I was sitting on the floor during a time of worship at my weekly life group with friends. The room was dimly lit, and music was playing. People’s eyes were closed and hands were lifted toward heaven. Meanwhile, I was trying not to lift my hands toward my arms to squelch the insane itching sensation from the poison ivy rash on my arms.
My attempts to ignore the itching didn’t seem to be working. So I leaned back against the wall, tried not to scratch, prayed for my sleep-deprived friend Dani, whose 3-month-old was only sleeping in 30 minute to hour long intervals, and talked to God about how the rash began.
It all started last weekend, when Josh surprised me with a date to play disc golf at a park I’ve been wanting to check out in town. The disc golf course is notorious for the many places you can lose your discs—the course winds around a densely-forested area along the bank of the Brazos River. So not only is there the chance of the disc veering off course and becoming hidden in the trees, but there’s also the possibility of the disc landing—and sinking—in the river or the marshy areas along the bank.
On one of our missions to retrieve a disc, while ducking under branches and trampling vines, I must have brushed against some poison ivy/oak/sumac/evil plant.
I thought nothing of the encounter. In fact, I didn’t even know it happened.
Later, that insignificant encounter turned out to change my life (at least for a few days…hopefully only a few days!).
To distract myself from the insane itching, I did some Google research on poison ivy and learned a few things:
Poison ivy rash is caused by urushiol oil found on poison ivy plants.
The rash erupts in a pattern that follows wherever the oil touched skin.
The rash itself is not contagious (contrary to popular belief)—after the area has been washed, the oil is gone and touching the rash won’t cause it to spread to another person or further along the skin. (If the oil is still there or if it’s on clothing, it can still spread!)
Last but not least is that the rash has a delayed onset. The reaction takes hours to days to manifest.
Hours to days. An unremarkable, 5-second event can occur with a significant but delayed onset.
As I sat there in life group, subconsciously rubbing my arms every few minutes before realizing what I was doing, I began to wonder if our encounters with God are like our encounters with urushiol oil.
So often the seemingly unremarkable, everyday events in our walks with Jesus spark a delayed reaction much later in life—days, weeks, or even years later.
What if the moments I deem the most insignificant, the moments I don’t even remember, are actually some of the most catalytic in the spiritual realm? What if the results, like the appearance of a poison ivy rash, are significant but delayed?
When we brush up against poison ivy, it may take a while, but the way our skin breaks out is an easily identifiable sign of what we were exposed to. And when we brush up against Jesus, I wonder if the same thing happens. Maybe not immediately (though sometimes perhaps). And maybe not the way we expect.
Maybe the moments Jesus sat with me during deep depression—the moments I brushed up against him in the darkness—gave me a gift with a delayed onset. Maybe that gift is the ability to sit with people in pain and in darkness. Maybe it’s a deeper level of compassion. Maybe I won’t fully know what it is for years to come.
Maybe the moments Jesus sits with my friend Dani as she awakens hourly to comfort her sleepless son—maybe those moments are a brushing up against God, and she will see an unexpected change in herself in the days, weeks, or years to come.
I’m convinced of this: every time we brush up against Jesus, something changes. Each time we are exposed to him, a reaction happens, even if we can’t see it now.
So I pray. I pray that we’ll brush up against him more and more. I pray we’ll recognize the power of encountering him the same way the woman with the issue of blood did: if I just touch the fringe of your garment, I will be healed.
I pray we’ll be changed in ways that clearly show to whom we’ve been exposed.
I pray we’ll break out with a reaction to his presence that shows the world the areas he’s touched. I pray he’ll touch those places of deep pain in us so that they will be transformed, even if we can’t see the effects right now. I pray our lives will erupt with mercy, patience, joy—all the things of God—as bright and bold and conspicuous as the red rash covering my arm.
I pray we won’t overlook those urushiol moments: the whispered conversations with him in the seconds before we fall asleep, the passing sense of his presence when we’re out eating dinner with friends, or the deep peace from him when we catch a glimpse of the sunset. But perhaps that’s the most beautiful thing about urushiol moments—even if we don’t see them, Jesus is still orchestrating them. He’s still moving, even when we are unaware. They can happen anytime, anywhere.
Unlike poison ivy encounters, the change Jesus brings is lasting. It’s beautiful. It has the potential to be contagious. And, perhaps most exciting of all to me right now, it doesn’t involve insane itching!