It was a beautiful Sunday morning, as my friends and I were greeted at the door by the sweet sounds of southern hospitality. The decor of the church reminded me of growing up in the ’80s where we slept soundly under the pews while the loud hell, fire, and brimstone preacher delivered his message. Potluck smells filled our noses as we dreamed of the savory country fried chicken and gravy cooking in the cast-iron skillet for the church potluck following the service.
Even as a visitor this particular day, I felt like I was at home. The music refreshed my soul as we sung old hymns like, “Victory in Jesus, my Savior forever.” and “Oh, how He touched me and made me whole.” If you needed prayer, then the altars were always open. No invitation was needed and this morning was no different.
Church members were met by the pastor and church leaders as they began to walk down the aisle. I watched from the third row as more people filled the altars after the pastor’s invitation, “If you need anything from God today, come forward for prayer.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a man moving slowly towards the front, for obvious reasons. He was bent over at the waist at about a 45-degree angle and his face painted with pain and weakness. Trying not to stare, I focused my gaze back on the members at the front of the church already receiving prayer. Immediately I heard God say, “Khristina, I want you to pray for that man.”
The conversation quickly ended with my response, “Lord, it’s okay, he will be prayed for by the pastor and church leaders. These people don’t know me. If I walk up there and pray for that man in this old school, country church, that pastor may reign fire and brimstone down on me.”
After a few minutes of chatting with my friend, I saw the man return to his seat in the same condition that he was in when he had slowly walked to the altar.
I heard God say again, “Khristina, I want you to pray for that man.”Continue reading Arguing with God