This morning I woke up unable to breathe well. Eventually my right arm and right side of my face went numb and my words were getting all mixed up. It was clear that a migraine was brewing. Today was a day in which I had hoped to get a lot done, in part because it’s in my nature to be productive, and in part because I need to prepare for a tutoring job tomorrow that I feel ill-equipped for. But I can’t read well this morning because of the migraine, and I’m struggling to type with any sense of clarity and accuracy.
Since the pain hadn’t hit initially, I plodded slowly throw my quiet time with God this morning, trying to absorb what the Bible was saying, but not succeeding much beyond a few lines here and there. But rather than be discouraged that my day did not start with rooting my mind in the Word and that I was obviously going to have a tough time accomplishing my goals for today, I was a little excited that my mind was out of the picture. I noticed that while I was reading, I had a whole dialogue happening in that realm of my brain that functions somewhere between consciousness and subconsciousness. My consciousness was struggling to focus on the words I was reading, but the in-between realm was pondering my dreams from last night and was considering a conversation that I was intending to have this evening. Even though I was struggling with words on the outer level of my consciousness, they were just fine on the next level in. It was so strange, but oddly cool.
It dawned on me that maybe I could worship in that next level in. Then, even though my outer level of conscious is spurting out and taking in only fragments of coherent thought because of my migraine, maybe I could be worshipping and praying inside anyway. I’ve always been a fairly mental person, which has many times distracted me from my faith. For example, I’ll pray for healing of my scoliosis, but then I’ll start to tell myself that the only reason I’m praying that is for my own benefit. If it’s a selfish prayer, then I shouldn’t be praying it. And even though I believe God can heal my spine, I start to doubt whether He will because He has been using it this far to teach me discipline in my health habits. And my thoughts go on, often discouraging me from praying for healing at all.
So the idea of praying without my mind as the driving force is very exciting. If my heart can lead my worship, then maybe I can feel God’s presence and let that be worship. Or if my spirit, without being first initiated by my mind, is connecting with the Holy Spirit, then maybe I can just be with God and let that be worship.
I think of my friend Katherine who is recovering from a brain hemorrhage. In her early recovery, when she was in a comma, I would ponder what her worship must have been like without consciousness. It must have been so intimate to have her spirit and her subconsciousness commune with God. And then as she regained her brain activity but was unable to move or speak, her worship was confined mostly to her mind. It was quiet and not easily expressed. And now she is able to move and speak, to worship God verbally and physically. I wonder how experiencing specific stages of worship that most people aren’t able to separate from each other has impacted her relationship with God. I know that I really appreciated this abnormal morning to be able to put my mind aside and all of my logical barriers to my faith and just be with God without processing the experience in any way more than simply existing in it.
