Wednesday, December 5, 2012

We are in winter

This is the season.  The long wait in the dark begins.  The trees are truly dead.  Branches fall and I look in wonder.  I can not believe they will breath again. I can not believe they store the life of March and months warmer.  Darkness falls before the earth can warm.  The day passes painlessly, without a moment's thought, but the devil is the repetition.

The house is closing into itself.  Our dwelling of warmth is quiet.  The chicken's cooing within the hutch in the yard, the rain patters in the desolate garden, and smell of our ever laboring oven fogs the windows.  We are done with the outside world for this year.  Ready to rest. Ready to let our leaves go.  To die for a season.  Soup, and silence.

Morning is maker for a dark night in which to begin.  Morning is the cold that must be ventured into, the rain that must be tasted. We are ready to cry a season.

Winter is dying.  The last season.  The death who does not promise to resurrect, we enter in.  Into darkness we walk without the sun set before us.  Winter is the end, the colors of last year passed, the freedom of a summer passed.  It is the giving, it is the taking, it is the end.

And all that we ran in daylight, all the roar and rush of the months behind us.  All the fire and youth and laughter, hushed.

Hushed for a season of wait,
    hushed for a moment to contemplate,
        hushed until we are outlasted by the darkness,
until silence can be stood no more.

Passion waits within the warm earth bellow.
Dawn holds its breath to rise.
The color of spring prepares to dance again.

The praise of a new morning from the cold broken hallelujah waits to erupt.  The simple birth of a savoir waits for Calvary's unity.  The life in the the dead of winter waits for the final glory.  The darkness starts the greatest story.  That when we could not hope another night.  When we could not remember warmth of sun, we remember.

How an Emanuel came in decent.
the waiting.
Until we can not dream of ascending up to Him,
can our hearts can receive without pride.
The Hope of Glory.

108 days to holy week.


We are in Winter.
The trees have gasped, their leaves departed.
The rain has greened, the world again around us.
Quenched the world's lips but intends to stay.
It rolls in with the light of morning,
tapping its fingertips across the roofs at night,
coughing a cold wind, refusing to be ignored.

We throw ourselves into our harness,
the climb up icey roads,
sloshing through the mud of new days,
on old roads,
the work begins.

Darkness falls.

A day becomes a moment,
an hour requires so much breathing,
plumes of steam we breath
chugging up the tracks well marked.

Darkness falls,

Night so long we live it as day,
the chill our feet cannot heat our of the blankets,
sorrow that waits not to be scene in sun,
longing that is waiting for the passage of time.

We wait.
in whisper.

The darkness forgets the sun tomorrow
the darkness is the dawn that greets us as light is all too fleeting
we can not wait for her.

We wait,
until hope is not a smile or phrase,
not a thought to grow fond of.

it is like the drum of rain,
it is the slosh of the puddles at our ankles
it is the wet that has soaked our shoes and does not dry
it is the chill that nips quickly to your nose
but last long in your bones

Hope lasts
though we no longer whisper.
No song of victory waits before us.
Darkness of darkness,
pass the life we could sing.

Death before us,
and all the ice deep within,
does not pray the prayers of sin.
It does not comfort,
or patently plead,
in silence it longs
for darkness to recede.

It is not hope from hearts sent
nor is it good will from men to men.

Oh but hope!
Hope beyond the call of joy,
beyond the eyes that reckon the void,
beyond the chill that causes our quakes
beyond the tears the wind does make.
Hope beyond the anguish and angst,
beyond the memories that have all but stayed.

We are in winter,
death and dark not staved.
We are in winter,
mud to trudge unpaved.
We are in winter,

a night.

Friday, June 8, 2012

Cosmic Love

The other week Andrew tried to get us to describe our current status with God as likened to a car.  I had no idea what my car-like relationship was with Jesus.  But after a recent car ride I did hear a song.  For months now it's been beyond words to put some sort of "relationship status" for me and God.  "It's complicated," but not in the "we're slowly breaking up" way that facebook is talking about.  It's really just complicated.  It's a lot like a lot of things, but not exactly.  It's almost like...but not quite.  

