Gabriel’s visit

Always, when I have been sent to humans with a message, I have had to begin by saying “Do not be afraid”.

This is logical. A human mind cannot make sense of what it perceives when an angel manifests. I am told the carbon-based brain says, “Wheels within wheels. Fire. Wings. Too many faces. Everywhere, eyes” and then simply shuts down. In the presence of the Holy, the Other, there is holy fear.

The girl was no exception. She was afraid. Not just afraid of me, but afraid of the message. For that, too, was beyond the human capacity to understand.

But this time I was afraid too.

The girl was just like other humans I had visited. A carefully calibrated matrix of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen atoms - barely distinct from apes, insects, or bacterium in her physical makeup. She smelled of sweat and fear as the others had. The pupils of her eyes were wide, the lungs increasing the rate of respiration, the cardiac muscle pumping more forcefully, the neural synapses firing rapidly in a vain attempt to grasp infinity with finite tools.

But this one was going to be the first to hold HIM.

Who was I, a mere messenger, to stand in the presence of one who would carry HIM, feed HIM, comfort HIM, be needed by HIM? Who was I to stand before one who would meet HIM as a fellow being?

I, who have spent all eternity in the unveiled Presence, had never before been so utterly humbled. So I did what is meet and right in the presence of the Holy. I bowed.

There we were, each of us terrified, prostrate, unable to raise our eyes to look at the other.

And then something even more terrifying happened to me.

There is a thing that humans do when they are overwhelmed, a thing no angel had done or understood until that moment, that you call “weeping”. It appears that this thing can happen when sorrow or joy, pain or awe, has become too great for the mind to contain, and so the body releases the overflow. The girl was weeping, and I found that I was too. Without physical eyes I wept, without lungs I sobbed, without nerves I felt the same harsh buzz and tingle.

Then the girl did something remarkable. She stood. She accepted what was asked of her. She looked at me, and was no longer afraid.

And she sang.

She sang of thrones falling, of the poor being raised up, of kingship and servanthood being returned to their rightful places, of a broken universe being healed. She sang as no angel ever had, and I wept all the more to hear it.

Then she held out a hand to me.

O most highly favored! Until then I had not truly understood why HE lavished such attention on beings that were so seldom grateful, so seldom even aware. But here was a mortal whose finite brain had room for compassion towards an immortal’s fear. Here I saw what HE was turning them into – beings like HIM, beings who could love the Other, beings who could both reign and serve. And her Son would show them how.

For a moment – the universe could only sustain such a thing for one moment – we grasped hands, and smiled upon each other. For that moment, there was no mystery or fear, only understanding between fellow children of the same Father.

Then the laws of physics caught up and I was returned to my own plane of existence.

But I look forward to renewing the friendship when the Day comes.

© John M. Munzer

Drums and worship

I’ve played the drums in a variety of worship settings: on a set at Pentecostal revivals, on a cabasa during youth group missionary trips, on timpani with an orchestra in an affluent Long Island church, on cowbells and congas in Spanish-speaking churches in downtown Chicago, on a log at campfire sing-alongs, walking around a Celtic labyrinth playing a bodhrán, banging on the stairs and bannisters in a stairwell with a few friends at college, and even accompanying an organ in my Episcopalian church with my doumbek.

Worship is about connection with God. How to describe that connection when it happens? I can only borrow Biblical language. It feels like being on fire. It feels like being filled with light, with living water, with a mighty rushing wind. It feels like being filled to overflowing with raw POWER. It is wonderful, it is terrifying, it makes me think I have an inkling of why our wiser ancestors spoke of "holy fear". To invite in the Source of all power is to invite something powerful, something dangerous, to happen.

But the most powerful worship experience I've ever had wasn't in church. It was at work.

I had just started a new job working one-on-one with a man who had autism. I didn't know much about him except that he was twice my size, couldn't pronounce words, used some sign language to communicate, liked music, and didn't like big changes (such as having new staff). We'd gotten off to a rocky start - he'd bitten himself and slapped me several times over the first few weeks - so I was hoping to find a way to connect with him and get him to associate me with positive experiences. I'd heard that Christmas music was his favorite, and figured it was worth trying out some drums along with the singing to see if he enjoyed it. One of my own favorite songs has always been "The Little Drummer Boy", naturally, so I sang that for him and played along on my little bongos.

And he sang along.

No words, still, but he was nodding and saying "Buh...Buh...Buh..." with the rhythm, and even did his best with "Pum-pum-pum". As I sang the last line - "Then He smiled at me, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum, me and my drum", I remembered Christ's words "What you have done for the least of these my brothers, you have done for Me."

And the guy who'd never smiled for me before was smiling.

I had to fight an urge to drop the drum and fall to my knees. Instead, I held out the drum so he could play. He tapped on it a few times, smiled again, and signed "Ride". So we went for a ride. And we sang Christmas songs as I drove.

That is, to me, what worship is about. When something like music, or laughter, or touch, or food, or tears, brings us together, lets us connect and experience the same thing at the same time; when we become one body with our fellow humans; when we find common ground with those that had been strangers to us; that's when we most truly become one with God. Every religion has at its core the truth that God is love. And love simply means that we work for the happiness of others as hard as we work for our own. When we get that, we get God.

© John M. Munzer