For four years I was an Assemblies of God minister and a monk with the Brothers and Sisters of Charity at the Little Portion Hermitage. This is an excerpt from an unpublished book I’ve written called Taking Off My Comfortable Clothes.
Every Friday evening, the community gathered in the chapel at the Little Portion for a half hour of silent prayer and meditation. At the appointed time, we would enter the candle-lit chapel, find a place to sit, and silently talk with God. Occasionally, you would hear the sound of slow, heavy breathing in the chapel – that unmistakable indication that one of the saints is taking a short siesta. But for the most part, everyone was engaged in some type of silent prayer.
It was during these times—when I desired nothing more than to bask in the presence of God and simply be with the One who loved me to death—that unsavory images from my past or arguments I’ve had with people would come screaming into my head. Here I am trying to meditate upon God, and an image of girl I once dated (and shouldn’t have) explodes upon my imagination. Now, instead of hoping to catch a glimpse of God’s glory, I have Victoria’s Secret dancing in my head. What’s a monk to do?
A few years ago, a church I attended in Arkansas hosted a Thanksgiving service, which served to raise money for the ministerial alliance. The alliance asked our church to lead in the praise and worship, and I played the piano on the worship team. Looking over the congregation, I noted a pastor from another church who, no matter what we sang, refused to either clap his hands or raise them in worship. He simply sat in his pew with his arms folded. That struck me as strange, because outside of church he was a happy, vivacious, demonstrative man.
I like the honesty of King David. Up until verse sixteen of Psalm 139, David is contemplating ways he could hide from God. (I’ve done that – I just don’t readily admit it.)
I’ve been around Christians and Christianity for thirty-five years now. I’ve been associated with Baptist, Pentecostal, Catholic and non-denominational organizations and churches. I’ve seen mysterious, authentic movements of God’s Spirit that have transformed people’s lives, and had conversations with pseudo-religious nuts who proclaimed they were the only ones who held true to “The One True Faith.” It’s been a wild ride.
Perhaps the best-known passage that shows us the servant heart of Jesus is John 13, where we see our Lord and Savior, the creator through whom God made the universe, washing feet.
Perhaps it is just me, but I don’t think the believers in Acts 2 were very surprised when the wind blew and shook the upper room when the disciples gathered for prayer and worship. Jesus said, “For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them” (Matt. 18:20). Would you really expect God to enter a room and not make just a little bit of noise? When God arrives, change is in the air.
In chapter 4 of Revelation, the Apostle John has a vision of the throne in heaven. He sees one sitting on the throne with the “appearance of jasper and carnelian. A rainbow, resembling and emerald, encircled the throne” (vs.3). I’m not exactly sure what jasper and carnelian look like (they are colorful types of quartz), and I’m not sure how to envision a rainbow that looks like an emerald, but I think that is the point. Our minds cannot comprehend the beauty and magnificence of the throne while we remain on the earth side of heaven. But then, who is to say we’ll be able to wrap our minds around it when we finally see it?
Cherubim, like us, are created beings. They are not all powerful and all knowing, but they do pre-exist mankind. Although most of us think of cherubim as supernatural angelic beings covered with eyes and having four faces, who protect the throne of God and may even have tremendous power, there is one thing we have that they do not: an experience of the saving mercy and grace of Jesus.
Look at that picture. Yep, that’s me. “Pastor” Jim Thornber. Even though I see the title, I truly do not comprehend the immensity of it all.
Blaise Pascal said, “We must learn our limits. We are all something, but none of us are everything.” Or, as that wise 20th century philosopher Harry Callahan (Clint Eastwood) said in the movie Magnum Force, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”
I had an interesting conversation this summer with a man at a church picnic. Because I had never met him, at first glance I thought he was going through chemotherapy. He wore a knit cap in ninety-degree weather, had no hair on his arms, legs or face, and had penciled in his eyebrows. Only after I sat across from him at lunch did I understand the situation.