'A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes
I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it's left me blind...'

Does that make any sense?  This God so simplistically 'good' or 'mean' or any other thing that we find ourselves good enough to judge falls short to the action of a live being.  I mean.  It's not about God 'being' any peticular adjective, rather He is, therefore, He'd doing--.  Somewhere in my past, as well as my present I find myself blinded by the heart of this lover I have only ever know as "God."  God, no longer the distant being, but the something of a song, with stars in His heart.  

So yay? Good for me?

I find myself blind.  Blind, in the wholly unromantic way. 
The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out

You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat
I tried to find the sound
But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness,
So darkness I became

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight

In the shadow of your heart

That Christian victory everyone strives for, for the whole world to "grow strangely dim," I've long since past by, because dim is nothing to a blindman.  I can't see.  Its not a glorious passion, but a desperation I live out grasping in the dark.  Stumbling over things I cannot see longing to see God.  For the feeling of closeness I have been ruined for anything short of.  But I am still blind.  I pray. I seek. And I am thrust into mourning.  Searching for a God that has ravaged my heart and then disappeared into darkness.

 I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map

And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

I've had a few stranger 'spiritual experiences' lately an odd occurrence where I was thinking about fasting.  I say 'thinking' because the morning thereof I knew, that day, something would happen if I could do it.  If I could sit in the stillness, if I could pray the away the darkness, I could get Him back. I could call, and plead, kick and scream, then, I knew, He would return.  I was torn there and then.  I stood with one foot on either side of the divide in my theological casume. To trust the God leading me in the dark, or to call down the God of far off heaven.  To believe He loved me, or to demand a business transaction from a business-god.  One last time I asked, speak. 


One word.  One wrecking, little word.

I sat there a moment. Then I went down stairs.  And ate breakfast.

I am still in the dark.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

"Just" the Moon...

So I wrote this a while ago and gave it a little face lift...I think it probably needs another one... but oh bother :)


She was not necessarily a loner, rather, it was simply more often than not she found herself alone.  Even then it wasn’t entirely bad.  She was, like everyone else, but, for the most part, everyone else didn’t know that. In fact they didn’t always remember her name.

With a sigh she tossed her phone onto her bedside table.  Once again a thorough search of her contacts found no one for a night like this.  She groaned.  How was she even laying on her bed?  It had to be a hundred degrees in the mobile park, much less inside one of these little tin cans still holding heat from the muggy summer day inside. 

Summer.  Summer was for being young.  Summer was for living.  For driving, and talking, and—many things, but not tonight.  The air was thick with sticky humidity which made moving feel like swimming and breathing very similar to drowning. 

“One,” she sighed, not quite ready she relaxed in her bed.  Now, a moment later she counted, “one, two, three,” after which she dragging herself upwards.  Standing she groped around in the dark a minute searching.  With a few bumps and clatters she pulled on her boots. 

“Where are you go—” she slammed the door. Not tonight.  Language was impossibly difficult,  “No, please.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say to the voice from inside the van. 
Before long she was running.  Why was she wearing boots?  She scorned her stupidity as the new blisters started to form.  Idiot, she thought.  The leaves crunched underfoot creating a roar the moment she stepped off the asphalt of the park into the woods.  Her hair swung wildly about her face, in front of her eyes.  It stuck there, clinging to her sweaty skin.  Somehow doing so always engaged her.  It was suffocating.  Clawing and struggling with her hair as she went she was propelled faster.  Onward.  More.  She urged her legs to continue.  She couldn’t feel the blisters any more, she couldn’t hear the leaves under foot.  Then she saw, it.

The lake with all of its cool and invitation was out stretched before her.  Just a few more trees, a few more paces, she was there.  Her breath was hard and she was still suffocating under her hair, under the air, under her own skin.   She slowed, walking out from the safety of the trees into the light of the moon. 

