episcopalian's smoke machine.

I walked the three blocks to the church on Christmas Eve together with my mentors, and my heart dropped a little as we stepped in. There would be no raised hands here.

The incense hit me with a wall of memories--mostly of the patchouli and pot of my junior year of college. (Erm, I never inhaled...?)

Then I thought...Hey, that thurible is like an Episcopal smoke machine. Hm, alright. I feel more at home now.

My first reactions were...displacement. I felt displaced, set apart from my own worship. I felt like a big Pentecostal fish out of its noisy waters. And I realized how deeply I've internalized the Pentecostal faith.

Because it feels so right. Because when I meet God in prayer here, with arms raised, or intellect stilled, I meet Him real. You know, one of the major themes of this faith is the bigness of God. Then again, I would presume most denominations to understand and teach of His bigness, but not necessarily of His interest. Not of the ways in which He reaches in, and twists and picks, and changes. I feel, when among fellow Pentecostals, that anything is possible in the world. That everything is possible. When with my fellow Episcopalians, I feel that God works quietly in me, by logic and law. Both are true, but neither is sufficient. It's not just that He works at large, or just that He works in private, but that He works at all!

At mass last night, I was seeking answers. Pentecostal, or Episcopalian, what am I? Do I believe in Christ as a literal sacrifice--how can I? Who is this God I believe in? How can my intellect pick apart this faith? What will happen to me?

The first reading was from Exodus--my favorite verse on God showing grace to whom He'll show grace, and mercy to whom He'll show mercy. My heart stilled with the knowledge that God was telling me of His mysteries--as though He was reminding me that no intellect knows it all.

Next a Psalm about shouting out praise. I smiled as no one shouted. And I remember how I love the honesty of Pentecostal worship.

Then, the passage from 1 John about the deception of our own perceived innocence. My tears welled, because He was speaking directly to me about all of my fears. He was answering questions raised by the people I love the most, in such a gentle way.

And I knew that the final verse would be from John, about Peter questioning John's actions. Another verse specific to my past conversations with God. What is it to me what others believe of Christ?

I was right.

How does He do that?

Tonight, I realized, joyfully, that I don't need anyone's permission to worship however I wish. No opinions required. I like lifting my arms to heaven. And I love crazy loud worship music. And my heart thrills to public confession on bended knee, and I'll cross myself when I take communion if I want to. And it will all be to Him. If I doubt the literal atonement of Christ, it'll be okay. If I need a logical proof, and I read a million books about Christology, He'll still be on the throne.

Because He is good. And He is faithful. And He made me to love Him, and I don't want to be so afraid of how to do that, that I forget to do it.