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.