The Holy Spirit Smells Like Cigarettes

I don’t know what the Holy Spirit looks like. But here’s what I do know:

The Holy Spirit smells like the lingering scent of Newport 100s clinging to a dear friend’s college sweatshirt. I melt into his love and compassion, my face pressed close against his heart as he shares his warmth and strength with me. I inhale deeply, and exhale a long breath that silently sings a song of exultation as this moment becomes greater than the sum of its parts and we’re each relieved of some of the sorrow we’ve been carrying. I breathe, and I sigh, and I weep, because I know, as I feel his chin come to rest atop my head, that this place is my Church.

The Holy Spirit sounds like the screams of the schizophrenic vagabond, her voice magnified by the way it echoes and bounces off the skyscrapers around my neighborhood before it reaches my ears. Her path always appears to be the same, but the stirrings of the soul that refuse to be silenced emerge as praises of gladness one day, enraged cries for justice another, and on still others they are the laughter of a delighted child. Whenever I hear it, I am drawn to my open window, letting the guttural sounds feed my understanding of the story where somebody asked, “Who is my neighbor?” I listen and nod, because I know that this place is my Church.

The Holy Spirit tastes like bad coffee in a Styrofoam cup, placed in my shaky hand by that beautiful messenger of God who greeted me at the door of my first recovery meeting. It’s a taste that comes not with expectations, but rather a promise of hope that might be fulfilled if I can accept what they’re offering. It’s a taste that keeps me coming back as I come to understand why people flock to these rooms, because I know that this place is my Church.

The Holy Spirit feels like the itch of a fresh tattoo. Persistent and painful at first, but a blessed kind of pain; because it’s a reminder of the everlasting change that has been made to my soul. As I struggle not to scratch it, I wonder if the generations that came before me received the same troublingly mixed messages about faith and God and repentance and forgiveness and grace. As I gaze down, taking in the splendor of the new permanent mark, the pain mixes with the endorphins into a buzzing, bountiful bouquet of feelings and sensations, and I know that this place is my Church.

No. I do not know what the Holy Spirit looks like. But I know that wherever, whenever, and however I experience Her power and gentleness and touch, that place is most certainly my Church.