Cheap green nubby carpeting scruffed when we kicked our feet beneath our seats, anxiously waiting for anointing spoken into existence, drenched in that hospital hue of flickering fluorescent lighting. I remember thinking that it was strangely like an assembly line.
Now I also know that in those days, I was standing at the summit of the tongue-speaking tambourine mountain, hair wild and anointing oil dripping carelessly from all my fingers, wielding gifts that weren’t mine. I was at the heights, which meant I could also see the path down the other side. Soon the air would become too rarified to breathe, but this was the moment the sun was bursting forth in glorious day and everything was free for believing.
Some teenagers wait in line for concert tickets, or drive across the country for speech and debate competitions. We made a pilgrimage to the prophets instead.
My turn. I settled in front of three of them, like the Greek Fates, a tape recorder between us.
I’m over at Deeper Church today, talking about a prophecy that has haunted me for years.
No, I am not Harry Potter, and yes, there is more to this story.