fashion. And then he invited anyone who wanted to come forward to
respond to his message to do just that. After giving us a dressing
down like he did, I didn't think he would get many takers – if any.
It was like this but even more bodies |
Across
the aisle from me was a heavy-set lady who was quietly crying. She
got up and using a pair of crutches hobbled her way forward to Mr.
Fisher. He didn't lay his hands on her or touch her in any way. He
just leaned in and prayed this prayer: “Fill her, LORD!” And in
short order she fell backwards. Fortunately, there were two guys on
hand who obviously had been cued in to expect this very thing.
Honestly, my initial response was to inwardly smirk at this display
but it wasn't my place and she was, after all, a woman (I never
attended a Woman's Aglow meeting during my years in Chicago but I had
been told that this was a very common experience in that circle).
After she had been laying there for a few moments, she stopped
crying, was quiet and then, began to giggle. Meanwhile Robert was
busily praying for others in the same manner he had prayed for her
who, by this time, had ceased giggling and was now heartily laughing.
Just like her, people were falling over left and right and the front
of the sanctuary was beginning to pile up with prone people all of
whom were laughing. That first woman was laughing so hard now that
she was actually rolling on the carpeted floor. And at that moment I
finally got where the term holy
roller
came from and thought, “Oh, no...now I'm in for it!” From simply
a sensory point of view, the night got sillier and sillier what with
all the falling, laughing, rolling, guffawing and other antics going
on. But inside of me I wasn't feeling creepy as in “This is too
weird”; I was feeling joy. It felt
right.
I was like the guy on the right |
I'm
not exaggerating when I state that this meeting went on in just this
way for several hours. That lady who was the first to fall down
laughed uncontrollably for two hours. (I never saw her again but I
often have wondered if her gut ached terribly the next day for that
remarkable display of laughter). By 10:00 p.m. the sanctuary was full
of stricken people laying all over the place. What's more, the
original catchers had long since joined the people on the floor and
for the last 45 minutes or so I was the one doing the catching until
I became the last man standing at which point Robert looked at me and
said sternly, “What about you, brother? Do you want prayer?” To
say “No, I'm good” would not only not have been protocol it would
have been untrue. As much as my eyes were being offended by what I
perceived as some kind of mass emotional experience, I was willing to
be prayed for if only for the sake of receiving a taste of what
clearly many of them were experiencing. And so with a few wobbly
ushers to catch for me, he prayed, “Fill him, LORD!” and I, too,
joined everyone else on the carpet. The moment he prayed, I
experienced a gentle wave of, for lack of a better word, electricity
that began in the soles of my feet and moved steadily northward until
I released myself to fall back. I never lost consciousness. I did not
have an out-of-the-body experience. I was fully aware of my
surroundings. But when I finally picked myself up from the floor and
later after I said my goodbyes to Kent and Robert, all I know is that
I drove home very conscious of an incredible new-found passion for
Jesus. I just loved him like I hadn't in a very long time. On that
40-minute drive home I worshiped, spoke in tongues and enjoyed his
awesome presence like I hadn't since my first steps over ten years
before.
It
was a turning point for me, a seminal moment of change in philosophy.
I was so excited about what had happened I told Linda, Randy, who at
that time was serving as president of our board of trustees, and
Mary, my barber and fellow-member of a small prayer group that met on
Tuesdays and within two nights they joined me as I returned to
Cumberland for another evening of ministry with Robert. Following
this gathering, I told Randy I wanted to bring him to Chetek and with
his blessing within the
week,
Robert pulled up in his mammoth RV to camp-out on our lawn for a
Sunday thru Wednesday night ministry event. Few came after his
“go-for-the-throat” Sunday morning message – perhaps 15 to 20
each night – and those gatherings felt like he was breaking up hard
cement but stuff happened and a new dye was cast for CFGT and for
myself albeit in embryonic fashion.
People with issues like mine should read this |
In
that moment of lying prostrate before the Lord in that Cumberland
church, my love for Him had grown exponentially far more than all the
years of quiet times, devotional reading and studying had ever
accomplished. And while I lay there I also was cognizant that I had
not just been ignorant of spiritual things but willfully so which is
the greater sin. A few weeks later I confessed as much to our
Thursday night small group and then to the whole family on a Sunday
morning. As Job had recognized, I, too, had “spoke of things I did
not understand, things too wonderful for me to know...therefore I
despise myself and repent in dust and ashes” (Job 42:3,6). And from
that time on until the present there has been a growing sense of
wanting God regardless of what it does to the neatness of our Sunday
morning gathering or who may be scared off by that untidyness (and it
has scared others away). Early on, two books were very instrumental
in firming up that fledgling recommitment to the life of the Spirit –
The
Beauty of Spiritual Language
by author-pastor Jack Hayford and When
the Spirit Comes With Power
by psychologist John White. Both men whetted my appetite for more and
to not be satisfied with anything less than the supernaturally
natural life. It's a journey I'm still on all these years later
wanting maybe more than ever for the Holy Spirit to come in whatever
way he wants to.
A great read for those thirsty for more |
1 comment:
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