 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Trinity sermon, Page 2:
Touched by The Hand of God |
|
|
|
This session was led by, among others, the two black ladies from the Baptist church. It was a lively session. Near the end, we were asked to pray for guidance from the Holy Spirit, to guide us in the direction God intended for us to go. Now, you know how Episcopalians pray. Somebody says, �Let us pray,� and everybody folds their hands and bows their heads and prays quietly.
The Baptists aren�t like that.
They had us waving our hands to the heavens, asking the Holy Spirit to come among us. It was loud and boisterous and wasn't very "church-like," in my opinion. |
|
|
|
And then, suddenly, with no warning, everything was different. I don�t know that I can describe this, but the Holy Spirit was there in that room. Now, no one had flames over their heads like the disciples at Pentecost, there wasn�t a burning bush like Moses saw, but like Moses, I knew I was on Holy Ground. I can�t tell you how I knew I was in the presence of God, but I knew. God was there. I found myself standing, though I don�t remember getting out of my chair, and tears were streaming down my face.
The Old Testament tells us that after Moses came down from the mountain, his face glowed so brightly that he had to wear a veil because people couldn�t bear to look upon him. As far as I know, my face didn�t glow, but I could feel a heat coming from inside of me, even after the Amen was said. |
|
|
|
I looked around the room. No one else seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. Shakily, I sat down. Our next task was to write or draw what we believed we were being called to do. Now, I�m not an artist. Once a student asked me how to draw a rabbit, and I said, �Make a stick person with long ears.� I don�t draw. So I planned to write a little paragraph about I believed I was called to preach. But I was still a little shaky after my experience, so I doodled on the paper while I was gathering my thoughts. Then I looked down at my doodling. I--me, the person who doesn�t draw--had sketched an altar with a chalice and paten and a cross. I started to think that maybe the Holy Spirit had more in mind for me than just the occasional pulpit. |
|
|
|
I floated back to my room on a cloud. When I got into my room, I came down from that cloud in a hurry. I had a sermon to write! I sat down with my paper and pencil and�nothing. I had no thoughts. I had no ideas. I had no sermon.
I looked at my pencil, the same pencil that I had used to draw the Communion altar. That pencil wasn�t being very helpful now. In desperation, I prayed. (you might have thought I�d have considered that a little sooner, wouldn�t you?) I held out the pencil as some sort of peculiar offering, and prayed. I just kept repeating, �Lord, I have no words. Lord, I have no words. Give me the words you want me to say.� |
|
|
|
Finally, I decided I could at least write a nice introductory paragraph about what a lovely, informative weekend we�d had and how we�d all made lots of friends, yadda yadda yadda. I wrote. And I wrote. I stopped when my pencil started getting dull, and I looked over what I had written. Unbelievably, there were three pages of writing.
I had prayed for God to give me the words. And apparently He had, because the words I had written were not my own. Now, I don�t mean they were written in Aramaic or Greek, or that I couldn�t understand the words. I understood them. They were in my handwriting. I just knew they didn�t come out of my head. This sermon was unlike anything I ever wrote, before or since. It was kind of edgy. It seemed to poke fun at the Women of Vision program and the Episcopal Church in general. It talked about God�s purpose, but there were parts that could possibly offend some people. Certainly not the kind of sermon I would write. And I couldn�t possibly give it. Never. |
|
|
|
On the other hand, it was now one o�clock in the morning, and I didn�t have many alternatives. OK, I would sleep on it. I would wake up with a fresh perspective in the morning.
Morning came, and I prayed and read over the sermon. It still scared the heck out of me to even consider giving this sermon, but I realized that the Holy Spirit had given this to me as a gift, and that for some reason, this was the sermon I was supposed to give. |
|
|
|
I went to the chapel. A part of me wished for a sudden tornado or earthquake, anything to stop this service before it was my turn. Nothing big, just enough so the earth could open up and swallow me. But there was no tornado or earthquake, and soon the Gospel reading was over, and the celebrant nodded to me. I came up and stood in front of the people--there wasn�t even a pulpit to hide behind--and I started out. I was surprised to hear a few chuckles now and then. I also heard my Baptist friends, God bless �em, murmuring, �Praise God. Alleleulia.� At one point one of the ladies stood up and shouted. �Preach on, sister!� Oh, that wasn�t one of the Baptists. That was an Episcopal priest from Massachusetts. For some reason I couldn�t understand, people seemed to like this crazy sermon! When it was over, the celebrant said, �Thank you for saying all those things that needed to be said.� I wanted to ask, �Huh? What did I say?� |
|
|
|
Well, we said our goodbyes and headed off to our respective homes. I felt like standing on a rooftop and shouting to the heavens, but who could I tell about what happened to me, especially since I couldn�t even understand it myself? So, I went to talk to Mercy, my priest and I told her, �Mercy, I think I�m being called to be a priest.� I expected her to tell me to pray about it some more, or maybe to get some counseling for my obvious delusional disorder. Instead, she said, �Well, it�s about time! The people from the church keep talking to me about this, and we were just all waiting for you to figure it out!� |
|
|
|
 |
|
 |
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
To Page 3 |
|
|
To St. Mark's home |
|
|
|
To page 1 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|