Thoughts From 10,000 Ft by Sarah Wanck

As I type, I’m sitting (tray table down) on my American flight from Miami to Chicago. I thought maybe I’d rest. With a very long layover in Chicago I thought I’d rest now and work later. (There’s so much work to do.)  But as I closed my eyes, and adjusted my headrest, I was overwhelmed.

I tried not to weep.

It might be odd to openly weep on a plane full of passengers lost to my reality. If I could, I would shout in prayer, and lift up my voice in a language only known to the Spirit. My body is somewhere above Kentucky, but I feel like I’m sitting in the front row of the church in Marianao – not on the aisle seat of an over-full flight. And if I were there, that’s exactly what we would do. The whole body would be rejoicing in God’s goodness. Shouting in praise. Hands raised in excited adoration. The whole body would be standing in the presence of God Himself, bold with praise.

Instead. My heart could explode from the tension. The desire to openly pray and praise and the inability to do it. I’m meeting with the Lord from 10,000 feet. And no one knows. (Or cares.)

I’ve been to Cuba before.

I’ve been deeply transformed each time. Every time I’ve tried to come home and put into words what the experience is like – knowing that I have the great privilege of experiencing what most people will never get to know. And every time, I can’t.

I can say the technical things.

Revival continues to happen in the Methodist Church of Cuba. In their deep difficulty and struggle the people of Cuba overflow with a well of deep joy. They reflect a deeper love for Jesus. They live in the work of the Spirit. They are so committed to their King that they sacrifice and serve in ways that are challenging and inspiring to Christians everywhere. They are walking into the dark places to bring the life changing light of Christ. They welcome us with radical hospitality….anticipating our every need and readily responding before we know to ask. They live with little and they give us everything.

They believe the Spirit of God is alive, well, and working in each of them. And they act accordingly, actively praying for deliverance, healing, and baptism of the Spirit for others – and seeing the fruit of healing and deliverance when they do.

I’m holding back my weeping – not for the technical things. (Though they are truly incredible.)

But because of the communion of the Spirit we shared. I’m weeping at the union of lives that came through the power of the Spirit – and the profound honor of ministering in the Spirit together. I’m weeping for the words of life and prayers that were lifted over me – even as I attempted to minister to others.

I’m weeping because I’ve tasted the Kingdom there, over and over again. But in a profound way on this visit, years of learning each other and exploring Cuba ignited into shared ministry, shared Spirit, and into a taste of the Kingdom. It was the communion of Saints on earth.

And though I’m still processing – I think I’m also weeping for what we’re missing. How many churches, and how much of America is missing it.

It’s not that American churches are getting it wrong exactly.

It’s maybe more that we have something available to us that we either don’t know – or are too scared to discover. We’re on the edges of the Kingdom – holding it with hesitation instead of enjoying the fullness of the Kingdom that’s possible for us.

It’s nobody’s fault.

It’s American individualism, its failures of churches and leaders to lead them in the fullness of the Kingdom (my failure included). It’s ignorance. It’s being so comfortable that we’re not desperate for something the world isn’t satisfying.

I’m weeping for the pain of the people of Cuba.

But I’m weeping with joy for the Kingdom they embody in it.

And I’m weeping for the many Christians who aren’t running after it and don’t know to.

Maybe I’m weeping at not knowing how to help bring the fullness of the Kingdom in my own community and feeling so inadequate to try.

Turns out, I’ve not been able to keep the tears from falling.

The kindness of Jesus is simply too overwhelming. His goodness and mercy for the people of Cuba, and for me, is simply too much to hold in – so I’m wiping my tears with my complimentary napkin.

For now, I’ll stop myself from shouting from my seat.

And instead, I’ll imagine my heart on the front pew of that church – loudly declaring the goodness of God with the Cuban people that have so graciously given me the Kingdom.