During this time, my cousin had a figurine of Jesus on a shelf in her bedroom. Jesus, dressed in drab clothes, was knocking on a door looking very sad. My cousin said he was knocking on the door of my heart. He was sad because I hadn't let him in. I told her I had let him in, and her answer was, "you sure about that?" I lay awake in her room during sleepover visits, anxiously staring at the tiny statue while she slept soundly.
For years I worried every Sunday during the altar call. What if I hadn't gotten saved right? What if my salvation wore off? What if the abuse I had received from a "trusted adult" had somehow negated my salvation, and I really was as bad as I felt? What if I sinned right before the rapture and hadn't cleaned my soul in time to make it to Heaven?
We moved away when I was starting sixth grade. At my new church in the south, I wasn't a sinner in the hand of an angry God as much as I was a wellmeaning kid who made dumb mistakes. My anxious prayers for salvation subsided. I slept a little better. I didn't clutch the pew in front of me during altar calls. I attended youth group and wrote notes to my friends in church. I graduated from high school and attended a Quaker college.
As a graduate student, I befriended my internship boss, a lifelong Quaker who first acquainted me with the idea of that of God in every person. Many Quakers believe that every person has a measure of the Holy Spirit present in them from birth. That "inner light" needs to be recognized and nurtured and listened to, but it is always there.
What if I had been raised Quaker, assured that the light of Christ was in my heart, ready to teach and guide me? Instead of worrying about whether I had been saved right, I could have been listening to the still small voice of God, who had taken up residence in my heart long ago.
What does God's presence in my heart feel like? I know it is there now, like I know my liver is there; but I can't feel it with my fingers. I can't pinpoint the exact physical location of God in my body. It isn't like that. If I take the time to pay attention, I have a big part of what I need for spiritual fulfillment. I feel the need to listen for God's directions -- not the Bible (though that is part of it), but rather the still small voice that I can feel rather than hear.
Listening for God takes practice and patience. It takes daring and making mistakes and putting yourself in a position where you may not be comfortable. It puts you in a position to grow, and growth can be painful.
Thinking back on that sculpture in my cousin's room, I wonder if instead of thinking of Jesus as outside my heart asking to come in, if maybe Jesus is actually on the inside of my heart, knocking on the door and saying, "Hey, Jennie, are you up? I have a great idea for you."