She felt suddenly under examination, where once she had been a wild thing, she was no longer.  Now she stood in light, her damp pink tank top, her jeans cut to shorts, and beaten boots holding throbbing feet, the cracked nail polish, the makeup running down her face; this was her.  She stood and it pained her.  She was alone to slinking eyes, to those who could still be in the dark, but worse she was visible to the light and her own suddenly open eyes.  She was watched by the harvest moon.  It was ever so far, and near.  Its yellow light was almost like daylight, glinting off her sweaty skin.  It lit the lake as a perfect mirror, the stillness of the wind passed hardly a ripple.
She walked to the water’s edge as though she were in church.  Her shoulders removed from any poor posture and her head held none too high.  Below was also the scene above, the stars and moon and trees over head all resided in the dark water’s reflection.  She stood a moment in awe, losing herself in the world above and forgetting below, forgetting which one she was a part of.  She was, really, somewhere in between, the waters cool at her feet and the silent space above.
Something flashed into her sights.  She leapt back from the water’s edge falling back into the dust.  Her heart was in her stomach, and her stomach in her throat, as the happy illusion vanished from her mind.  She crawled to the edge again. The despair of her knowledge was all that remained.  Again, the flash of yellow returned.  She looked down at her own reflection.  She was a pitiful thing.  It was her hair, once again, which gave her away.  Her long bleach yellow waves, were frizzy and deflating.  Stray hairs poked out everywhere and stuck to her sweaty skin, topped off with an inch of brown hair growing from the roots.

Filthy blouse, filthy skin, filthy hair—tears rolled down her cheeks as she gazed on.  Nothing could tear her from the picture below.  It was the dream, the glory all growing dim to her image.  She watched as the beauty around her blurred and her eyes filled again with tears emptying into the pool and distorting the other-her as well. Trash. She was lost in her misery a little longer; her shoulders shook with emotions she choked down into silence.  Silence on the water, that’s what she had come for, and why was she ruining it?  Finally she could remain silent.  She had captured her sorrows once more within herself; once more she could take part in the silence of the night. 
But the silence did not resume.  Silence was broken.  Silence was filled with anguish.  She looked out on the glass of the lake to see, a boat.  It was a thin sailing skiff, ironic, seeing as there wasn’t a breath of wind within a hundred miles.  At the front of the boat perched a boy, or a man—a male.  He was doubled over and shirtless his shoulders slinking up and down to a cry which split across the humid air.  He groaned his chest releasing a burden making his well defined ribs sag beneath his skin.  His gangly arms dropped from holding his head, stretching out to the waters below.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” his weeping had grown softer, weaker. 

She knelt at the water’s edge, watching.  Listening to the silence wrestling with the sound, of the man in the boat, was chilling and intimate.  It was to witness what she should not have seen, but saw.  This moment with the silence and the man was as though the earth rotated from that point, perhaps that even the moon seemed to stand in witness to the figure on the boat.  Slowly the sound continued, in waves in rhythms, it pounded.  It refrained only to return with a thunder, a violent rebuttal, was defeated only to return in rage.  His cries were not a mere escape from his lips but a song, a story he told of a soul who refused to stand still.

After watching on for some time she felt as though she had known him, as though she was a part of the song itself an no longer an intruder but one of the honored guests like the trees and the water.
“Why,” she called out a moment.  Her voice cracked from its sudden us.  She regretted the sound the moment she spoke, so foreign so unwelcome in this beautiful story.

The crier cease, she regretted her actions even more so.  He sniffed, taking a deep breath with all the time in the world.  He turned his head over his shoulder to see the person who had spoken behind him.

“Why what?” he sniffed again, his nose obviously still effected by his tears.
She shook horrified, what had she done? What had she wanted to ask in the first place?  She stood before speaking, “why are you crying?”

