When the Spirit comes, the one sure thing is: You will be unworthy.
You cower in the upper room, quite out of ideas and momentum, and he comes like tongues of fire, and your speech is enabled.
You stray into a Charismatic meeting aged 17, and joke about speaking in tongues–oh aren’t you suave and sophisticated?!– and at night you wake up, and, voila, you are speaking in tongues, which was the one gift you specifically asked not to receive, silly you.
And years later, a Vicar you secretly consider a Machiavellian Macbeth and cold as ice, lays his hands on your head and prays for a revelation of divine love, and oh, it comes, it comes, for keeps, and writer’s block fades, and you write fast, easily and much.
And at a Catch the Fire Conference, you look around, and second-guess and judge, oh you cold of heart and slow to believe, but you do learn soaking prayer, and your prayer life changes. And then your real life.
You arrive late at the worship service, having snapped and snarled at all who made you late—oh yes, you did!!—and you bow your head in shame…and then in worship, and you feel it, waves of mercy, waves of grace, of acceptance. You are loved. You are loved. You are the beloved. That is your new name, and new identity. You will live out of that sacred centre.
The Spirit comes at church when you’ve just fought with your husband. He comes in the watches of the night. He comes when you garden. He comes.
He comes because you need him; he comes because you ask him; He comes because you don’t ask him, but because you need him.
He comes because he is God. He comes because he is good. He comes.
Come, Holy Spirit.