So now it's real: I am on Sabbatical leave officially June 1

Yesterday at Refuge we went "public" on the decision that the Leadership Team had agreed upon in principle a year ago and reaffirmed in January: to send their pastor on Sabbatical leave the Summer of 2010. While we have been slowly letting the air out of the bag, as it were, for some time - after all, most of our leaders have spouses, some have kids and most of the pastors I pray and generally hobnob with are all in the know - when you announce it from the pulpit its official. It's no longer an idea or a dream. It's for real.

Seven weeks from now, I am officially off line. I will have no office hours to keep, no services to conduct, no meetings to attend. Pastorally speaking, I will be unavailable. After 18 and a half years of faithful plodding, my field will lay fallow. Am I excited? Frankly, as I type these sentences I'm getting a little weirded out. For almost 30 years I have either dreamed about being in ministry, looking for a post in it or been busy working at it that I can't recall what consumed my time before all this. Obviously, I'm not leaving the ministry. It's more like a pause - and a healthy one at that - before the next chapter. But it's the pause that's got me spooked a bit and for all kinds of reasons.

What will I do with my time? Yes, there's yard work - mine and the others whom I cut for, the trim on the house needs painting and other odds and ends Linda will find me for me to tend to. Sure, I'll spend a lot more time with my wife and kids (but having hinted all these years that they would love my company more, they may find out that too much of a thing may not be good!) And I'll hike. And run. And read. And sit in the sun. But that still leaves a lot of time in my day and week.

With whom will I fellowship with? Some of my most significant conversations over the years involve people from Refuge or the Breakfast Club or The Well as we try to discern the Lord's will on a particular matter. But now I must withdraw from all these relationships for a season. I'm such a people person that the thought of having to go into seclusion of sorts scares me.

How will they do without me? A lot can happen in three months. In a real way, this pause is a referendum on how well I'm doing at the task God has called me to do: to raise and nurture healthy Kingdom leaders to carry on ministry. I believe in the people it is my joy to serve with but in my absence will they sink or swim? Which inevitably leads me to another question...

What if they do so well without me that they won't want me back? What if I'm the "x" factor that is holding them down and now while I'm away they soar? I realize this is what I'm supposed to be preparing them for. But I'm human enough to admit I like the feel of being, er, indispensable.

Who am I? As every man can testify to, we draw our identity from what we do. Around here, I'm "Pastor Jeff." "Everyone" knows me and frankly, I love that. But if I go down State to attend, say, the fellowship we were originally from, I'm just a guy with no position, no job, no task to perform. I'll be a man who takes his family to worship with the other saints in a given locale. I'll sing and pray and listen to the pastor preach, shake a few hands, perhaps, and then go home. I can imagine one week of that. But 13? Oi veh.

I suppose I'm not sounding like a man who is thrilled that he is in fellowship with a group of people who love him and his family so much they are willing to bless him with such a gift so that "when I return I will strengthen my brothers." I am grateful. Extremely so. But I'm also melancholy because for the first time since the fall of 1991, I won't be at Vacation Bible School nor at Sand Hill Lake Bible Camp. I will miss the fellowship of The Breakfast Club. I will miss "my" tribe and the place I have among them.

I think they'll do fine. It's me that I'm worried about. But if I am sincere in believing that the Lord led us to this decision than I must believe that he will be faithful to shepherd them and us through this particular season. Lord, in Your mercy, hear my prayer.

My Soul Sings: A Post-Easter Meditation

Yesterday was Easter. It was a good day but then again, why shouldn't it be? Resurrection Sunday (as we at Refuge refer to the day)brings people to worship gatherings who haven't been "in church" since Christmas. Many people dress up for the day and sport new dresses and shoes or suits. At fellowships everywhere it's like "old home" week as siblings, some-time prodigals and assorted relatives make their way to their old spiritual stomping grounds if only for family's sake if for no other. There is excitement in the air of family feasts and get togethers that will follow the morning religious activities. Worship - or the worship experience - is "better." At some gatherings there are special numbers. Or maybe the choir presents their cantata. Most pastors preach a message pertaining to...well...Easter and Christ's victory over death. Sanctuaries are fuller. (Sometimes offerings are, too). Faith is greater (especially if the sun is shining). And all these things coalesce and make preaching much more anointed.

