Some years ago, I was a preacher. I had two anxiety dreams in that distant part of my life that still amuse me.
In the first, I stepped up to the lecturn after one of our elders — an exceptionally tall man — had been speaking. The microphone was way above my head. I kept jumping and jumping, but I just couldn’t grasp it to bring it down to my level.
In the other, I announced the text I was going to preach from, and then tried to turn to it in the Bible. Only I couldn’t find it. I did my best to put a brave face on things: smiling and saying, “That’s right, it’s just past Isaiah”, or “… just before Paul’s letters” or whatever. Doggedly I flipped the pages one way, and then the other way, but I simply couldn’t find my text. Meanwhile, the entire time I had allotted for the sermon was being consumed with me searching futilely, like someone who had never opened a Bible in his life.
I don’t remember what was making me anxious on those occasions. Presumably I was preparing to speak at some event a little out of the ordinary (not the weekly Sunday sermon). Whatever the occasion was, my anxiety was expressed unsubtly in those dreams.
