The Divine Mist
Most people would think that a pastor with thirty years’ experience would have witnessed a genuine miracle, but I hadn’t, not really.
Oh, I’d seen what some parishioners might call a miracle—like the woman who came down with an illness, probably the flu, but recovered after prayer. Of course, she also stayed home from work, drank plenty of liquids, and had several days of bed rest.
In a similar instance, a man who suffered with severe back pain improved after receiving prayer and visiting his chiropractor.
Most of the events I came across were like that. All good, but situations in which God seemed to work through human means. Nothing is wrong with a good report. Even so, I longed to see or experience a true miracle from above—an unexplainable wonder that left me in awe.
Apparently, God was listening to my thoughts. My encounter with the supernatural realm began unfolding early one Saturday afternoon.
As the pastor of a small Assemblies of God church in Portland, Oregon, I often wore many hats. On that Saturday, I was the worship director looking for a new song for the next day’s service. I rushed over to the Christian bookstore conveniently located across the street, hoping someone in the music department would have a suggestion. Unfortunately, the store was slammed that afternoon—all the employees were helping other shoppers.
I selected a CD from the closest display, something about hill songs from Australia, and headed back to Calvary Temple. I was already late for worship practice. As I scanned the list on the back cover, one song grabbed my attention: “I Will Never Be” by Geoff Bullock.
I promptly decided we would use that one for the Sunday services.
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Our morning service started on time that Sunday. We were halfway into the worship time when my wife, Laura, who leads the music from her seat at the piano, introduced the new song. The worship team joined her. Our vocalists blended the harmonies well, just as they had in practice.
But something happened that we hadn’t experienced during the worship practice.
On our second time through the song, the words pierced my heart as if someone had hammered a nail into it. The pain in my chest lingered—hot, yet not unpleasant. From my seat in the front pew, I glanced around the sanctuary, wondering if others felt the same thing. A few members smiled back at me; everything appeared normal.
Next came the chorus. But I suddenly realized the singing had stopped. I looked toward the piano. Laura had stopped singing. The worship team also fell silent. Several on the platform seemed to have difficulty standing up.
Obviously, something was wrong.
Rushing to the platform to offer my assistance, I noticed a slight glow around the pulpit area, yet I couldn’t determine where it was coming from. The temperature in the sanctuary felt as if it had jumped fifteen degrees. I wondered if the janitor had flipped the heat on by mistake.
Then I saw it: up high, a fog-like mist.
The sanctuary looked like a smoke-filled room, but the smoke was coming down instead of rising. Laura kept playing the song, silently mouthing the words from the chorus. Her eyes remained closed.
Charlie, our drummer, broke into a blazing solo on his drums—I didn’t know he could play that well—then he stopped and sat still. Eddie continued to pick slowly on lead guitar, while the other guitarists appeared as though they had forgotten the chords. The bass player just held his instrument and sat quietly on the steps. Our vocalists, Peggy and Sylvia, were kneeling with their faces on the floor, microphones lying beside them.
I felt a tug behind my knees, like a riptide or swift current in a river. I could see why standing was difficult. People throughout the sanctuary were kneeling or bowing down; several lay prostrate on the floor. They looked as though they were glued to the carpet. I couldn’t stand either; an unseen force knocked me to the floor.
As I pondered the words of the song, I heard giggles. Several children were laughing as they looked up at the ceiling, their eyes moving right to left, then back again. I wondered what they were watching. Later, one of them told me he saw an outline of a hand waving slowly over the altar area. Several adult members witnessed the same thing. All I observed was the misty smoke, but I believed their testimony because they were people of integrity, including my wife, Laura. All these unexplainable events or signs were just the prelude—more were on the way.
The morning service never really ended; it continued throughout the afternoon. When I finally got off the floor, I talked with several parishioners. Although it was late, no one was in a hurry to leave. One man had no more pain in his back. A condition he had suffered with for years was gone, instantly, yet no one had prayed for him. A couple in a failing marriage had somehow fallen in love again. One smiling, the other in tears, they went home—divorce no longer an option. The Holy Spirit used a simple song to release a miracle and accomplish what years of counseling could not.
I didn’t recognize the last person I talked with. He told me he heard people singing as he walked down a nearby street. The words cut deeply into his heart, and the music compelled him to enter the church. That’s when he saw the divine mist and felt a warming presence. He dropped to the floor and wept for hours. When this man, Carl, got up, his life had changed; he would never abuse drugs again. There were other testimonies—all compelling, all miraculous.
Certain songs become popular, and we enjoy singing or listening to them. Once in a while, though, a song touches heaven. The song turns into a fiery prayer for something more, and God answers back, pouring out miracle after miracle.
And when God starts pouring out the miracles, well, we are never the same again.