But for me, the best part of yesterday's worship gathering came in the last five or so minutes. The Word had been preached, worship and prayer had taken us to the table of the Lord, Communion had been shared. And then Kale, our worship leader, led us in one more song ("Jesus is the Lord" by Robert Fuller and James Mark Gulley).

Jesus Christ crucified
You bled and died to save our lives
Giver of boundless love
Faithful One to You we run

Our fellowship loves this song and so very quickly I sensed that subtle but very perceptible shift from singing along to worship. Though the hour was late, spirits who had been quietly steeping in the presence of the Lord for the last two hours began to swell as the song moved through their souls. But then another shift occurred more subtle and yet distinctly perceptible because it seemed to me suddenly we were not just having an anointed worship experience but we're enveloped in a song that grew longer, wider, fuller. The worship team singers began to weave their own harmonies around Kale's melody and though their voices remained at the same timbre, the sound became richer.

Every knee will bow, every tongue will shout
Jesus is the Lord
Jesus is the Lord
Every eye will see the coming of the King
Jesus is the Lord
Jesus is the Lord

It was as if the uber-thin veil that separates us from the heavenlies was pulled back a tab and for the briefest of moments we joined the worship set presently going on there. And in my spirit I "heard" the words of John once again:

After this I looked and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people, and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. And they cried out in a loud voice:
Salvation belongs to our God,
who sits on the throne,
and to the Lamb.
All the angels were standing around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures. They fell down on their faces before the throne and worshiped God, saying:
Amen!
Praise and glory
and wisdom and thanks and honor
and power and strength
be to our God for ever and ever.
Amen!
(Revelation 7:1-12)

There was nothing "out of the body" going on. But our spirits in touch with God's Spirit were relishing in the moment, reveling in the song of heaven that for shortest of spans filled a room and a people.

I'd like to think I'm a spiritual man. I love the Lord Jesus, his Word and his ways. But I have a difficult time grasping a verse like Revelation 4:8 referring to the four living creatures around the throne who "day and night" never stop saying "Holy, holy, holy" or the uncounted choir of angels who sing for ever before the throne "Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain" (Rev 5:12). Who hasn't thought at one time or another of the incessant worship that goes on in the heavens with a little bit of consternation (i.e., "IS THAT ALL WE'RE GOING TO DO THERE?") But a few minutes on a Sunday morning enveloped in the music of the place where He is reminds me that when we're there it will be more wonderful than words can articulate. In fact, there is no real good vocabulary known to man to best express what our spirits already know.

Son of Man, Great I AM
Healing power is in Your hands
Risen One, it is done
Sin and death are overcome

You’re worthy of worship You’re worthy of praise
You’re worthy of honor You’re worthy of thanks

"What does this mean?"

When it comes to evaluating spiritual experiences that are noted within the covers of the Bible, it's easy to forget that we read about them from the comfortable vantage point of history and canonical endorsement. In other words, they may appear strange (e.g., Ezekiel laying on his side before his model of Jerusalem)or downright odd (tell me Hosea marrying a girl from the red light district isn't odd), but Wise People Who Know Things tell us that these actions were acts of God and therefore not just strange but true. But we've read about them enough by now that they're not as strange as they once seemed to our ears. Mostly because we were not there...and we know, after all, the rest of the story.

So when "signs and wonders" happen in real-time, in our own sanctuary or city, then we are in the same soup as Ezekiel or the Apostles on the Day of Pentecost. Some are wowed. Some mock. But most don't have the foggiest idea of what is going on. Recently, I was reminded of this very thing at a regular gathering of the youth fellowship that meets on Wednesday night in our sanctuary.

