Every year in the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I convince myself that this year will be different. I make mental lists of what preparations I will make and those I will let fall by the wayside. My thought is to streamline the festivities into something to be celebrated and enjoyed versus a month-long gauntlet of lists, chores and errands that are tiring and joy steeling. In the early days, I try my best to remember that we are in the season of Advent, not Christmas, and dutifully pick up a devotional booklet from church, fully intending to read the blurb every morning to start my day off on the right foot. More times than not I get started but peeter off somewhere in the second week. This year, I never got started. In fact I just found the booklet under a pile of junk mail and free mailing labels and was reminded that we are into the second week of Advent and I haven’t even turned a page. So I opened the book this morning and today’s reading was entitled, “You are forgiven.” and it made me smile.
I am in joyful awe of God’s sense of humor, or perhaps that I see things in my life that I can interpret as God’s poking me in the ribs. I love to tease, be teased and laugh at the silliness of life. I use humor as a way of connecting with people; to break down walls and get inside. I believe that is what the All-Knowing does with me. In fact, my first real encounter with the Almighty resulted in laughter.
As Jesus entered the world in a stable, God entered my world in a ladies’ room. It was Easter Saturday, 1975 and I was visiting Dave at his parents’ home in Mechanicsburg. Dave and I had been invited to join a high-school friend of his and his girlfriend to go down to Maryland to hear a friend’s band play at a church. All we knew about them was they were a “Jesus band”. In those days, the word Christian wasn’t tossed around as casually as it is today, folks who prayed in a Pentecostal manner invoking the Holy Spirit were called charismatics or “Jesus freaks”. And so it came to be that Dave and I attended a Pentecostal prayer meeting; with a band on Easter Saturday 1975.
The meeting started okay. At that time my experience of worship services outside the Catholic mass were limited to one Lutheran service and a charismatic Catholic prayer service I’d attended with friends. The lack of familiar structure in the meeting made me a little uncomfortable as did the speaking in tongues. I’d witnessed that before and found it intriguing. But, when one of the members of the group rose to her feet and began to interpret the prayers and it seemed directed to Dave and me, I’d reached my limit and exited the church as quickly as I could, heading straight back to where the car was parked. Dave joined me in the parking lot followed by the couple we rode with. Since I was so totally unhinged by what had happened, we decided to head on back home. But before we hit the road, we decided to use the restrooms.
By the time we reentered the building, the service had ended. Down in the social hall, near where the restrooms were located, a table of refreshments sat loaded with cookies and cakes. With my head lowered, unwilling to make eye-contact with anyone, I found my way to the ladies’ room. Once locked in the comfort of my stall, I felt safe and secure. That’s when it hit me.
You could call it hysteria, but I remember it as something very different. Suddenly all the stress and discomfort I’d been feeling left my body. As I sat, with my pants around my ankles I began to smile and then laugh whole heartedly. What was there to be afraid of? I couldn’t think of anything, but I kept laughing; mostly at myself. There was nothing left to do but pull up my pants and enjoy some punch and cookies with the rest of them. I’m not sure exactly what happened to Dave, but he was laughing too. In fact, the whole ride home we laughed and giggled.
Something in us changed that night, although it took years to grow and mature. Like most “mountain-top” experiences, we eventually drifted back down to sea level and went on with our lives. I will always remember that night so long ago, when God met me in the ladies’ room and tickled my soul for the first time. He knew just how to reach me; in a place where there was nothing else to distract my attention. Maybe the reason I thought of it today is because this time of year there are so many things to distract me. I’m glad that when I do finally sit down and pay attention that God’s not keeping track of my inattentiveness. Instead, I know when I come back he will again tickle my soul and tell me, “You are forgiven.”