Restore Unto Me
By Gene Helsel
I was hitch-hiking my way across eastern Kansas when a sudden summer storm
convinced me to seek refuge in a small, white-washed church on the edge of a
dusty little town. I knocked vigorously several times on the large double-doors
at the front of the building. Silence. The well-worn brass knob turned when I
tried it, and the door swung easily open. "Hello? Is anybody here?" I
hollered. Still no response.
I entered the small foyer, and stood for a moment, breathing in the various
"church-smells" and scanning the maps and faces neatly arranged before
me on the self-described "Missions Bulletin Board". The sights and
smells triggered a flood of childhood church memories. How many years had it been?
I calculated it effortlessly in the same way that I marked all passages of time.
"Let’s see, one year after the divorce. The divorce was eight years ago.
Seven years." It seemed like less.
Thunder boomed and the rain battered the roof, walls and window panes of my
sacred shelter, as I searched it from "steeple to baptistery". I wound
up in the choir loft at the back of the church, looking down on the well-worn
wooden pews that lined the sanctuary. A rough-hewn cross hung on the front wall
and overlooked a non-descript pulpit and communion table. The table was flanked
on two sides by a few folding chairs, and all floated on a sea of orange-brown
carpet.
I sat down on the choir-pew behind me and noticed for the first time that it
was padded, whereas the sanctuary pews were not. "Perhaps this is a part of
the join-the-choir incentive program?" I mused quietly to myself. The now
distant roll of thunder and the monotonous patter of rain produced a lullaby
that my tired eyelids could not long resist. I stretched out on the pew and in
seconds was twitching gently into a deep sleep.
I awoke slowly some hours later to the clear tones of a man’s voice. It was
not speaking to me. It came from somewhere down below in the sanctuary. I sat up
and carefully peeked over the railing, not wanting to disrupt the serious little
gathering below.
They sat in a small ragged oval. Some seated in the first pew, some on
folding chairs directly in front. They sat facing one another and seemed to be
listening with varying degrees of intensity to the man whose firm but soothing
voice had awakened me. The voice apparently belonged to the pastor of this
modest parish. He was at that moment finishing some instructions for their
prayer meeting that evening. Something about confession following something and
preceding something else. I remember little of what he said, but everything of
how he said it. He spoke simply, earnestly and directly, and yet his hands and
body moved as if he were pouring each word into each soul seated about their
tiny circle.
The pastor concluded his instructions by asking them if they were now ready
to pray. Some nodded their heads, others just leaned forward, folded their hands
and closed their eyes. Which is exactly what I began to do until I abruptly
remembered who and where I was! But what to do? And which was worse? To silently
play the spiritual Peeping-Tom from the loft, or to tromp down the stairs and
express my thanks by interrupting their prayer meeting and making the little
granny next to the pastor reach for her heart medicine? I chose safe and silent.
They began their time of prayer with some solemn prayers about God’s
greatness and goodness interspersed with a few psalms and hymns. Aside from the
pastor, most of the prayers seemed to lack something. What was missing? Passion?
Conviction? I wasn’t sure. An older woman ended the praise time by reading a
Bible verse and saying a short prayer.
"God is so good" intoned the pastor. "Praying with you tonight
has reminded me again of His supreme holiness and majesty. It has also reminded
me of how far I fall short of living up to His glorious standard. Let’s just
spend some time confessing our sins to Him, agreeing with Him about the scope
and depth of our falleness. If you are afraid, remember the Cross. Remember the
abundant mercy that God gives to those who despair of themselves and turn to
Him. Remember Christ’s blood and righteousness, and take courage my
friends." At the words "Christ’s blood" his eyes moistened,
his shoulders sagged and his head bowed as if from some great unseen weight.
An older man wearing a denim shirt and well-worn cowboy boots prayed first:
"Lord, you know I’m not much good at this. Uhmm, you know that my smokin’
and drinkin’ days were a long time ago. But now, thanks to you, things are
goin’ real good and I’m stayin’ on the straight-n-narrah. Please forgive
me for.........for.......ahh......just thanks for helping me be a good person.
Amen."
The woman directly to his right (his wife?) in a floral print sun dress went
next: "Dear Jesus, I need your help. I’ve been gossiping again. Please
help me to go to Cindy this very night and confess all the things I have been
saying about her behind her back. I know you love me and will help me. After all
its not like I said all those things about you, is it? Please give me the
courage and strength to get things right with her tonight. Injesusnameamen.
On around the circle it continued: "Oh Heavenly Father I beseech Thee to
forgive me my mistakes this week. Though not often, nor heinous in nature,
still, I have erred. Thou knowest my temptations and my inclinations. Thou
knowest my peccadilloes and white lies. Thou knowest the words that leapt unbidden
to my lips. Please apply but a drop of Thy grace to my insignificant oversights
and save Thy bounteous oceans of mercy for them that truly have need. Ahmen."
