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.