It was another night at The Focus. The kids had gone around the circle and shared some of the high-lites of their week. Joe - our youth leader - facilitated a lengthy discussion that began as a response to a message they had listened to the week before on "dating." As these things go, over the course of 40 minutes we touched on issues of purity, dress, and all things relating to how our actions influence members of the opposite sex. It was fun and real and yet serious, too.

Following the discussion, as Focus is wont to do these things, they turned the lights down low and worship began. Kayla, a very prophetic young woman in her own right, was burdened to pray for a pressing need in Morocco where many of us have friends there. She and her brother, Noah, knelt down by a chair and began to pray in earnest. It was something about Kayla's demeanor, however, that caused me to think that perhaps I ought to go and pray over her. Soon several of the kids joined me and we either stood or knelt by these two as they interceded for Morocco. And then things began to morph before me. Kayla was becoming more agitated...not just in her words but her body language as well. Her breathing increased rapidly as did the volume of her voice. I continued to watch and pray in my prayer language while at the same time asking the Father what was going on. As emotional as she was becoming, it didn't feel emotional (if that makes any sense). And then she screamed for the first time. It wasn't a "come-out-in-the-name-of-Jesus"-type scream as you might hear from someone being exorcised. At that first scream, I knew then what was going on for I have heard that scream before on at least four occasions. Kayla was in labor. She was "pregnant" but not with any human child. She was in the process of giving birth to something in the Spirit.

For the next half hour this continued. Kayla was having regular "contractions" that were increasing in intensity as "the child" was entering the birth canal (okay, these are totally human terms that I'm using in trying to describe what I witnessed but hopefully you get the drift.) During the course of her ordeal she had even assumed the position in order to give birth. Nicole, a mom and a woman who helps us on Wednesday nights, and Sarah, one of the other students, were on each side of her assisting her. Having said all this, however, Kayla was not "out of it" because in between "contractions" she would coach us - "Okay, guys pray for Noah! Girls, pray over me!" and the like. Finally, after an extended period, "the baby" was born (complete with afterbirth a few minutes later - really!)

But it didn't end there. Because then the focus moved to Noah. As a few of the guys had continued to pray for him, the Holy Spirit's presence on him seemed to increase. But after the baby was born, he assumed a crouched position and began to stomp the floor with his right foot over and over again. Ed seemed intuitively to know what to do and began exhorting him to stamp harder. Meanwhile, Kayla was off the floor and she and several of the girls who had been praying over her began to dance in a circle around Noah and Ed while the drummer drummed out a war beat on the djimbae. As the girls danced faster, Noah pounded stronger. The whole thing reminded me of dying Elisha's encouragement to King Jehoash to strike the ground with the arrows from his quiver (see 2 Kings 13). This went on for perhaps 10 minutes until the Spirit seemed to lift from us as if the work was completed.

On the Day of Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descended upon the disciples in the Upper Room, what happened in those wild and woolly moments that followed was enough to offend the mind of more than a few who were witnessing this strange display of glossolalia. "They're drunk" is the conclusion of some who were eyewitnesses. Peterson translates verse 12 in this way: "Their heads were spinning; they couldn't make head or tail of any of it. They talked back and forth, confused: 'What's going on here?'" (Msg). It's probably the most honest thing we can ask when such strange things occur: "What does this mean?" (Acts 2:12) After all, what is a "sign and a wonder" but something that makes us wonder?

Which church out there doesn't make a habit of inviting the Lord's Presence at the onset of their worship service? The traditionalists even put in their bulletin: Invocation. But do any of us have a clue of what we're asking? Poet laureate Annie Dillard once wrote:

On the whole, I do not find Christians outside of the
catacombs, sufficiently sensible of conditions. Does
anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so
blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe
a word of it? The churches are children playing on the
floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of
TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear
ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should
all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life
preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to
our pews. For the sleeping god (sic) may wake someday
and take offense, or the waking god (sic) may draw us
out to where we can never return.
Quoted by Guy Chevreau in Catch the Fire, pg. 2

