Once upon a time there was a little boy who loved climbing. He climbed everything, the counters, the tables, the dressers, the bookshelves, even the parents! Then one day, his parents decided to let him find other things to climb and sent him outside to the back yard, and there, the little boy discovered trees. There wasn't a day when he was begging to go outside and climb his trees, even in the rain and freezing cold winter snow. And because his parents loved him so, they bundled him up dryly and tightly and let him climb (if only for a little while, so he wouldn't catch cold).
Then one day, the little boy had a play date with the little girl next door. He decided to show her his favorite climbing tree. He led her to the backyard and started climbing up the tall maple tree. When he looked down, the little girl was still standing at the bottom. "Why aren't you climbing?" the little boy asked. "I'm afraid I'm going to fall!" said she. Falling? The little boy was puzzled. "It's ok, come on up!" So the little girl climbed. But she was not as tall as the little boy and could not reach the branches he could. She gave a little jump...and fell. The little boy was stunned. He had never fallen before, and had never seen his dad or even his mom fall when they climbed with him. But there was the little girl on the ground crying fiercely from her scrapes and bruises.
The next day, the little boy's mom went outside to call the little boy in for lunch. But he wasn't in his favorite tree. He wasn't in any tree. After a few minutes, his mom figured out he wasn't even outside. So she went back inside and found him sitting on the floor next to his bed. "Little One," she said, "why aren't you upside?" (this is what they called playing outside in the trees). The little boy was quiet for a few moments, and then whispered, "because I don't want to fall down."
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From when I was born to roughly 8 years old, my family went to a teeny tiny baptist church just down the street in our teeny tiny town in upstate New York. I loved the pews, and the hymns, and the centuries-old gravestones in the back yard. It was all I knew about church and about God. But my parents grew restless. They didn't feel...alive. It was just the same old routine week after week, no change, no growing, no challenge to it any more. So we moved to another church, farther away, in a bigger "city" (which meant it had traffic lights and the speed limit was over 35).
This church was so completely the opposite of our little baptist church! ("Daddy, what's that?" "It's an electric guitar, Sweet Heart." "Oh...What's that?") We found ourselves in the middle of a charismatic church in the early '90's, which for those of you who are familiar with it was the beginning of the "Toronto Blessing" as some people called it. People would raise their hands, talk in funny baby talk, dance with banners, and stranger yet, fall down on the floor shaking.
Eventually, my younger brother and sister started "giving in" to the weirdness of the church, but being the oldest with the most memories of how things used to be, I didn't like it at all. I wanted to go back to the pews and ole Mrs. Forrey pounding out the hymns on the organ. Eventually, both my siblings got baptized, but I wouldn't even raise my hands in church during worship. I would stand up, because Mom and Dad made me, but I wasn't about to let them see me give in to everything else.
One night, we were having children's church down in the basement while the parents had church upstairs. I'm not sure what went on upstairs, if it was mirroring everything that happened to us or not, but the Holy Spirit came and visited the kids. I don't remember much of what led up to it, but what I vividly remember was sitting next to my brother, who was shaking on the ground with his eyes half closed and muttering under his breath. I was terrified! I thought he was having a seizure or something. Then one of the teachers came over and said, "He's being slain in the Spirit. Isn't it wonderful!" It wasn't wonderful. I was seriously frightened. Not necessarily about Adam's well-being (kids can sense when grown-ups are and aren't concerned), but I was suddenly really, really scared of the Holy Spirit. If He makes your body do all those things in public, I was definitely not going to get close to Him!
Looking back, I have to give my teachers some grace. Hearing other people's accounts of those several years of "revival" that happened all over the U.S., I've come to realize that the adults weren't really sure what was going on either. Everything was new to them too. So they couldn't explain it to us children who saw and were frightened. But the result of that is now a generation of young adults who are still hesitant when it comes to the Holy Spirit. I've been baptized now (although it was several years after we moved from that church and New York out to Kansas City to be a part of Metro Vineyard Fellowship), I've walked on purpose with God for over 15 years, and can not imagine existing in a world where He isn't part of my life. But any time I think about the Spirit aspect of His Person, and I still partially close off my heart and tell Him with trepidation: "Please, no."
The problem is, most of the time - if I'm not thinking about it - I am open to Him and tell Him "Yes!" Because I cannot be myself without Him. He is my genius, my voice, my smile, my joy, my compassion, my "don't you mess with my friends" fierce loyalty and protection, my hope, my heart, my life. Without the Holy Spirit, I am like the little child whose sole purpose and design in life is to climb...sitting in fear on the floor next to her bed.
So, Spirit, how do we do this? How can I climb again?
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