You could see it in his eyes. You can always see it in the eyes -- an intense clarity and pure energy, an innocence, that dare you risk looking into directly. The mere gravitational force will pull you into a Mix Master of possibilities. His eyes had been watering and weeping as he told me the tragic story of his life.

There had been many chances and changes in the pursuit of seeking love. The out-of-wedlock birth of a child, the death of a wife, the drugs and the drinking, and the amazing redemptive move of a stranger that saved him from himself. As he poured out his woeful tale of wheat and tares growing together, the hard shell of this person was cracked and the core was exposed. He was telling me that now, yes now, he was a saved man, a converted man! It was Jesus who had saved him and he was a believer. He shouted, "Thank you, Jesus." And then he told me he was going to start coming to my church.

"My church?," I thought, and immediately heard the resistance. No, not to what he said, but to what I thought about life in "my church." I was getting pulled into the mix. A rapid sifting was occurring as he spoke. Already I could feel the kernels of truth accumulating, the empty shells being cast off of all that could have been love and was not, and that slippery texture of what is and is to become love. I marveled at this man's ability to mix such sweetness and pain together in one story, and almost imperceptibly leaven my thinking.

I began to imagine the future. When he comes to "my church," where would he sit? How would he survive the climate of our worship service? Clearly, he had not been able to sit still two minutes in the study: hands flailing, feet shuffling, sniffling and sighing, seeking for a place to rest his hands, to place his elbows, to stretch his legs, up and down and pacing back and forth. How would he sit through a worship service? What if he began interrupting as I preached or celebrated? He kept invading my sentences and redirecting our conversation. Just how would this man ever fit into the fold?

No doubt he would come in his jeans and dirty sweatshirt. He would not change. He would probably show up late and casually walk down the aisle to sit next to one of our older members, breaking into the service while the whole congregation fixed their eyes on him ... or worse, he would come early and sit in one of their designated seats, the sacred pew they claimed as their own, year after year. If anyone was bold enough to suggest that he move, he would just smile that wide, toothless grin that testified to a fight or two over whose seat he was going to sit in (but of course, that was before he was saved). I was certain he would laugh out loud if someone suggested he move from "my seat." He would move all right, not because he wanted to, but because he had to -- it was what he did. This man was a master mover. No one was going to push him around.

Yes, I could see him in church on Sunday. He would arise from his place and take another seat, all the time moving forward, or he would just pace back and forth while I tried to do what we always do on Sundays. His mere presence would begin the shift. They would all be watching him, their eyes would be fixed on him, all the faithful flock at my church who were painfully ground down by life. He would get under their skin in ways my preaching never could. In a twinkling of an eye he would leaven the whole bunch. Then, during coffee hour, he would boldly proclaim in his emotional fashion, that, "Jesus has saved me from drink, drugs, and loose living." Oh, there would be plenty of salty water and juicy stories to his mix. And they would listen and be like putty in his hands.

Yes, he would show up on Sunday all right, and I knew it was my fault. Here was the result of all those prayers asking God to somehow renew us in the calling to follow Jesus. As he wrung his hands in front of me, I noticed the similarity to the times I had wrung my hands as a form of prayer. He pounded the chair and I saw myself pounding the table as a form of prayer. How many times had I stretched it all out before the Almighty, laid it all out upon the altar, raised empty hands needing God, and reminding God of what we needed? I had asked for this, although I was careful not to dictate to the Almighty just when and how to cook up this miracle. (Experience had taught me that that was recipe for disaster). I asked, and reminded God of what we needed. "Ask and ye shall receive," Jesus promised. God would act, and I knew darn well that when the answer came it would come as a surprise and most likely cause not a little discomfort to us all. What else could I do?

As he rose to leave the study, I wondered if he would wash his hands. His hands were rough, calloused, coated with a fine powder, (well, of course, he was a laborer). He shifted as he reached out his hand to shake mine one more time, and asked if he could call me by my first name. The familiarity practically disarmed me. Just because we had both known the amazing power of God to save, he wanted to call me by my first name! "Most people call me 'Pastor'," I said, sheepishly, instead of warming to his invitation.

Soon enough, "my" flock, would surely turn on me. I could picture them asking one another how this man came to our church. I would have to confess to them, "It was an answer to prayer," though I wondered if I would have the courage to add, a prayer that God would change us. "What's the matter with the way things are?" they would ask with hurt and hardened expression. He would grin and I would weep and try to tell them yet again, why. Yes, this man was evidence that the Lord had heard my insistence that things simply could not be left as they were in his church.

As we left together, the door closed behind us, and I recognized the familiar dulled slamming sound I had heard before in so many souls and conversations. Yet my heart was rising at the promise that this man was coming to church on Sunday, and no slammed door would keep him out. Would any of the fold see this man as an answered prayer? Instead of fear and dread, I was amused by all the possibilities, and my heart began to sing a "Thank You" to the unknown future that would arise.

As I closed the door of my car, the car was permeated with the distinct, overpowering aroma of fresh baked bread. I could smell it and it made my mouth water, yet there was no explanation for the presence of this aroma. In sheer delight over what God had been sifting, grinding, shaping, and promising to raise in our midst, I acknowledged with thanks that, "Yes, there will be fresh bread to be offered, blessed, broken, and shared on Sunday," for God provides. And I, half-baked priest, and wheat and chaff pastor, at least know the Change Agent who is kneading me.

The Rev. Karen E.J. Henry is the rector of St. Luke's Church, Smethport, Pa.