The Anointing

The Anointing

It was still dark outside when I arrived at the church that morning.  I opened the big doors from the inside with the ancient key that was as big and heavy as a gun. 

A gun? 

I moved on, checking doors and windows, turning on the heat to take the dampness out of the air.  It was still early but people would start to arrive in a couple of hours and I wanted to be ready. 

Really?  Who was ever ready for something like this? 

I shook my head.  Keep moving, I told myself.

I turned the lights on in the sanctuary even though it was almost dawn.  The early morning light was struggling to show itself through the dark clouds.  Even the heavens were weeping today.  My mind was numb and my heart cold. 

What was I supposed to say? 

I finished my early morning routine and finally got to my study and sat down heavily in my chair.  I leaned forward, elbows on my desk and ran both hands through my hair.  O God, what do I say?  I was tired and, yes, I was mad.  I might as well face it.  I wasn’t cut out for this life.  The more I learned, the less I understood.  It felt like God was a stranger to me. 

I began to pray.  “Lord, I’m so sorry….”  My voice cracked.  “I really liked him, you know.”  Then I said quietly.  “I almost believed that he was right, that he had something special.”  I took a deep breath.  I was shaken and I was not sure I wanted to go on.  What was I saying?  Give up being a pastor?  I shook my head slowly, hunched over my desk, tears started to run down my nose and fall on the open Bible I had placed there.  I looked down through bleary eyes and straightened up quickly, not wanting to stain my Bible any more than I had. 

I wiped at my eyes and nose with a tissue and looked closer to see what damage I had caused to those thin pages.  The Bible was open at 2 Corinthians 12 and I read the underlined passage at verse 9.  “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” 

Well, I could sure use some of God’s power right now and I certainly felt bone-weary and weak.  Then I remembered Peter.  This was his favorite verse.  Maybe that was a good place to start today. 

O Peter, what happened to you? 

I know, I know.  Guns and drugs were a fatal combination.  Still, God allowed it and it was God that I was mad at.  Am I allowed to think that way?  But it was true and that was all my heart could handle at the moment.  I whispered another apology into the air, got up and walked to the window.  It was pouring outside.  Hopefully it would let up before the funeral began at 10 o’clock.

      When the funeral finally started, the church was full of people, somber and serious.  The dark suits and grey dresses lent a sadness to the service that was reflected in the continual downpour outside.  The rain thundered on the roof, drowning out the whispers and small talk of the congregation almost as if God were angry, insisting, demanding to be heard.

         I was surprised at the amount of people who had braved the weather to come to the service.  Standing room only it looked like.  Many of the faces I recognized of course, but there were also many I didn’t.  I sat in the large ornate chair on the stage reserved for the pastor.  There was no choir, no piano player, no instruments.  I had no sermon, just a verse but no outline.  Nothing.

They were all there, waiting while the rain thundered on the roof, the dripping of water from hats, clothes, umbrellas silent in the onslaught of heaven, the puddles pooling like blood on the floor beneath their feet, the humidity almost palpable in the gloomy air of the sanctuary.