Whatever happened to the Charismatic Movement? Remember that phenomenon during the twenty year span from the Sixties to the Eighties? When the musical Hair was all the rage and the Age of Aquarius seemed upon us, when Jesus Christ Superstar and Godspell were making waves in and outside the church?

I was in Windsor when the movement hit its stride. Several hundred people could be found meeting in the basements of churches, mostly Roman Catholic and Anglican, almost any night of the week. There was a meeting out at the old seminary, St. Gabriel's, on one night, another at Assumption Parish later in the week and one downtown at Precious Blood, in the basement. Different people, but the same action!

The Charismatic Movement was actually sweeping the country in a not so hidden, but quiet sort of way. It was generating a lot of enthusiasm and suffering a lot of criticism. There was a lovely and loving spirit in these gatherings of folks who seemed relaxed and free in their worship. It seemed very simple and childlike. They actually believed that the Spirit of the Creator was in their gatherings and in each person there.

I used to slip in on Thursday nights at the downtown meetings. I liked the blue collar folks and the presence of street people. I also liked the leadership. A couple of priests, taking the chance of being disciplined, shared the work with lay people and nuns. Everyone seemed equal, no one had more authority than another.

Folks sang from printed sheets or paper-backed song books. The singing was soft and bluesy with an edge of longing; often happy, hand clapping music with guitars which never crowded out the voices of the people. There were teachings about prayer, about caring for the sick and for one another and preaching about the bonds that we shared with folks around the world in refugee camps, or at war and about how we could help out.

There were many folks in wheelchairs, on crutches or being assisted by friends. There were people that seemed scared and scarred. The broken bodies of the city seemed at home in those meetings. There was a welcome atmosphere and folks enjoyed being together. They felt free. There were always refreshments.

It was the prayer time that got to me. That's where the charismatic tag got attached. One of the leaders would start to pray. Others did back-up, humming along. Slowly and gently, others would begin praying in tongues. It was called tongues because of the story in the Bible, when "tongues of fire" descended on the people and they prayed in foreign languages so that everyone could understand. It sounded pretty chaotic, out of control, with everyone praying out loud at the same time. It was a sort of babble or singing in many voices, but lovely to hear.

Praying in tongues, glossolalia it is called, sets up a chorus of voices that sounds like all heaven and earth are praying at once. Some voices were soft and loving and beautiful to the ear. Some were guttural and frustrated, angry. Blending together they echoed the uncultivated heart of all humanity, bypassing the censor of the mind, allowing the soul to sing out deep feelings for which there are no words.

I was never able to pray in tongues, but I loved hearing this part of the service. Weary from parish work and often exhausted from dealing with trivialities, to slide into this gathering of celebrating folks was a relief from all the worry and responsibilities.

While some kept on praying, folks were invited to move to the front for the laying on of hands and to be prayed for. There was hope for healing offered for anyone. People asked for prayer without shame, accepting the care of others for their aches and quarrels with life.

No one jumped out of their wheelchairs shouting that they were healed or threw their crutches into a heap. No one professed great miracles. But there was an acceptance of human suffering that seemed rare in our hi-tech, rationalized world. Sometimes it was those in wheelchairs who laid on hands and prayed for the healing of others.

Everyone seemed to be free. Raw humanity was right out in the open. There were babies and their too young moms. Tattooed ex-cons sitting quietly, hopefully. There were the dying and the broken as well as professionals, the early Boomers, who dropped in on the way from one meeting or another. University students with their books piled beside them sitting by school dropouts with their arms scarred from needles. In other words, we were all there. All religions too. I wasn't the only hungry clergy in the house either. Charismatic services were beyond religion.

I think it was the warmth of Spirit, and the softness of the song that soothed and quieted the beast in me. No hierarchy of authority was present. There was no hiding, no pretense, no showing up to be seen. As a matter of fact, to be seen at a charismatic meeting could have been the kiss of death.

I guess the world and the church marched on in devotion to reason, elaborate systems and manuals and hi-tech saviours. I don't know what happened to the Charismatic Movement. Did it just pass into harmless memory?