b-i-b-l-e; bethenny.

I went back to that mecca for tongue-speakers, the Assemblies of God Headquarters, today.

It had been awhile since my first tour, and I wanted to know what it would feel like to be there now that I am mostly (if not openly) comfortable with the shouting, and the waving, and the tongues (I put up a fight just pretty much for sport at this point). Now that I've made peace with my own place in the Pentecostal church.

Same super-friendly receptionist, still reminds me of my grandmother's house. Excellent. I meander up to the museum, losing myself in the brightly-colored displays on the likes of J. Roswell Flower, and Rachel Sizelove. I take a picture of myself with the former, and jump out of my skin when, suddenly, an exhibit starts singing some Christian ditty at me... "The B-I-B-L-E," something something something, "That's the book for me." The song ends, and a kid and his Mom start talking about Daniel. Motion-activated displays are the worst thing to happen to my nerves since they gave Bethenny Frankel her own tv show.

We start the tour, which threads through different places than the first time. There's this awesome hallway with easily over a hundred international flags flanking each side. I think to myself that if I worked there, I'd find every reason possible to pass through that hall several times a day.

The tour ends, and I find myself alone in the old-timey chapel in which we started. There are old, wooden pews, that famous picture of white Jesus, a piano in the corner, and a tin roof--supposedly a good likeness of most early Assemblies. I sit down, thinking that early Pentecostals must really have liked one another--there is no where to hide in this "church." They saw everyone, every Sunday.

I look to the scripture, painted on the wall above white Jesus. "Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forever," it reads. What does that mean? An ancient God, I think. I serve an ancient God. Also, a modern God. I try to wrap my head around what would have happened in these early Pentecostal churches. The fire, and excitement, sweeping across the country and the world. Like it has swept through my life. I imagine a preacher, believing for the world a new salvation.

That preacher is dead now. I may be too, before this is all over.

Because I serve an ancient God, and a modern God, and a God who has ruled all the moments in between. But why now? Why is this the moment in which I live? I asked God-- "Father, why the AG? Why did you bring me here? Why these people? Why this place? What part will I play in all of this?" I'm confused.

Will I praise God the same if that part is the lowliest? Will I live, content to glorify Him, in the background until I die?

When I think about God as the God of history, I feel sick and excited simultaneously. Sick, because the reality of a God over all time is overwhelming. Excited, because I think, what a yarn He must be spinning. Reminds me of some lines from Whitman-- "That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse." That the God of the universe has been unfolding this grand, sweeping story, and I have been called to the plot. That's incredible. I am neither more, nor less important than any other, and yet, scripture tells me that my part is of unfathomable importance to God.

Those early Pentecostal preachers did not see, before their earthly deaths, the second coming for which so many of them passionately believed. And yet, they continued on because they understood that Jesus is the same. He's the same yesterday, as today, and tomorrow, too. He is an ancient God, and a modern God. They understood the timelessness of their mission. They pursued eternity with singular focus.

I think I can live this life for God, no matter the part, no matter the plot.

My plot, and my part, are in praise of the God over time.