I don't know what she means by her words but I know how I hear them. It means - in short - be careful of what you wish for ("Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down, that the mountains would tremble before you!" Is 64:1 - talk about strong medicine!) you may get it. And that may mean that a nice, pleasant Sunday morning is overturned by an angry Jesus overturning tables in the meeting place or a virgin daughter at the altar giving birth to a baby conceived by the Holy Spirit. Like most people when these things happen - if they happen at all - we probably will find ourselves "amazed and perplexed" asking one another "What does this mean?" (Acts 2:12, NIV)

A Taste of Grace

Last night in Chetek was the Ralph Dewey Memorial Concert. It’s the concert held every March featuring the talents of both the vocal and instrumental groups in our school. All the proceeds help send aspiring students to music camps every summer.

My two youngest children, Ed and Emma, are in a variety of musical groups in both departments. God has deposited within them talent that, at least around here, is recognized and appreciated. But last night the hundred or so who gathered in the “small” gym at Chetek HS experienced more than just a musical exposition. We were given a taste of grace. It came on us unawares and so suddenly that it quite literally took our breath away.

Midway through the program, Emma and two of her friends, all freshman, performed “You Raise Me Up” by Josh Groban. The girls began to sing and all of us were listening politely and encouragingly. But then their song took us by force. Such sound was emanating from these young women. A sound of such beauty and strength. Tears were streaming down many a face. The alto in the group especially was moving and I leaned in attempting to discern who was singing this part. And then I realized in an instant it was my daughter, my daughter singing with the sound of an angel. She may be only 14 years old but already I have great admiration for her. She is a very confident, intelligent, talented and beautiful young woman. But listening to her sing last night I was overcome with my sinfulness and God’s goodness toward me that he would grant such a wonderful individual to father and to care for. I know I do not deserve such goodness. How could a voice so pure come from someone fathered by me?

I’m fully serious. I’m not just carrying on as you would expect a father to do. In fact, as I type this short reminiscence I tear up still touched by that wonderful, awesome moment of grace we all experienced in that high school gym. It wasn’t the words (as inspiring as the words to that song are). It was the sound – the sound of heaven blessing us whether we were worthy of the blessing or not (and most of us are not).

And then this morning, another blessing occurred. Suzy Favor Hamilton, winner of multiple awards at the high school, collegiate and professional level and three time Olympian, visited our small town. She and fellow Madison-athlete Casey Fitzrandolf (a 2002 Gold medalist himself) were in town promoting healthy living and fitness. Apparently before she speaks, she likes to work out for awhile and so an invitation to run with her was extended to anyone who cared to. Of course, Ed volunteered to do just this along with perhaps 8 of his classmates. And so on a beautiful Tuesday morning, they gathered by the track and Coach Knicker turned to Ed and said, “Okay, Ed, lead ‘em out.” And, with Suzy at his side and the rest all around her, they took off for the short trail behind the school. For the next 30 minutes or so she schooled them. Her energy was palpable and her humor was infectious. This, too, was a taste of grace.

It’s not every day you get to run with an Olympian and – if only for a brief time – have her as your personal trainer. It’s not every day you get to take the stage and be heaven’s amplifier to announce to all who would hear it that God is good and he means our good. But in a span of 12 short hours I had a taste of grace that humbles completely and fills me anew with a sense of awe all over again at his love extended to someone like me.

This is my story

Recently, we finished reading Through Gates of Splendor by Elisabeth Elliott in our weekday family reading time. It’s the story of the five missionaries and their wives – Jim and Elisabeth Elliott, Nate and Marj Saint, Pete and Olive Flemming, Ed and Marilou McCully, and Roger and Barbara Youderian – who moved to the wilds of Ecuador in the 1950s pursuing God’s call on their lives. If you’ve seen the movie The End of the Spear, you know that the men were killed on a Sunday in January in 1956 at the hands of the very people they had come to serve, martyred for the sake of the Gospel. Their deaths became a national news story and captured the hearts of many who heard it. Our copy happens to be the 25th Anniversary edition which includes an epilogue written by Elliott in 1981. In it she writes:

