"i prefer not to"

On Easter morning of 2004 Jerry insisted I get up and dress nicely for a church service. We hadn't made firm plans, but most years this was the familiar price I paid for a family Passover. I reluctantly gave up my lazy Sunday morning in bed and kept my disappointment to myself as we dressed and drove to church. Like Melville's Bartleby character, I preferred not to, but unlike Bartleby, I did it anyway.

The church was in a huge modern building in a middle class area of Novato. It was filled with friendly looking families of all races, many moving their bodies to the music of the band, or raising their hands like children asking to be carried.

We arrived late, as we always did, since we never planned ahead to know when the services started. I was there to support my husband and his needs, and had no reason to make eye contact with anyone. As a Jew I felt like I was in enemy territory. I knew that these places just want to sign you up and reel you in with a hard sell, so I was very circumspect. It would be over soon and then we could go to Orchard Supply Hardware to get some supplies for a little remodel we were doing. I could also look forward to a nice lunch out somewhere. Maybe an Italian place with outdoor seating, since the weather was so nice. Also I liked having a chance to wear that cute little new strapless dress with the handkerchief pattern.

uncomfortable uncontrollable

Something about church always made me cry. Whenever I sat through an Easter service, in spite of my reluctance to be there I could not resist the tears that overwhelmed me. The mention of the word Jesus was excruciating for me and yet I was clearly moved by I knew not what power. But moved where and what for? I didn't care to know. Whenever I sat in church I felt a leaden weight on my chest, as though something were pressing down on me with a stifling insistence. I hated the experience and as it became more and more predictable I came to dread going to church. I didn’t know what was going on inside of me, but I knew I didn’t like it.

On this Easter we seated ourselves in the pews and as usual the heavy pressure started its work on my chest. I wished I could just run out of there to breathe. I noticed ahead of me a black grandma was holding a white baby and by chance on the other side of the room a white grandma was holding a black baby. I began my reluctant weeping, as usual. I made a mental note to hit the rest room and redo my eye make-up on my way out.

the artist's dare

Toward the end of the service the pastor asked us to close our eyes and have a private moment with God. He suggested gently that those people present who hadn’t accepted Jesus as their savior invite him into their hearts. This was the part I dreaded. I rolled my eyes, mumbling exasperated, “Here we go again.”

I had reached this moment so many times before. I knew that it would pass and I would be able to leave and get away from the nagging and pulling and crying and stifle that caused such unrest in me. But on this day a thought came that felt like an artist’s dare. “Why not try something different this time?” Because as your daughter I don’t back down from a challenge and because I was sick of the years of sameness, I took the dare and did something I'd never done before. I closed my eyes and like a child that's being made to apologize, through gritted teeth I quietly eked out the words, “Jesus, I invite you into my heart.”

All at once the heavens opened above me and a drenching flood of sweet honey light poured through my body. I was one who believed nothing unless it was confirmed by personal experience. In that moment I was graced with an undeniable deeply personal experience of the entry of the Messiah into my heart. I stood in the flood and was born as a new person in that moment, though I understood little of what that meant. The tears flowed uncontrollably for hours, for days I cried and cried and cried.

You can stand under a waterfall and say, “I choose to believe that I am dry.” But it won’t be true. The water speaks with more authority than what you choose to believe. This divine drenching that I received spoke more powerfully than my wishes to not believe. Y'shua ha'Mashiach, Jesus the Messiah chose to believe in me, not the other way around.