Resting in the Spirit

Judith MacNutt asked who would like the receive the baptism of the Holy Spirit, even if you’d asked before and felt nothing. “That earlier prayer did something, because it always does. But if you’d like a greater event, come forward.”

What I really wanted was to rest in the Spirit. I don’t like the words “slain in the Spirit” because that sounds horrible, frankly. 

I could feel the physical weight of the Holy Spirit coming. My left arm started to vibrate, just a bit. 

Then I felt like I was about to either throw up or faint. I wanted to put my head between my knees, but also wanted to hold on until someone touched me. I think I did have a gentle touch on the shoulder, and it seemed easier to lie down. So I laid down intentionally—didn’t need anyone to catch me. I turned to the left, bent my knees, and stretched out, in the position I always slept in as a child: knees bent. After a bit, I stretched my legs out. My hands were firmly stuck in place over my heart, right on top of left, eyes closed. 

My body jerked a bit. Not unpleasantly.

I didn’t ever lose consciousness, which was important to me. My arms felt too heavy to lift. Off and on I would wonder if I should get up and go to my seat, but I didn’t. It seemed like too much effort. My eyes opened just a bit a few times, enough to see sparkling lights.

My body would be wracked by sobs and my tears would stream through closed eyes. Then I would lie still. This happened over and over. I cried from relief that that earlier prayer was not null and void. I cried with relief that I didn’t really feel different, which made me relieved that I had been carrying the Spirit (perhaps at times coated with the things of the world) with me. I cried because I had not welcomed my children as gifts from God. I cried because I was sad for the sorrows of the world that I have walked with—Joseph’s divorce as probably the primary one. I cried because I was not rejected and because God knew me. I cried because I was so thankful, and because I think I do cry when I’m thankful.

There were people who started laughing uproariously off to my left. And it seemed so odd to me. My middle name is Joy, but I feel like ministry right now is one of lament. And I’m perversely happy about that, because the times that I feel the most in touch in prayer and worship are the times when I weep.

After a while I had cried so much I couldn’t nose breathe. I had to lick my lips a few times.

Melissa, who sat next to me and came up next to me, laid down next to me, touching my arm. She was totally still, while I shook periodically. After a long time, she stood up.

Twice a few gusts of wind came by. They might have been the air conditioning, but maybe not.

I spoke in tongues for a bit. My prayer language didn’t change. It kind of makes me happy. 

After a long time, I moved my hands up to my face. My hands were physically prickling, but I could put them on my face, and my face didn’t notice extra heat or anything. 

I heard people praying next to me. I heard a woman say that her knee was healed—she sounded so happy. The curious part of me wanted to look around at other people, but it was too much effort to open my eyes and look around.

My neck started to hurt. I bent my knees up, then put my legs back down. I moved my hands to my neck, then down to my belly.

When my hands reached my belly, I started to smile. I don’t know why. I just did. While I had felt like I was home the whole time, with my hands on my belly, I felt like things were going to be all right. 

After a long time, with laughter still happening to the side, I felt like I could get up. I opened my eyes to see the ballroom lights and ceiling. I stood up slowly and walked slowly, and sat down in my chair for a few minutes.

The service started at 7 and ended at 10. There had been perhaps a half hour of worship and a half hour of teaching. I made my way to my seat right as Gary Webb announced the end of the night. So I think I lay there a long time. I was the only one at the front by the time I stood up.

It wasn’t what I was expecting. I think I was expecting some sense of enormous love washing over me. But since I didn’t, I wonder if I’ve been living in that love all the time, but I don’t experience it in a more ecstatic way. 

I so appreciate that the entire situation felt like me. It didn’t feel weird or unexpected (other than public lying on the floor for 90 minutes or so isn’t normal). My thought patterns were recognizable. I didn’t ever feel out of control. I felt ministered to.

And when I went back to my room, I had the munchies. And I wanted to take a warm bath. I read The Silent Gondolier, which I loved, and fell asleep for eight hours.