The man leapt from his seat at the tip of the boats bow towards the center.  The moon revealed him even more frail and sunken, his rib cage heaving visibly beneath the surface.  “Why do I cry,” his eyes looked to heaven, to the moon who shone down on him.  “Why do I cry,” his voice cracked and his eyes were once again filled with tears, he stretched his gangly arms out to the sky, “I cry” he said with his voice barely stifling sobs below, “I cry, because, because I was once in a storm.”
He stood longer looking up at the moon his arms grasped from behind him the boats mast and rigging.  He leaned back on it so to look even higher above his head.

“I was once in a storm,” the aguish in his voice was overwhelming cracking with a definite snap.  He turned to the mast and pushed with all his might, running then to the other side he pushed again.  The boat remained eerily still as he now jumped from one side of the boat to the other.  With a shriek he said, “I once was in a storm but there’s no wind now.”
He collapsed to the floor of his boat his head buried in the crook of one arm while the other dragged in the water. 

“I was once in a storm,” he yelled with all his might, “and I once was so, so scared.  Because he was a god, and I loved him.  I was trying so, so hard to get to shore.  I once was a sailor, and the seas were so high.  I thought,” his sobbing resumed a moment, he paused, “I thought I was going to die.”

“But you didn’t die,” her voice called out across the still lake, “you’re here now, it’s calm.”
“I was so scared, and the waves were so big and strong.  My arms,” he held them out again to her, while still sitting in the boat, “my arms were so tired and my back was so weak, and I couldn’t go any further—and I loved him.”

“I was so scared,” said this looking straight into her eyes, into eyes that rarely were looked into.  He grew more serious, “I thought I might even lose my boat.” He paused to let his words of ultimate dread sink in.  “I thought I would, but he was sleeping.”

He stood looking again at the moon then at her his smile through tear stained eyes was an anguish all its own, a victory held between his parted lips, taking all their strength to express it, “SLEEPING! Can you imagine?”  He let out a small empty laugh.

Something in his smile held her in rapture; she spoke without thinking “in a storm?”

“Yes,” he laughed again, “he slept in that boat, while my back broke, while my arms grew tired—when I thought we might die! He slept.  He slept so peacefully, so happily—I don’t know if he was often happy, often he was so burdened—he was, so good to me.  But when he slept, he was, he was,” he stumbled around for words, the tears still streaming down his face, “he was so tired, and so strong, and I wanted to get him to shore.  He was rapped tight in a blanket—we used to call him a sleeping kitten.  But I guess no one was calling him that then.”

The man sighed, his eyes were already there.  Far from the girl, and the boat.  Wherever it was, it played out before him, retelling the old tale again and again.  “He was sleeping, and I thought for sure we would die, but someone---someone  woke him up.  They woke him! And  he turned from them and walked,” he stood saying this returning to his perch, “he stood right here, where the waves rocked the most, and he,” the man continued the reenactment, “he stretched out his arms wide—so the whole storm could see him.”  His hands fell to his sides and he turned to the girl on shore again.  “I don’t know what he said, I doubt he had to say anything, but when he stretch out his arms,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “silence.”
He let out a new cry, a rebuttal of all rebuttals, a vengeance and a sorrow too deep to be haphazardly spoken in his story.  It was overwhelming him, engulfing him, he was fighting it as much as he rode on the anguish that filled his heart.

“Peace.  It was so sweet, my arms were no longer worried, my back could rest against the boat, I could get him to shore. But peace,” he struggled to keep his cries under breath, “but peace is so still, and the storm was so big—I thought we were going to die—but he was,” he looked up at the moon gazing from a slightly higher position, “YOU were here!”  He screamed falling backwards to lean against the mast.

“But you’re safe, you got the man to shore.”
“I loved him, O God I loved him.”
“But you did your best, you got to shore!”
“It’s not the storm,” he groaned, “he was there.”
“He calmed it, I thought you didn’t like the storm?”
“He was there when it was peaceful too.”
“So what’s wrong?”

