I really enjoy plans. The actually planning aspect of plans could happily be delegated to somebody else, but I do so enjoy putting plans into a schedule and following through with them.
Accordingly, I dislike being spontaneous. It's erratic and there's no sense of reason. I can't control it.
That makes my decisions of the day a little shocking. I had coffee (I think I use the term "had coffee" as a generic "spent time in a public location" term. There was no coffee involved) with my friend Layden today. Near the end of our talk, he mentioned a conference happening tomorrow and told me I should come.
Next thing I knew, I was signed up.
So, this will probably be my last post for a few days, as I will be staying in Kansas with my buddy Steve and his family for this very Charismatic conference.
A year ago, I would have thrown a fit about going to anything related to the International House of Prayer (IHOP). I grew up Assemblies of God and, therefore, charismatic, but there was a massive break between myself and my church (I may have mentioned all this before, but I am going to again. Feel free to skip).
After a very, very long period of unhappiness and hurt, I left my church at the age of 17, and spent the next few years meandering from Catholic (there was a boy involved), Presbyterian (there was a boy involved), and Methodist (there was probably a boy involved).
Among other things, my AG church just stopped feeling real to me. I stopped believing in its sincerity, and I felt personally its inconsistency, though I'm sure my own wretched attitude didn't help my likability factor. I saw the way they rejected people I loved but weren't put together, favoritized and rewarded those who were, and seemed to make church a game of conversion and numbers.
So there was that, and my brother, who I regard (especially at that time) as my spiritual role model, wrote a series of blog posts admitting to the same things I already felt unsure about. To be very frank, hearing it from Jon especially really messed me up, even though he was writing in an attempt to salvage for himself pieces of our pentecostal upbringing.
I was bitter. And I held on to that bitterness for so so so long. I even wrote a paper in college about my disbelief in the practices of IHOP, specifically taught prophecy, or "prophecy rooms."
An awful fault of mine--and one I've been working for several years to alter--is the way, once I am deeply hurt, to cut off, throw in a box, and bury everything related to the issue at hand. All the good, all the bad. It's all thrown away to be remembered no more. I've done it so many times.
That means when I "threw away" my church, I threw away the Holy Spirit as well.
Those who grew up in non-Pentecostal churches wouldn't be able to fully understand the degree to which this would impact a person.
For those 17 years, the Holy Spirit's manifestations and that church were my life. I was there more than I wasn't there. All my major memories have to do with that church. I was throwing away an enormous part of my life and identity.
Even in my anger, though, I couldn't bring myself to a place of disbelief. I stopped praying in tongues, couldn't bring myself to lay hands or pray for anyone's healing, and never agreed to participate in any kind of spiritually led exhortation (prophecy).
But yet, something in me would erupt in anger if anyone spoke against those same gifts. I remember a particular day in Evangelical Theology class where an AG pastor was guest speaking and the girl in front of me attacked him and attacked him. I was mad with fury. But I couldn't defend him either.
The Holy Spirit in me, so hidden that I didn't remember it, was what called out telling me those attacks were wrong.
Still, I couldn't do it. Any of it.
I didn't return to the Charismatic church at all until I moved to Belfast. I wrote in support of it many blog posts ago, but it really, really bothered me at the same time. You can believe something is real but still not be able to reconcile yourself on a personal level what it looks like lived out.
Then one day, I finally understood.
All those pieces of Woodlake that broke my heart or rejected me. All those pieces that broke and rejected my best friend. All the ways I was let down, felt lied to, felt exploited by, Jesus wasn't in it. The Holy Spirit wasn't in it.
At the same time, there are things I have seen and heard and experienced which are not of this world. I have heard the voice of the Lord through the spirit language and translation of old, feeble men resound through the absolute silent sanctuary and felt the ripples of electric presence pulse through the air. I have spoken in my own spiritual language and known that what I was speaking was the truest form of my own soul. I have dreamt things that I couldn't possibly have known. I have seen healing.
That's where the Holy Spirit is.
When I got there with myself, to that place of recognizing and sorting the truth from the lies, everything changed for me. I felt like the prodigal son received back into his father's arms and home. So right. And the separation terribly long and unnecessary.
I'm still going to have moments of cynicism, thinking everything is a performance and disingenuous, but I'm never going to lose that integral part of myself again, that I know.
So, I am going to this conference. Time to spend playtime with my friends, experience Jesus with thousands of believers, and take a serious break from the monotonous, boring pattern of just trying to stay in the black with my emotional state. It's fun. Spontaneous. Different. And distraction from my circular thoughts.
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