May 31, 2003 ~ Finding the Still, Small Voice
Saturday.
People who know me as I now am have a hard time believing that it all started in a Conservative Baptist church. They are further shocked when they learn that it was a collapsing in the pew, tears streaming down my face, coming to Jesus instant born again conversion experience. And they often reject outright that the faith that I came to that night is the same faith that I carry in my heart today. But, as strange as it may sound now, I found my faith in Montavilla Conservative Baptist Church (in Portland, Oregon) at around 8:00 p.m. on Friday, February 13, 1998.
My Jesus, my savior,
Lord, there is none like You.
When I was very young, my parents had brought me to an Episcopalian church, but, though I found some of the Bible stories interesting, none of it meant anything to me. By the time that I walked through the doors of Montavilla Baptist, I was a confirmed agnostic. God? A nice idea, but not something I was interested in, and I really didn't care whether such a thing existed.
All of my days, I want to praise
The wonders of Your mighty love.
My family was rather broken during my high school years, and I wanted a way out. I left home before I had finished high school and boarded in a room of the house of a very conservative Christian family. One of their rules for living in their house was that everyone was to go to their church. I was very wary of that arrangement, but I needed a place to stay. That first weekend after I moved in, there was to be a seminar at the church called "First Loved to Love" by a visiting Pastor, M a r k F e e. I agreed to attend.
My comfort, my shelter,
Tower of refuge and strength,
My first impression of Mark was that he was one of the most peaceful and seemingly compassionate people whom I had ever laid eyes on. I watched him as he talked about God's love, and I was impressed with both his passion and his composure. He was there. He was completely in that moment. After a few minutes of talking to introduce the theme of the seminar, he sat down at the piano and began to play gospel songs that the rest of the congregation seemed to be familiar with. Everyone was standing, some were swaying to the music, and some had their hands raised and eyes closed. But, not knowing the words, I just stood and watched Mark.
Let every breath, all that I am
Never cease to worship You.
His eyes were closed, his fingers moved across the keys, and he was singing his heart out, a wide smile across his lips. Bliss. His face was bliss. I realized that he was not just singing a song. He was singing a love song and singing it to his love.
Shout to the Lord, all the earth let us sing;
Power and majesty, praise to the King;
And the beauty of his happiness, the love pouring out of his very being to this thing, this God, this entity that I did not understand, suddenly just smacked me right in the gut. I couldn't feel my feet anymore, I collapsed back into the pew, and I realized that I was crying. Not just crying, but sobbing, rivers down my cheeks, great big heaving sobs that left my throat raw. I curled into the pew, loosing all sense of place, and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
Mountains bow down and the seas will roar
At the sound of Your name.
Faith is love? I had been broken so many times, and I felt that I was breaking again. Something inside had snapped; I could feel it; the walls that I had built up were crumbling down. My shell had cracked. Oh, to know that peace. I begged for that peace. I felt suddenly naked and vulnerable. I can't do this anymore, not alone. I didn't have all the answers after all.
I sing for joy at the work of Your hands.
Forever I'll love You, forever I'll stand.
I sat in that pew shaking as the sobs subsided. I could feel something new inside, a warmth, though not physical. A presence. A peace. A guiding sense. Really, there is no way to describe it. It's something I couldn't understand until I felt it.
Nothing compares to the promise I have in You.
Oh, Nothing compares to the promise I have in You.
The rest of the seminar was about accepting God's love and reflecting that love to others and to the world around you. It all felt right. I listened to Mark with rapt attention through all three days, fascinated by this man who had triggered one of the most powerful experiences of my life without even knowing it.
I have obviously traveled far, far away from that little Baptist church, both physically and spiritually, but that evening there was one of the most (if not the very most) defining moments of my life. The little Quaker meeting that I now occasionally attend is a far cry from a Conservative Baptist church, the bits of paganism and mysticism that have slowly worked their way into my belief system are most definitely not Baptist, and many of the church members there would most certainly shudder at my politics, but I must admit that it all started there.
The Quakers would probably say that on that night over five years ago, I had found the "still, small voice within." And I haven't stopped listening to it yet, and probably never will. It led me to Morgan across a continent, it has guided me though many hard decisions and rough patches, and it has been a comfort when all other comforts were long gone.
This entry is a collaboration for WordGoddess. "What event in your life do you feel deserves its own Memorial Day? (Excepting Birthdays and anniversaries)."
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