“He is the moon, but I loved him.  He was once sleeping—He was once sleeping in my boat, and I loved him.  He was sleeping,” his grief so overwhelming he could only laugh through his tears, his eyes returned from their far off place to the girl on shore, “he was sleeping, in my boat.  I knew him, and he loved me.”

“Who was he?” she asked.  The man’s wild eyes saw her core, it was as though he knew her too well.  It was as though she had been with him all the time he had wept, as though he knew everything about her, and she him.  And yet some unknowing was painful, her questions just as cruel.
                                                                                     “He was my God,
                                                                                               He is my God,
                                                                                                     and now He is just the moon.”

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

a thought from today...

Today I visited a new bible study.  It had bibles, so that was a plus from the last year or so!  It's new.  I'm learning how to form words that I haven't had to before.  Trying to for a new set of words that don't burn like the the fires of hell taught in sermons past; that burn and scare.  I'm trying to say 'faith' like I believe it, without images of the "violent-faithful" the "fake-faith-healers" and the forced-faith" of experiences past.

In the middle of this well meaning earnest love, hope and kindness, a good-hearthed people meet.  A seeking, well meaning, group of hopefuls.  Intelligent, and very well learned.

Still, something for me is missing.  I want to see more, to learn, to know,--but something is missing.

In all this inclusivity gospel I find myself missing Jesus.  Not "mine vs. theirs," or Pipers "masculine feel."  It's not that Jesus is too girly--or manly--or purple.  I miss the closeness, the nearness of Christ.  The warmth of love in the passages, the expectation that builds when HE is near, or almost near.

I long of the company of the saints I grew up with, those who spoke of "our Lord," with the fondness to make you blush and turn, the sight of intimacy uncomfortable and yet you wanted to be just like them.  Its a difficult transition from hearing the sobs of congregation members choking through the death of Christ in the Good Friday message, to the "nice-ness" of human compassion, and the metaphorical life of Christ. Its not that I don't care about the earth, but when He died and rose, I'm fairly sure those who knew him were far more glad at the return of their friend than the restoration of creation.

So quickly the love of Christ beyond words has far too many words.  He is a symbol and a remodel, a great philosophy.  He is the picture of love the expression of good, he is so many good and great things, but if that is all he is, he is finite.  He is an icon on the wall, a map in our self-revolving worlds.  He is a thing that exists, as a deep but doomably two dimensional image.  Not a man, not a spirit, not a God, rather the figment of perfection we can never touch.  He is just another god to hang on the hall of subjective, personalize, perfects.  He then, can only be, what meaning we can create in him.

How I long for more than a nice thought,
                                          an invigorating quote,
                                              or a sigh of contentment.

I long for The Ever Offending One,  the Shaker of the Cosmos, the Turner of Tables, and the Tender of Sheep.

Give me the man-God, who knows me,
give me Jesus.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

See it. (real post in a day or two...)

What do you think when you see this photo?

Because I think at this wedding,
people will laugh at the bride eating cake
people will smile and wonder at the groom who loved her
and, "you look beautiful," will have a slightly different tone.

Look at the image above,
compare it to the one below.

Its different.
I ponder this...

Monday, March 5, 2012

The Fear in Godliness and the Godlessness in Fear.

I’m coming the startling conclusion that no one is as cool as they’d like to be, and yet everyone is as close to the edge as they ever plan to be.  I mean, while it’s nice to think about “living dangerous” we’re quite happy to confine and define that phrase to mean not locking our cars at fast stops and watching the occasional pirated movie.  We are geared to seek out our own self safety and yet, we long to trust other than ourselves.

To explain…

So there’s this church.  A jolly church.  A jovial church.  In a word, they are a hipster church.
Now as clips from Rob Bell’s Nooma videos dance in your head let me shatter your, “Everything is Spiritual,” nostalgia to say, this is not Rob Bell’s church.  This is nowhere near Rob Bell’s church.  Apparently the classic 3 determinants of an, “Emergent,” are flawed! FLAWED I SAY!


