I guess I must have gone totally amnesic about the song, for when I sat down to write this article, I could neither remember the title, nor any of the words.

So I called Mary.

“Do you remember the song you all sang in church, that day?”

“That was a long time ago,” she said, “but I remember being there.” She paused. “I think we sang ‘He’s in the Midst.’” She paused. “I think that was the one.”

But when I went to talk to Mary in person, she said, “I think I told you wrong yesterday.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “I think the song was, “He is here, Hallelujah; He is here, Amen…”

“That has to be it,” I smiled.

“I get goose bumps just thinking about it,“ Mary continued. “I wish we could feel something like that again.”

She paused. “You know?”

“I sure do.”

I thanked her and returned home, remembering that I had come to Crossroads for the first time in 1992, to fill the pulpit between 11 and 12 on Sunday mornings.

“I can’t ever be here right at eleven,” I said to Coy, who interviewed me for the pulpit committee.

“Really?” he asked. “Could you tell me why?”

“I have a Sunday school class at Piney,” I answered.

“That’s only about six miles from here,“ Coy smiled. “We can handle that.”

He paused, then continued, “I lead the singing, so, we’ll just sing until you get here. We have a quartet, too, who are always ready to sing.”

“It’s a deal, then,” I said, so we shook hands.

That first Sunday morning, I checked my watch as we drove away from Piney, and checked it again when we arrived at Crossroads. The trip had taken 10 minutes. Then Patsy and I went in, slipped into our seat — about 12 pews from the front — to join the singing-in-progress. After that I walked up to the platform and offered the message I had worked on all week.

Leaving Piney at 11, we could reach Crossroads by 10 after, and so we did — for at least a month, until one of my Sunday school class members stopped me after class. I don’t remember what we talked about, but it was important enough for me to postpone my departure for Crossroads.

“We’re going to be really late today,” I said, as I joined Patsy in the car.

“Oh my,” she said, grabbing the security strap attached to the B-pillar of the VW, as I pushed that old VW hard, sweating — not from negotiating those twisting roads, but from anxiety at the prospect of arriving at Crossroads late. It had to be at least 11:30 when we careened into the parking lot, skidded to a stop on a grassy spot, then ran up the steep steps and into the sanctuary.

“They’ve even got the quartet singing,” I whispered, as we slipped guiltily to our spot on the 12th row.

As we sat down, I was only aware of my shame and my heart rate, until I heard:

“He is here, Hallelujah! He is here, Amen! He is here, Holy, Holy I will bless His name again.

“He is here, Listen closely Hear Him calling out your name He is here, you can touch Him You will never be the same.”

By the second stanza I realized that the quartet wasn’t just singing the song, they were describing what was happening to us in that very room.

We in the congregation sat transfixed by a presence more powerful than anything I had experienced before — high and lifted up, demanding respect and complete attention, so that nothing else mattered but this moment, and the intense personal regard we felt.

The idea came that I was as out of place as a priest at the dedication of Solomon’s temple, after the choir began singing and the glory cloud fell — stopping to pay rapt and total attention to the miracle unfolding around him.

When “He is Here” ended, Coy, Mary, Jimmy and J.C. slipped to their seats without a word; Kay continued playing softly on the piano.

“This is so good,” I said to Patsy. “We’ve got to hear that song again, but the quartet has scattered in four directions.”

Then I looked to see Mary, walking directly toward me.

I moved toward her. “Mary,“ I whispered, “we need to hear that song again.”

“Now?“ she whispered back.

“Right now,” I answered. “The Lord is in it. You can feel Him; Look at their faces around us; they can too. The Lord is here.”

“OK,” she said, as she checked her watch. “But it’s late.”

“I know,” I said. “That doesn’t matter.”

She nodded, then went to gather the other members, who moved quietly back to the platform and began to sing “He is Here,” as if they had never stopped.

“You won’t get to preach, today,” my accuser said, “and this is a fine mess.” He paused. “You’re already late, and you won’t keep your promise to preach?” He paused again. “Come on. They pay you to preach.”

I did not waste time with the accuser, for I had already made the same decision as the priest in Solomon’s temple.

After their song was finished, Kay continued playing softly, as the quartet moved quietly to their seats. I waited for them to pass, then slipped to the podium, and looked out across the congregation, all facing forward, some with open mouths, some exhaling through pursed lips, some wiping tears, others with eyes closed and hands raised.

“The Lord is here, isn’t he?” I said, barely able to get the words out. Then I paused. “Would you stand?”

“I must not preach today,” I said. “The altar is open. Everyone who will, come.”

I knelt by the podium for a few moments, wiped my eyes with my finges, then stood, and looked around, to see that I had been the only one to move.

“Oh, Lord,” I prayed quietly. “Please don’t let us miss this opportunity.” I paused. “We may never have You come to us, this way, again.”

Just then, the quartet members began moving to the front; then others followed until every single pew in the church was empty — and at least 150 souls had come to cluster around that altar.

The glory was so strong, that everyone stood in place , never speaking, for a very long time.

“What a day,” I said as we finally got back into the car, at least an hour after we arrived.

I don’t think either of us spoke on the way home, for we were too caught up in the glory to evaluate it. Not one soul chided me about the cancelled sermon, nor ventured to speak to me about the day the glory fell. Within a month or two, the church called a full-time pastor, and I did not preach there again.

But thinking about that glorious Sunday, 27 years later, I now feel ready to list several experiential truths I saw that day:

When the Lord shows up, preachers, quartets and congregations, and condemning voices must get out of the way. Some songs possess the spirit of God innately; the Spirit inhabits them, and will make His presence known mightily, when He wants to. Where the spirit of the Lord is present, His children want to linger, but not to talk about the experience. The spirit of God is our conduit to Christ.

Like Mary, I would like to feel something like that again.

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Leon Smith is a contributing columnist to The Anson Record. Email him at leonsmithstories@gmail.com or write to him at Box 124, Marshville, NC 28103.