“Although the pathway of my life has taken many unimaginable turns
since I wrote this (my first) book, I have not been allowed to forget
the story. I would not have wanted to forget it, but there have been
times when I have wondered if others might. Perhaps they have tired
of it. Should I continue the retelling as I am so often asked to do?
I spoke of my misgivings to Miss Corrie ten Boom who, as an old lady
indefatigably traveled the world to tell her own story over and over
again, of her family's providing refuge to Jews in Holland during
World War II, of their being betrayed and imprisoned in a concentration
camp,and of the death of her sister and aged father as a result.
‘Sometimes,’ she told me, ‘I have said, “Lord, I must have something
fresh. I cannot go on telling the old story.” But the Lord said to me,
“This is the story I gave you. You tell that one.”’ So Corrie encouraged
me to go on telling mine.”

We all have a story that’s been given to us to share. To our own ears and to others it may not sound overly dramatic and even worth sharing. I mean, my own story is fairly pedestrian as tales go. No drug abuse. No lewd sex. No time behind bars. No, I was just a kid raised in a church who one day, in the middle of a conversation, realized he did not know God and asked simply to be introduced. A “non-event” by the standard measure. And yet it sufficed and propelled me into the vocation I am now in – a man who is determined to spend the rest of his life telling the best Story ever told.

The problem is our perspective. We are always captivated by the famous, the glamorous, the infamous, those who stumble upon the prized “15 minutes of fame” (think, “Joe the Plumber”). We do not comprehend that we are prone to look at things through the wrong end of the telescope. It makes me think of C.S. Lewis’ protagonist in The Great Divorce who while on his journey through the borderlands of heaven, encounters a parade of sorts of someone whom he surmises must have been someone famous here on earth.

‘It’s someone ye’ll never have heard of [his guide informs him].
Her name on earth was Sarah Smith and she lived at Golders Green.’”

“ ‘She seems to be…well, a person of particular importance?’”

“ ‘Aye. She is one of the great ones. Ye have heard that fame in
this country and fame on earth are two quite different things.’”

We are forever making judgments about others and about ourselves, about our significance or lack thereof. In most of us I would guess that this is a healthy dose of modesty at work. But as Paul once said about his own detractors:

“It matters very little to me what you think of me, even less where I rank in popular opinion. I don't even rank myself. Comparisons
in these matters are pointless. I'm not aware of anything that
would disqualify me from being a good guide for you, but that doesn't
mean much. The Master makes that judgment.”

So don't get ahead of the Master and jump to conclusions with
your judgments before all the evidence is in. When he comes,
he will bring out in the open and place in evidence all kinds of
things we never even dreamed of—inner motives and purposes and
prayers. Only then will any one of us get to hear the "Well done!"
of God.”
1 Corinthians 4:3-5 (Msg)

We all have but one story to tell – our own. “By the grace of God,” Paul said later in the same letter, “I am what I am” (1 Corinthians 15:10, NIV). And so as lame as my own story seems to me – and probably to others as well – I guess it’s not mine to judge. So until I see rightly, which won’t be this side of heaven, I’ll continue to sing one of my favorite Fanny Crosby hymns loudly and lustily:

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!
O what a foretaste of glory divine
Heir of salvation, purchase of God
Born of his Spirit, washed in his blood

This is my story
This is my song
Praising my Savior all the day long
This is my story
This is my song
Praising my Savior all the day long

This, too, is my son in whom I am well pleased...

I still remember the Friday of my first official week as pastor of the fellowship I now serve. We had moved to town on a Tuesday night and the next few days I spent setting up house and office as well as meeting with the leaders of our small congregation. But now it was Friday, the first “normal” day as Pastor of what was then Chetek Full Gospel Tabernacle. I had rose early, showered, donned suit and tie and drove the three blocks to church. After putting the coffee on, I read my Bible and spent some time in prayer. I looked at the clock. It was 6:30 a.m. Now what do I do?

I had no meetings to go to. I was not yet part of any volunteer organization in Chetek. I had no people to meet with (besides it was way too early). Other than sermon prep for Sunday, what in the world do I do with the rest of my day?

