First published in the Baptist Times - OUTSIDE EDGE column - 27 August 2010
Four Christians and a satnav couldn’t work out if we were on the right route.
It seemed symbolic.
Two of the women, one thirtyish, one fiftyish, were doubting that they were on the right track with God. Having accepted this invitation to take part in a Sunday service with an out-of-the-way fellowship we barely knew, they were feeling incapable and useless.
The third passenger, an elderly man, was worrying about his hearing and communication ability.
And I was regretting agreeing to play guitar. I’d written a new worship song but needed more musicians (the fiftyish lady only played the organ; the vicar played guitar) and preferably a full choir so I wouldn’t have to lead the singing, inaudibly.
Despite several detours we arrived on time and prayed together in the car park, that the Holy Spirit would come.
It looked as though nobody else might. The place was deserted apart from the vicar, who welcomed us with: “I’ve got so little prepared, not even one song! And I haven’t got round to preparing the talk on prayer!”
The group leader volunteered the elderly man - who was out of earshot - to give his testimony instead of the talk on prayer. When he heard, he said, “I could, but I think I might talk about prayer instead.”
Delighted with the coincidence, the vicar was equally pleased that we’d brought a song - though I’d have to play it alone; the chords were too difficult without a capo.
Would we read some prayers? We said okay if no one else volunteered, but the vicar said volunteering was rare in this congregation.
The congregation seemed rare. Ten minutes before take-off, one man wandered in. Did he sing? I asked hopefully. He did.
Would he help me lead a new song? No problem, but it was too high for him: okay if he dropped an octave? He sang a bass harmony, which sounded fantastic but left me still having to lead the melody.
But nobody was coming anyway. Had we come all this way for nothing?
I sat down and closed my eyes to pray. When I opened them, the seats had filled up, silently. All nationalities, aged from 20 to70.
The man who sang harmony said that last night over coffee, he and four other African guys had started singing choruses. If the vicar agreed, they would do it again. The five shuffled to the front self-consciously, then got into ‘Standing in the need of prayer,’ moving, clapping - and laughing, as everyone joined in. It was terrific.
Two of them volunteered to read the prayers, quietly and thoughtfully. The spiritual atmosphere went up a gear.
I stood up to play the new song and realised my wish for a choir was now a reality: I asked the five Africans to come back. Four of them hadn’t heard the song but they started bravely, in a different rhythm. It was an improvement so I stuck with it.
They broke into harmonies. Something turned up the volume and I found I could sing, audibly.
Suddenly it gelled and became a prayer. Something electric connected the people there.
We sang the last verse again. ‘Jesus, oh my Jesus. Saviour, oh my saviour. Jesus Christ, son of God.’ Nothing clever.
A stillness fell. The vicar spoke on the mystery of God. The deaf man spoke about learning to pray. The lady who doubted prayed about doubt, and the lady who was useless played ‘Be thou my vision’ on the organ, beautifully.
The vicar volunteered the four of us to pray with anyone who stayed. We sat with one after another as they poured out their hearts to God. It felt immensely privileged. People said they had felt something happen during the service, and what was it?
We drove home without the satnav. If it had happened in a church, it would still have been pretty good, we agreed. But that fact that it was a prison was amazing.
God is good. And sometimes he takes you off track to remind you of just that.
Clare Nonhebel’s new book ‘Finding Oasis’ (publ. Authentic Media) is on sale in bookshops and online