"Dear Heavenly Father. Please just forgive all of my sin from last week.
Even if I can’t remember it, you can. God, you just know everything. If I
thought something wrong, forgive me. If I did something wrong, forgive me. If I
spoke something wrong, ditto. I know that there’s gotta be some stuff there,
so just forgive me. Thanks. Amen."
"Dear God. We both know that I have done many wrong things this past
week. But we also know that I have done many good things. I know I’m not
perfect, but You know that I have served You and others faithfully to the very
best of my ability. I’ve been there for you. Now please be there for me.
Forgive my sins, do not be unfair with me. As always, I will continue to help
you do your work on earth. It’s great to be a team. Oh yes, and thanks for
forgiving me. I knew you would. Amen."
"Dear Jesus. Thanks for your forgiveness. Where would I be without it? I
think about your forgiveness all the time. Even as I was renting that movie last
Friday night, I thought to myself ‘Hey man, this is wrong! But at least I can
count on Jesus to forgive me.’ People at church told me that You forgave all
my sins when I decided to ask You in to my heart. But sometimes I still feel
guilty when I sin. Please help me not to feel guilty. Amen."
"Dear Precious Jesus. I need you to forgive me for the way that I spoke
to my Father just before coming to the prayer meeting. It was very
disrespectful, and I’m sorry. I would ask you to bear in mind though, what he
said to me and how he said it. You know how that tone of voice sets me
off. I guess that’s just the way I’m built. Gramma says that mom was just
like that too. Anyways, please forgive me and help Dad not to use that tone of
voice with me. Amen."
The pastor was motionless for a few moments. The unseen weight seemed to be
pressing his upper body steadily towards the floor. He then mumbled a few
instructions about asking God on behalf of others, and then directed them to
pray together in pairs. Although the words were jumbled I managed to catch a few
snippets of the petitions rising from the floor below. "...please help aunt
Josephine’s cat to....", "....Rush Limbaugh to not get
discouraged....", ".....the Democrats stop.....". And then it was
over.
The pastor saw each one to the door. And then instead of locking up and
following them out. He quietly shut the big front doors and walked laboriously
back to the front of the sanctuary. He stood for a moment in the now empty ring
of chairs and then swept the sanctuary with his gaze, silently taking in cross,
pulpit, altar and empty pews. And then quite suddenly he dropped to his knees in
front of his chair. (Did his knees buckle, or did he kneel?) He gripped the
chair with both hands as if doing one, long, sustained push-up; the unseen
weight pressing his face to within inches of the seat and squeezing tears from
his eyes.
For a full hour he wept and cried out to his God. I sat unable to
move, listening to his soft sobs and muted cries. What was he praying? And why
the tears? At first his speech was indiscernible. But then he lifted his face
heavenwards and began very clearly to confess his sins. He seemed to
almost throw the words towards the ceiling. But something was not quite right.
What was it?....We...Our...Us... That’s what it was! He wasn’t confessing
his sins alone. He was confessing the sins of his entire congregation! We
have sinned. Our pride, our arrogance, our insensitivity.
Forgive and cleanse us. Sin after filthy sin poured from his lips like
raw sewage from a rusty pipe. And yet.... and yet the air was strangely
unstained by the words. I know it sounds strange, but something seemed to be
absorbing the words as each one came out of his mouth. The air was actually
growing sweeter by the sentence. The pastor stopped for a moment to wipe his
eyes and nose on the already tear stained sleeve of his white cotton shirt. And
then bowing his head he prayed: "Oh God. I am overwhelmed tonight. I am
crushed as I consider the exceeding sinfulness of our sin. Have mercy on us…..I
know that in your holiness, you never excuse sin. You never say ‘Its okay, I
forgive you.’ I know that all of our sin will be judged; judged in our bodies,
or judged in the body of Your dear Son. Tonight I am begging you to have
mercy upon me and upon my sheep. Please see that our sins are judged properly
and completely in Jesus’ body. And do it not for our sakes, but for
His. For it is in Jesus’ name that I pray. Amen." As he said
"amen" his head dropped and he continued in silent prayer.
At that moment the sun dipped beneath the clouds on the distant horizon and
beamed the last rays of the day through the side windows of the sanctuary. The
front half of the room was immediately drenched in crimson light, and seemed
almost to drip with it. A lightning bolt cracked, punctuating the moment. And
suddenly it was finished. The daystar edged below the horizon. The red light
dissolved to gray. And all was quiet.
The pastor stood up from his make-shift altar. His eyes were clear, his back
now unbowed. He walked briskly up the aisle whistling a tune that beckoned me to
remember the lyrics that accompanied it. Something clean heart... renew, renew
me... Right before the door thumped shut behind him, I recalled the words and
whispered them in unison with the fading melody. "Restore unto me the
joy of Thy salvation." Yes Lord, please.
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