not books. although i go through withdrawal when i haven't read something lovely for a while.
not music. although it's breathtakingly beautiful sometimes, and my life is full of it to the brim.
not prayer. unfortunately. although it is becoming more of a habit and instinct, it would be good for that to become my addiction. but i can't say it is one yet. wow. what a sweet life goal, what a beautiful addiction that would be. but that's not what i'm thinking of.
no, my most recent injection of this particular addictive experience came this weekend in the form of the 9:30 service at First Baptist Church of Indianapolis. no ordinary service, no. this worship service was packed with people, listening to the preaching and praying, and all praising God - in the Karen language. they are refugees from Burma, who meet every week to worship together in the crowded chapel in one little wing of the FBC.
yes. i confess. i am addicted [or maybe that's not the word, since i so rarely get a fix of it - maybe it's more like, intensely attracted] to being immersed in worship experiences in languages that i can't understand.
why am i addicted to this, i wonder?
maybe it's the mystery. the reinforcement of the reality that i can't know everything, that other people's spiritual experiences are essentially just as valid and special and deep and acceptable to God as mine, and quite unknowable by me, and that is more than okay.
maybe it's the yearning to put myself in their shoes of jumping into an English-speaking culture without knowing a word of English.
maybe it's the freedom of not having to strive to fit in; i'm already a different color than almost everybody in the room, and in God's presence it doesn't matter, we're all one family.
maybe it's that vision of unity that i have, that somehow desperately i hope to live out by placing my physical presence in the midst of diversity.
maybe it's the desire to become like a child again, not straining to grasp any deep truths or life lessons; just simply trusting in God's power and goodness and hearing of prayers, and accepting the goodness and love that shoots through the fingertips and smile-creases of his children.
maybe it's the abundance of cute babies that are on my level linguistically, so i have more time to wink at them.
maybe it's the memories of Dutch church in Amsterdam. of the Arabic and Spanish worship song-fest at a campfire. of the Greek churches on Easter morning in Athens. of Verbo Iglesia en Cuenca. of Tamil weddings and building dedications. of the Akha village church in Thailand. of the Sumi Baptist convention in Nagaland. of various Green Lake missions conferences. of the hallways of my high school in Kodaikanal.
maybe it's a subconscious wish to speak in tongues like the Pentecost people.
maybe...i don't know. all i know is...i'm addicted. and it's beautiful. and i'm so thankful for this weekend, and this particular limb of the church body that has blessed me simply by being themselves and inviting/allowing me to be present with them, before the throne of God.
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