Thinking about that moment seventeen and a half years later I long for such a simpler time. Since then I’ve collected an odd assortment of assignments and titles that would fill a manila folder to overflowing:
• President or Secretary of the Chetek Christian Ministerial Association
• Member of the Lions Club
• President of the Facilities Improvement Committee (a local citizens group
that helped lead a school referendum initiative)
• President or Vice President of the Chetek Youth Center Project
(our local youth center)
• President or Vice President of Kinship of Chetek (a youth mentoring group)
• Ministerial liaison to the Chetek Food Shelf (our local food bank)
• President of the Barron County chapter of the Salvation Army
• Board member of the Chetek Food Shelf
• Volunteer chaplain at the Barron County Justice Center
• President of The Well International (a ministry to the local Somali
refugee population)
• Member of the citizens’ Task Force committee exploring the possibility of
Weyerhaeuser and Chetek school districts merging
• Great Books leader at Roselawn Elementary School
• Odyssey of the Mind coach
• President or other officer of the Chetek Parent Teacher Organization
• Plus I read weekly at our local elementary school to the tune of about 3 ½
hours per week
• To say nothing of the various tasks any pastor of a small church is
called upon to do whether he feels it or not including serving as
youth leader, Sunday School teacher, VBS Director, camp counselor,
worship leader and Bible study facilitator.
In retrospect, I did not have the maturity nor experience to appreciate what a wonderful moment in time that was back in the Fall of 1991 when early one Friday morning I had nothing to do…nothing to do but tend to the Word of God and prayer, something that Scripture says (at least) is my main job description.

Over time, I went from being the “new guy” to the “everything-pastor”. It was intentional – mostly. I mean, I had an interest in many of these things at the time that I became associated with them and felt like I was honoring God by my involvement in them. But seasons change – and we with the seasons. And long after the passion subsides all that’s left is dogged adherence to your original commitment. Which is an honorable and altogether right course of action (say) in marriage but can be such a life-draining thing when it comes to volunteer associations. But my reluctance to break my word or my fear of letting others down often keeps me – as a pastor – at a place of interior clutter most often reflected in the chaos that abides in my office.

About a month ago, Linda and I attended the College of Prayer held in Menomonie. Dr. Ron Walborn of Alliance Theological Seminary in Nyack, New York was teaching on physical healing. He was following his notes that he had distributed to us earlier about the healing ministry of Jesus and then made this comment: “Oh, incidentally, Jesus had his Father’s approval before he performed any healings or miracles.” It was an aside; a throw-away comment. But it struck home. I had just finished taking the kids at The Focus (the youth church that meets in our building) through Mark 1. And there it was: Jesus is baptized, the Holy Spirit comes upon him and the Father pronounces his blessing on him: “You are my Son whom I love; with you I am well pleased” (Mark 1:11). Turn back to Matthew’s Gospel and find this: “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased” (Matt. 3:17). Turn forward to Luke’s Gospel and the good doctor records it this way: “You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased” (Luke 3:22). Everything that he is known for – the wonderful teachings, the amazing healings, the awe-ful power encounters – all of it is found after the fact.

During the ministry time that followed, I knelt at my chair and tried to still myself before the Lord. One of the guys in my section came over and knelt beside me and began to pray for me. I shared with him how Dr. Walborn’s so-called ‘throw-away’ comment had hit me like a heat-seeking missile in search of acquisitioning a target. So he simply encouraged me to “pray into” that. Now, up until this moment I had not been feeling anything out of the ordinary. Many others in the room were expressing themselves freely but I was emotionally neutral. But as I began to pray, I had something of a vision – a vision that created an immediate emotional response in me.

