The preaching was inspired. The music, all of it, the many different expressions of faith through music, touched me in places words cannot reach. The young African American woman who danced while the Russian man played a violin solo gave me a wonderful gift of grace that will live in my memory. But greater than all the preaching and singing and testifying was the gift of connections... connections to those I have loved for years, connections to those in the hall whom I did not know and might not ever know, connections to my history as a Baptist and a renewed spirit that came from the connection I felt to God during those three days.
My friend Dorri teased me about my feet not being on the ground after this meeting. She is right. My feet are off the ground and I pray I don’t forget how it feels. I have been long overdue for a revival and this was revival at its finest. One of the evangelical traditions that has fallen by the wayside is the revival. Abuse of the privilege, haranguing and harassing, have caused most of us liberal religious folks to throw out revival as a dangerous practice. As surely as the revival of spring following winter, our souls cry out for the same opportunity, a chance for new birth and growth after a season of darkness and loss. None of us can believe alone, sustain our faith alone, get through life alone. Revival, wherever we find it, connects us to each other and to God.
Memory pictures... standing in the hallway, hugging and being hugged by friends from Kentucky, Texas, North Carolina, South Carolina and Alabama... seeing friends from our past who were and are dear to us... watching Jimmy Carter walk the hallway, the Secret Service pulled back, with folks reaching out to him... sitting at lunch with another young Michael, a student in the Baptist House at Duke Divinity School, who came with thirty other young divinity students... meeting some of the young adults who took time off work and came... sitting at a table for supper, having conversation with a black pastor from New York City who came by himself to see what was going to happen, hearing him say it was more than he expected... the non-Baptist couple who sat with us at a table in the CNN building, waiting for the hockey game to start, asking me what the argument was about this time... standing and singing "Just a Little Talk With Jesus" lead by a black choir and minister of music, hearing thousands of men sing the bass part on the chorus, "Now let us have a little talk with Jesus, let us tell him all about our troubles"... walking out after the first meeting and hearing my name called by Mary Lynn and Walter Porter, two of the most important people in my faith formation... And after the last meeting, as I began to leave the mostly empty hall, stopping to talk with three African American women who remained seated. They had driven two days from Missouri to attend and were going to begin the drive back the next day. We decided we knew how the disciples must have felt when they wanted to build a temple after the Transfiguration. How could we leave without some outward sign left to remind us of all that happened during these three days? We laughed about raising an Ebenezer. Finally we decided the only way to save the experience was to share it with as many as we could, to testify to the power of the Love that had held us close as strangers and angels unaware in Atlanta, Georgia for a short time. We were being redeemed and we knew it.
Thanks be to God for all that has been in Baptist history, for Roger Williams and his commitment to religious freedom, for all the Aunt Thelma’s and Lottie Moon’s who found ways to be ministers even when men denied them their call, for our wandering in the wilderness of disintegration and despair as a people, for the new generation that has raised up untouched by the tar brush of anger and loss, for all who showed up for this new Baptist covenant. Our future is held in the loving arms of Jesus and I give thanks. Don’t let my feet touch ground anytime soon, Lord. Peggy Hester
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