The congregation then sang from the Psalter Psalm 32 which begins, “O blessed is the man to whom is freely pardoned, All the transgression he hath done, whose sin is covered,” and ended in a long plagal cadence “Aaaaaaaahhhaaameeeeeeeeeeeeen.” By the end of the psalm, I felt awful. I felt so tired I could sleep.
That is when and old man in a nice suit walked to the lectern, bowed his head, and began to pray. He prayed for a long time before I ever started to listen to what he was saying. I was looking at the great arching roof beams climbing high over my head to the vast canopy of the sanctuary. I was looking at the ornamentations of the fixtures where two beams would cross in the ceiling when I realized the man was still praying. He prayed for the new member’s class for a while, and he prayed about the ice cream social. He prayed for the sermon, and that the hearts of the congregation would discern truth. He prayed for the congregation that was there, and for those who were sick or away. He prayed for the leaders of our nation and of many nations that would be seeking wisdom in how to handle affairs in Syria. He went on to talk about the nature of the offence, how children died in the streets. This is when I noticed that everyone around me had their eyes closed. I did not feel like closing my eyes. I wanted to watch what this old man was doing. He was standing perfectly upright. The only thing that bowed was his eyes, and the slightest inclination of his head. His hands fell naturally on the lectern. I was amazed at how still he was, and that his face expressed the conviction of one who was sure. He was sure that his words were drifting up, or where ever they go to become a fragrance in the courts of Heaven, in the presence of the LORD. He was talking as he would to someone he knew well, and for whom he had a trembling respect. He began to pray for the sick in the congregation. He called them by name. He mentioned a little girl who had the misfortune of having both parents grow deathly ill at the same time. I wondered what God would do for the little girl. He prayed for the moms, and the dads, and for the strength of the families. He prayed for Greenville. He prayed for the lost souls of Greenville, and for the physical needs. He prayed and he prayed, and I stared at the stain glass window with the words “Come unto me all who labor…” I felt very tired. A long time passed. I stopped listening to the old man pray. I looked dumbfounded at all the bowed heads around me. They were all praying, and if there was a God, their prayers were filling his Sanctuary. If there is a God, He was right next to each of them listening. If there was a God, He was changing the future for his love of them. I felt very tired. The old man stopped praying, and the congregation entoned, “AAAAaaaaaaaaaAAaaahhhahammmeeeeeeneeneennenenen.”
Then we stood and sang another hymn. I knew this hymn, and I sang out as loud as I could. The hymn ended in another long “Amen.”
The preaching pastor stood and preached for a long time. He had this massive voice that resonated rather than booming. He was a class act, and everything about the message had polish. He began by reading from Hebrews. He said:
“For if Joshua had given them rest, God would not have spoken of another day later on. So then, there remains a Sabbath rest for the people of God, for whoever has entered God’s rest has also rested from his works as God did from his.
Let us therefore strive to enter that rest so that no one may fall by the same sort of disobedience. For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, and piercing to the divisions of soul and spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart. And no creature is hidden from his sight, but all are naked and exposed to the eyes of him whom we must give account.
Since then we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin,” The pastor paused to look at everyone in the room,
“Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”
The pastor looked up from the text like he was swimming back to our realm, back from the words to the world of people with arm watches, cell phones, and dinner appointments. He said,
“The grass fades and the flower withers but the word of the Lord lasts forever and ever. Amen.” His voice reverberated off the rafters, and I was troubled. I felt weary. My exhaustion was enormous. I was hooked on every word this man said, and he said a lot.
I knew that this tiredness was a tiredness of the spirit, and that I was only feeling it now because what was happening here was a source of relief, the way a runner might feel very tired during the last hundred yards of a long run. I felt I might sink into the pew and get lost in the cushion. I felt I might liquefy. I felt I might turn to vapor and waft away, but the pastor was booming away about how we might enter the throne of Grace with confidence.
My head filled with my own thoughts. How could anyone enter the presence of God with confidence? The old man in the suit prayed with confidence, but was that the same? So what if it was? How could anyone enter with confidence what they did not know as there? Then I thought, wait. This can’t all be true. I’ve been a believer since I was nine, but I’m always surprised that I really do believe this Gospel message. I’m always arguing against Thomas Aquinas in my mind, thinking the tenants of Christianity and the portents of reason cannot work together seamlessly. I want to hear Thomas Aquinas say “To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without faith, no explanation is possible,” and I want to bap him in the face for saying it. I want to find A. W. Tozer as he scribbles, “Any faith that must be supported by the evidence of the senses is not real faith,” and I want to scream at him and say, “So sue me!” I know what it is to know in my guts and nowhere else, but I am forever afraid of being taken in by something that seems too good to be true. This rest, this ‘come unto me all who labor and I will give you rest’ kind of rest, seemed just too wonderful to grasp for. I did not grasp for it. I thought, “Dear God, if you are not real, have the good heart to tell us.”
Just then the pastor started to read from Ezekiel. He made a few snarky comments about baptism and sprinkling, then he read, “Then I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you will be clean; I will cleanse you from all your filthiness and from all your idols. Moreover, I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; and I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh. I will put my Spirit within you and cause you to walk in my statutes, and you will be carful to observe my ordinances…”
Something in me gave way. I started to pray, and ask a lot of questions about rest. I wanted to know why I should have to strive to enter into rest. I wanted to know why I couldn’t just have it, and what it cost. I wanted to know why I did not have it, since the stain glass window Jesus was offering rest, and I had gone to him at age 9. Why was that not enough? Why did the eternal rest always end, and this was accepted by those who really believed. Did the woman at the well feel jipped two hours later when she got thirsty again? How did she feel when Jesus left the city, and left her there? I wanted to know how much I had to come to Jesus to have rest, and what exactly coming to him was. Was it a state of mind? Was it like seeking Zen or whatever? Was it a matter of right conduct, and if so, wasn’t all that garbage about grace really just garbage? I felt like the answer to all of these questions had to do with something obvious I was omitting from myself, and that I would admit it later, sorrowfully, and come crying back to God. I would, but where would I run. I wasn’t ready for that yet. I had some unformed question that needed answering just on the tip of my tongue. I whispered, “I believe, please help my unbelief.”I was willing to haggle with God over rest. I wondered how likely it was that an object of infinite density and zero volume could have ever existed. I wondered what type of catalyst it would take to make such a thing explode at 100 billion Kelvin. I wondered if the Universe really was homogeneous and isotopic. I wondered if dark matter was just a cheeky way to make a hypothesis correct when the math didn’t add up. I wondered how any of that explained the human psychological makeup; personality. I wondered if I could ever just feel ok. I was tired. I was just very, very tired.
The sermon ended. We sang another hymn. There was another long amen. The preacher man blessed us all in the name of Christ Jesus. I took the hand of the nicest, most lovely woman in the world, and started toward the staircase when a man (we’ll call him Jack) held out his hand and said,
“Hi, I’m Jack.”
We shook hands.
He was a young man of almost 30. He was dressed in a blue suit with a blue and yellow bow tie. He had a big grin, and big bright eyes. He was talking very loudly and the greaser swoop of his hair, with his cleanly shaved face gave him away as clergy, new clergy. He introduced his wife who was holding an infant, and asked me my name and the name of the gorgeous woman by my side. He asked us if this was our first time visiting. Our time at Church was not over.
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