Easter

 I used to think I only cried in God’s tangible presence when He came down in the form of a miracle, a tangible, observable supernatural. Like the time I had a vivid vision for a friend. Or the recent time the pastor laid his hands on my head and I fell without him saying a word. Or the times He comes to me in a revelation of His goodness, His love. I thought it would only happen in a Spirit-filled—a “Charismatic”—environment. 

But the first time I stepped into this white-walled hymn-singing brightly lit conservative church, from the Gloria Patri to the benediction and throughout the expository sermon on Ecclesiastes, I was a mess of tears. Today, during the sermon on the sufficiency of the one sacrifice, it happened again. It was a simple word—our eternal forgiveness proven by the man hung on a tree. There was a simple song. But the presence of God is not in an atmosphere, it’s in His breath, in His word, it’s wherever He pleases to rest. He is also here in this hall, among these pews, and my spirit catches more than my mind.