Now observe, Pastor Bell.  We have our 3, clothes, media, bible facts.  These people are hip! They dress like the coolest of the cool, they have the snazziest websites (iphone apps to boot!), and all of their bible teachings are laced with interesting facts, 5 minute history lessons, and rhetorical questions.

Now observe, we have the imposter!  Note the snazzy, the clothes of our grandparents mixing with Christianese tattoos, but what?—what is this! Oddly, fundamentalism.

1.sometimes initial capital letter ) a movement in AmericanProtestantism that arose in the early part of the 20thcentury in reaction to modernism and that stresses theinfallibility of the Bible not only in matters of faith and moralsbut also as a literal historical record, holding as essential toChristian faith belief in such doctrines as the creation of theworld, the virgin birth, physical resurrection, atonement bythe sacrificial death of Christ, and the Second Coming.
2. the beliefs held by those in this movement.
3.strict adherence to any set of basic ideas or principles: thefundamentalism of the extreme conservatives.

Fundamentalism, and Emergentism don’t mix.  Since a picture says a thousand words let me show you


You see, they are cool.  They have cool clothes, they look unhappy, the girls don’t look afraid of boys, those boys look like grandpas.  Alcohol, and coffee!!! this is perfectly cool—but not.  Fundamentalist have a nasty habit of saying rather out of date things.  Things no one is even sure about.  They say stuff like, “these are the facts folks!” “this is the truth!” “You’re not living biblically,” and our favorite, “you are going to hell.”

Now let me explain.  Since my hipsters seem impostures to their own faith let me defined a more emergent view...

1. “Facts” are something from math and sciences.  If we learned anything from Dr. J.R. Wile’s homeschooled science curriculum we learned that “SCIENCE DOESN’T PROVE ANYTHING!” I believe that was an essay question…  And to the extent of being absolutely right, not very many people are willing to even argue that we can know everything.  Most would say we simply can’t.  We can make educated guesses, believe based on our experience, and have faith, but to ‘know’ is a different matter.

2.  “You’re not living biblically.” Either A) I don’t agree with what you think the bible means, or B) I’m not a Jew or Greek living before 60 D.A.  Your biblically and my biblically can be radically different.

3. “You are going to hell,” because you are the judge?  Oh, because God gave you a copy of the entrance form? I honestly hope that is what people mean by this statement because all that is left is the whole... “if you forgive…if you don’t forgive…(See John 20:23)” bit, and if that’s the grounds you’re damning people than you can just !@#$@%^$^%—

These are actually fairly well rounded arguments and widely accepted in the more progressive (non-fundamentalist) Christian world.  They have the same Jesus, both believe in salvation, both in gospel—and yes mom, they both believe in sin, and hell…to an extent…  What is comes down to is, how much we trust our own perception. 

Do you?

I mean really, do you?                   

As I’ve said before, if believing the right thing is the only thing that gets us into heaven or hell we’re still working.  We are earning our salvation by what we know the law to be.  If you’ve ever been wrong about something this is startling.  Because what if you are wrong?—what if you get something wrong but it was an accident?  How much stalk do we put into what we do?  In believing the HOLY BIBLE! and our infallible ability to discern this book?  How much faith do we put into our knowledge of the evils of dancing, smoking, and drinking? How much faith?

Have I painted a scary world for you?  That if YOU are the only person YOU can trust and YOU don’t even have faith in discerning if YOU are "working out your salvation" properly are we all DAMNED?


Because if all we have is us,
  then we have no God,
and the Godless are truly damned.

So we try to create this lovely bubble.  Of “informed,” “discerned,” biblical interpretations that way we can make rules.  Rules that will assure we don’t have sex with the wrong people, we don’t get drunk, we don’t step out of bounds with that weird Holy Spirit, we don’t “disorder” the worship services, and NEVER question Church authority.  If we could only make those rules God will always be happy with us and we will all go to heaven, and all the people who don’t, can go to hell. J

This hasn't ever happened before...really...

