From time to time, weekly when schedules allow, I meet with Clyde. Clyde and I have only met a few times so far, but they have been good times. He’s something of a prayer guru, someone my pastor told me I should talk to, and so now I meet with him for two hour talks about life and forgiveness and prayer.

Clyde believes that Jesus talks to him. I mean it. He really does. In my second meeting with him he told me that Jesus would talk to me, too.

Now, listen: I am a life-long Christian. Throughout my spiritual journey I have been all over the map when it comes to the question of how the spiritual interacts with the physical. I grew up in a stuffy sort of church were we never talked about God doing things now. God did things. That’s it.

In college and after, I found myself at various levels of charismatic faith. Sometimes I believed I heard the voice of God in all kinds of places: dreams, sermons, songs, advice from friends, movies, the wind. I’m not saying I didn’t hear him. I’m not recanting. I’m just saying I’m not quite as prone to attribute everything to divine communication these days.

I think God does talk to us, even to me. How? Well, that I don’t know. And honestly, even theologically, there is a sense in which this is the best answer I could give. The only problem with it is this: because I don’t know exactly how God talks to people, only that he does, I’m afraid to attribute much of anything to divine communication. Consequently, I don’t hear much from God. I mean, he could be shouting at me, but I insist that it is just the wind most days.

Take my second meeting with Clyde, for example. Clyde wanted me to ask Jesus a question. Not later. Right then. He wanted me to close my eyes and ask Jesus something right there in front of him. I felt stupid doing it. Like an adult sitting on Santa’s lap asking for a train set when I know good and well that “Santa” is probably just some out-of-work guy named Ted. And Ted doesn’t know where I live and even if he did, he’s not getting me a train set. He’s more likely getting himself a strong drink and heading home.

But I asked Jesus. I asked and then, under Clyde’s direction, I listened. I peaked, looking over at Clyde who also had his eyes closed with a look of expectation on his face.

“How do I know if Jesus is saying something?” I asked.

Clyde said that he had prayed against an evil spirits interfering and speaking to me in Jesus’ place, which he had, and that he had faith God could and would answer such a prayer. He said that I had asked an honest question and that Jesus wouldn’t be very nice if he didn’t answer. And he said that if I was truly listening, whatever came to my mind was most likely God talking.

“But I’m afraid of being wrong,” I said.

And I was. Afraid of being wrong or looking stupid. What if it’s just my imagination or wishful thinking? What if it’s just a touch of gas, not the touch of God? What if I just end up being one of those nuts who sees the face of the Virgin Mary in pot holders and pig’s feet and who thinks that everything is some kind of heavenly telegram, like God is using every random event in the world to somehow tap out a Morris code message to me? I don’t want to be a nut. I like being (sort of) sane.

And it’s not just vanity. I don’t want to think that I’m talking with God only to learn that I was talking to myself and God was just rolling his eyes. I don’t want to live an intimate lie like that. But I don’t want to deny the sound of his voice (whatever it sounds like) just because I’m afraid, either.

You see the dilemma?

So Clyde tells me that Jesus spoke to me that day. Three times. And it’s true, sure enough, that the things I “heard” (in my head—I know, I’m nuts) are the kinds of things Jesus would say. Downright scriptural. But I still struggle with believing it fully, because it is, after all, scary and hard.

posted by adam on 03.16.2007 at 5:05 pm