It was my son, Charlie. Charlie is a great kid who is always willing to help me or Linda out at home. He has autism, a condition that only augments his natural shyness and makes him an enigma, at times, even to those who know him best. He doesn’t have a job description. While he helps out in the nursery when called upon, he doesn’t “do” anything at church. He has no assigned responsibilities. Like so many of the folks who make up the Refuge family, on Sundays he partakes of the shared worship experience and then goes home. So, here’s what I saw: it was simply a picture of Charlie walking up the steps of Refuge and the sight of him doing so moved me emotionally. And then I heard the words of the Father: “You are my dearly loved Son, and you bring me great joy” (Mark 1, NLT). Charlie doesn’t do anything to gain my approval. He just has it because he is my son. And quite unexpectedly I found myself weeping with the realization that maybe this is the same way that the Father looks at me. I don’t have to do a thing to have his approval. I don’t have to rack up a score card to impress him. I have his approval already whether or not people get saved or healed or delivered – even though it is my desire to see these very things.

It is very hard for me to say no to anyone as my resume clearly shows. And in that picture of my son I saw how much I remain bound to the fear of man, that fear that is common to many pastors. The vision, however, only accentuates my hunger to be free of the fear so that I may only be about the things He calls me to. And in tending to those things I suspect I’ll experience a sense of freedom like I knew once on a certain Friday morning back in October 1991. Except this time I’ll not feel guilty about it but enjoy the sheer pleasure of knowing Him.

Afterdim

I consider myself a Pentecostal in that I have experienced the baptism of the Holy Spirit and, among other things, I have been graced with spiritual language.

I pastor what some would call a Pentecostal fellowship in that many of its members have had the same experience.

And yet, when I pray for someone to receive the filling of the Holy Spirit, nothing “happens.” No shaking. No rolling. No laughter. No “joy unspeakable and full of glory”. Not so much of a “she-came-in-a-Honda/see-my-bow-tie-tie-my-bow-tie.” Usually when I pray for people in this way, judging by appearances I’d say it was (almost) a non-event.

So what is it with me?

Tonight was a good case in point. I’ve been sharing from Mark 1 lately with the students from The Focus, our Wednesday night youth church. Our text tonight was Mark 1:9-11 which reads,

“At this time, Jesus came from Nazareth in Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. The moment he came out of the water, he saw the sky split open and God's Spirit, looking like a dove, come down on him. Along with the Spirit, a voice: ‘You are my Son, chosen and marked by my love, pride of my life.’”

All the gospel writers put this event at the beginning of their story. In Mark’s case, it’s in the opening lines. Before the miracles, before the healings, before Lazarus shuffles out from the tomb, before all the amazing things that make up the stories of Jesus’ life, he is baptized in water and in the Spirit. If he, though fully God, as a man required Spirit baptism, what keeps the rest of us from submitting to the same? If to be a Christian is to walk as Jesus did and do what Jesus does, it is impossible without the Holy Spirit coming upon us. This was my message in abbreviated form.

After sharing, we tied in to our internet feed with the International House of Prayer in Kansas City, encouraged the kids to find a separate place in the sanctuary, dimmed the lights and asked them to turn to the One who longs to fill them afresh. After about twenty minutes or so, I made an invitation to any and all who were longing to be filled for the first time or in need of experiencing a fresh infilling, to come forward. Perhaps a quarter of those present did (and four of them were my own kids). I asked one of the youth leaders to join me and one by one we prayed over the perhaps 8 kids who were sitting in the provided chairs.

I sincerely was hoping that there would be some demonstration of the Spirit’s presence. Tongues. Tears. Joy. Laughter. Anything that would suggest that the Holy Spirit had come upon them but with the exception of one, it was the drill I have grown accustomed to in my ministry, which is to say nothing meeting the eye.

My theology prevents me from going home discouraged. After all, we seek Him not a feeling. And just because nothing seems to be going on doesn’t mean that nothing is going on. But every once in a while my faith needs a little bolstering. I mean, after all those first Christians prayed that God would stretch out his hand and show his stuff and the house they were in shook and they left boldly going where before they had been afraid to go.

I don’t think that’s asking too much. I don’t think I’m tasking the Lord when I ask him to show up if only to awaken the kids who didn’t seem so moved to sit in one of the chairs and in one case are fast asleep.

Maybe it’s me?