"Look I know you're pissed Mo, try not to drop this set.." 

"Now see here kids, we've narrowed down those 10 commands to 613 rules!"

"Please read through our brief doctrinal statement"

We don’t need a god when we have a rule book.  Like Israelites, because they were afraid to die, sent Moses to deal with the Darkness and the Cloud on Mount Sinai. (See Exodus 20.)  They were afraid, and so they asked for:


Rules are God at arm’s length, they maybe the truth but there is no love.  They are instruments reduced to clanging and crashing, because the love that makes them beautiful is nowhere to be found. (See Corintians 13)

And why isn’t He anywhere to be found?

I think, in part, it's why Jesus spoke in parables. (Mark 4:11-12)

Because the truth is always to be revealed in love.  In relationship to the God, not to get close to him, but to be made visible when he comes better and better into view.  Without love, giving your coat—walking the extra mile—the beautiful remembrance of Christ's death in communion is nothing but a rule and a curse.

We long for our creator,
to trust, but learning to trust is scary. 

We are afraid.

And so I conclude:  while we want to want the deep darkness.  The thunder and lightning, the mountain top with the omnipotent, is far too scary.  We must trust in the darkness of God, or be left as fools making rules on the things we claim our eyes can see in spite of the darkness.  We are blind and in need someone to lead us, yet that trust is almost more terrifying than groveling in our own incapacity.

"Jesus loves me this I know..."--sung no one in that crowd.

I sit in a crowd of supposedly intellectual, relevant the culture, young and energetic, thinkers, to hear someone say, “that sounds almost like Grace covers everyone's sin, but we KNOW this can’t be true…so what else could it mean?”  I sit.  I watch. My heart breaks.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

I grow weary.

And we, like sheep have gone astray.

I grow weary.

I grow weary of the bitterness in the hearts of broken people.  Bitterness that finds that the only common denominator of ‘good pastor’ and ‘bad pastor’ is ‘pastor.’  I grow weary as we endlessly quibble over words and lose all interest in their meaning. 
“too religious,”
“too unbiblical,”              
“too disrespectful,”
“obviously legalistic,”

 All a game of making everyone happy, and everyone’s god similar enough to cheer about—to link arms and say,
“HUZZAH! And Amen, down with those sons of bitches!  Down with those children—they knew what they were doing! YIPPEEE, down with those evil men, with those children, beat them! Kill them!  We all agree they deserve it!”

There is no unjust judge in the heat of the moment,
There is no shortage of rocks in the gaze of an adulterer

We all want to cheer and be a part of the home team.  Or ‘the’ team, since a discussion of jersey color would quickly reveal we can’t agree upon whose “home team” we’re talking about.

We hate a petty myriad of things.
Control,               judgment,           intolerance,       doubt,
All ironic negatives of actions we are so devout towards,
Covenant,           justice,                 truth,                    journey,

We want villains to fight, words to be bad guys, --something more unifying than grace.  We want two dimensional characters like the wicked ones of fairytales. 

We want rules to break them.  “We do what we do not want to do,” because we want more than anything to ‘do.’  We want to do because we cannot stand what we have become.  We cannot simply be because our very being is tainted.  Not the in ‘evil’ of our beloved “bad guys,” no, much worst, we are flesh; we are more. 

We are hungering, aching, living, dying, laughing, crying, beings and we are failing at it miserably.

We are clawing for a goodness we suppose means fighting badness.  We must try.  We must try fall after fall, to DO something better than our BEing.  We must fight because, had we a moments silence, the torment of our split souls, our good mixing with the filth of our bad, would surely drive us mad.
                We have cried out, but learned to nurse our own wounds.
                                We have yearned, but met with silence we sought the love of another.
                                                We have fallen.

There is no one sinless in the eyes of The Rabbi,
but there are no stones in the hands of Grace.