When the Saints...

Last Sunday was Pentecost.

That morning Hope, Lindsay, and I spent a good hour resting on the Wolcott’s front porch-- just pouring our hearts out to each other. As listened to hopes and fears of these sisters in Christ, the forlorn tendril of singularity that had wrapped itself around my heart these past months began to unwind.


Here were women who also longed to work in international ministry, but feared that in the time it’s taking us to get there we will become entrenched in the American lifestyle. They shared my consternation at frequently observing a lack of passion in the lives of those who claim to follow Christ. They related to my burning hunger to know God, my confusion over how exactly prayer works, and my struggle to not allow the very words of God become passé as I read the Bible once again.

Here in America we are so very rich, and I would like to think that it is with a purpose--- that we are somehow predestined to this position to make a global impact in these last days.

But as a culture we are so satiated by vain pursuits that we have lost a hunger for God and subsequently any sense of a Divine purpose for our lives. What makes me most angry is how easily I find myself standing among the congregation of Christians who have given up on ever having a closer relationship with the Spirit.

So many days I am the one living like the God of the Bible has vacated this planet. My small way of living does compute with my faith--- and the internal dissension hurts.

But for a moment last Sunday morning the dissonant pain in me found relief in hope. As we fellowshipped the breeze brew cool on our faces reminding us of the presence of the Holy Spirit. The Wolcott’s porch became a sanctuary from the too-busy-to-honor life I have created. Lindsay’s and Hope’s passion was the Spirit’s healing balm to my jaded heart.

The night after Lindsay and Hope had headed home I began to unpack the events of the day. We had been so aware of the Spirit’s presence. I had felt, for the first time in a long while, a connection to the Church--- the followers of Christ throughout the history and the world. I really sensed the Spirit telling me to “dare to believe that I am working through you and have kingdom purposes for your life.”

and God brought to my heart a song, When the Saints Come Marching In by Sara Groves. As I mouthed the lyrics to the melody in my head the last verse resonated in my soul,

I see the long quiet walk along the Underground Railroad
I see the slave awakening to the value of her soul

I see the young missionary and the angry spear
I see his family returning with no trace of fear

I see the long hard shadows of Calcutta nights
I see the sister standing by the dying man's side

I see the young girl huddled on the brothel floor
I see the man with a passion come and kicking down the door

I see the man of sorrows and his long troubled road
I see the world on his shoulders and my easy load

And when the Saints go marching in
I want to be one of them.

This is my family, my true community. The passionate fire that I sometimes feel should be tamed and hidden, is a mere flicker. I do dare to hope that I will see the Holy Spirit descend with consuming Pentecostal fire on my life, that I may know and shine the Glory of the Most High.