Growing up, Church was at the
center of our life. Yet, fifteen years of knowing the answers passed before I began to understand them. A new pastor with a gift for expository preaching, walked us through the book of Exodus. I remember sitting in the church balcony one Sunday amid so much rusty orange carpet, white boucle padded pews, exposed wooden beams and white ceiling, when the stories and meanings clicked into place.
That summer, I quietly proclaimed Jesus as the Christ. Not long after, along side of a crowd of my classmates and friends, we publicly professed our faith in the midst of a windstorm, which knocked out the power, de-roofed buildings, and snapped 80 year-old trees. Sixteen years later, as I reflect on that experience and that of Pentecost, I am awed to find the Spirit still moves in the sound of rushing wind.