I wonder if in the times I do not doubt, if I am seeing clearly at all.
I could tell you what I've learned when I get to the other side, but I tire of reading other people's lessons once they have already learned them. The middle of the beating is the pith of the experience.
I was made to be whole, and the knowledge that I will never be a finished work leaves me sullen and limp. I wanted to be without blemish, and I can not be. I find no hope in telling myself tales of some wabi sabi beauty, where the cracks are filled in with gold and the final picture has a beauty of its own. Get away with your neat little bows, get away with your platitudes. I do not care to stand before you and swallow your sugar pills, or feel that I must "admit the truth" so that you will not be upset with my doubt.
I am ruled by my emotions, and I am told that this is wrong. Indeed, it is overwhelming. I am wounded by someone and I can not refresh my opinion of them. I hear bad news in the morning, and can not grip "a good day" as it slips away. I have successfully overridden my feelings with my thoughts many times, and this is not a productive alternative. I am supposed to have a bedrock of faith that holds me above my thoughts and feelings, but I must have done it wrong.
I wanted to be buoyant, wise, and soft in my old age, but I will be cold and hard forever by then.
I do not hate myself, I hate this place I am in.
I hate that there is beauty abounding, but terrors unchecked intertwined.
Nothing is sacred, nothing is pure.
I myself am a hopelessly coiled tangle of yarn, the frayed strangling the divine.
And it does not come undone.
I have been like a wild woman,
sifting,
scratching,
clawing through rubble and refuse,
looking for THAT THING.
The key. The key. The key...
Where is the key.
I have a ring full of the keys, and none of them unlock Rest.
I am not "healthy". I am not holistic. I am not growing in a straight line.
I grow bent and gnarled, a sapling lashed by the wind.
I impose my standard of perfection on the healing process, and it wants nothing to do with my maniacal control tendencies.
It gives me two black eyes and does not let me cover them up.
My face is tired, unable to smile at you if I am supposed to.
My spirit is weary, bitter that you have not come down in thundering glory.
I am a little rodent, caught in your cage.
Do I believe you are a good God? I don't know.
You can not beat me into a yes.
I look at the people taking hope in Christ and I think, "who are you talking to?"
They have become the crazy ones because they are not crazy like me.
my God, my God! Why have you forsaken us.
Ephesians 1:22-23
God has put all things under the authority of Christ and has made him head over all things for the benefit of the Church. And the Church is his body, it is made full and complete by Christ, who fills all things everywhere with himself.
But I reach out, and the space must be empty. He fills things everywhere, and I do not see him. He takes his hand away. He fills things everywhere, and I see suffering, unending.
A lament, an honest angry psalm that doesn't rhyme.
God, I don't understand you! I think you might be mean!
I think you might be slow or blind.
Have you not heard the wails of your people?
Have you not seen the confusion your loved ones are weighed down by?
Have you not felt the turning of our stomachs at what is happening in the corners of the night?
Crush them, already! Do something!
I think now is the time, but you don't seem to think so.
If the church is your body, why is it so ugly?
Do you even care if I stop believing?
Would you even notice?
Don't you know you have to fight for what you love?
If you see each bird that falls, surely you can spare a care for me.
If my tears burn my cheeks in concentration of anger, do you laugh at me for my pitiful understanding?
But where are your burning arrows, why don't you open up the sky?
Where is your gaze, piercing the fog and smoldering this afflicted rock with your Truth that we can not look away from?
Why is everything unclear? Do you not feel like giving answers?
Why did you even make me? I would have preferred to skip the human phase.
Your promises are pages I might be tearing out because you seem to have forgotten them.
If I pain you, will you open your eyes in my direction?
(Ouzo Kim)
I could tell you what I've learned when I get to the other side, but I tire of reading other people's lessons once they have already learned them. The middle of the beating is the pith of the experience.
I was made to be whole, and the knowledge that I will never be a finished work leaves me sullen and limp. I wanted to be without blemish, and I can not be. I find no hope in telling myself tales of some wabi sabi beauty, where the cracks are filled in with gold and the final picture has a beauty of its own. Get away with your neat little bows, get away with your platitudes. I do not care to stand before you and swallow your sugar pills, or feel that I must "admit the truth" so that you will not be upset with my doubt.
I am ruled by my emotions, and I am told that this is wrong. Indeed, it is overwhelming. I am wounded by someone and I can not refresh my opinion of them. I hear bad news in the morning, and can not grip "a good day" as it slips away. I have successfully overridden my feelings with my thoughts many times, and this is not a productive alternative. I am supposed to have a bedrock of faith that holds me above my thoughts and feelings, but I must have done it wrong.
I wanted to be buoyant, wise, and soft in my old age, but I will be cold and hard forever by then.
I do not hate myself, I hate this place I am in.
I hate that there is beauty abounding, but terrors unchecked intertwined.
Nothing is sacred, nothing is pure.
I myself am a hopelessly coiled tangle of yarn, the frayed strangling the divine.
And it does not come undone.
I have been like a wild woman,
sifting,
scratching,
clawing through rubble and refuse,
looking for THAT THING.
The key. The key. The key...
Where is the key.
I have a ring full of the keys, and none of them unlock Rest.
I am not "healthy". I am not holistic. I am not growing in a straight line.
I grow bent and gnarled, a sapling lashed by the wind.
I impose my standard of perfection on the healing process, and it wants nothing to do with my maniacal control tendencies.
It gives me two black eyes and does not let me cover them up.
My face is tired, unable to smile at you if I am supposed to.
My spirit is weary, bitter that you have not come down in thundering glory.
I am a little rodent, caught in your cage.
Do I believe you are a good God? I don't know.
You can not beat me into a yes.
I look at the people taking hope in Christ and I think, "who are you talking to?"
They have become the crazy ones because they are not crazy like me.
my God, my God! Why have you forsaken us.
Ephesians 1:22-23
God has put all things under the authority of Christ and has made him head over all things for the benefit of the Church. And the Church is his body, it is made full and complete by Christ, who fills all things everywhere with himself.
But I reach out, and the space must be empty. He fills things everywhere, and I do not see him. He takes his hand away. He fills things everywhere, and I see suffering, unending.
A lament, an honest angry psalm that doesn't rhyme.
God, I don't understand you! I think you might be mean!
I think you might be slow or blind.
Have you not heard the wails of your people?
Have you not seen the confusion your loved ones are weighed down by?
Have you not felt the turning of our stomachs at what is happening in the corners of the night?
Crush them, already! Do something!
I think now is the time, but you don't seem to think so.
If the church is your body, why is it so ugly?
Do you even care if I stop believing?
Would you even notice?
Don't you know you have to fight for what you love?
If you see each bird that falls, surely you can spare a care for me.
If my tears burn my cheeks in concentration of anger, do you laugh at me for my pitiful understanding?
But where are your burning arrows, why don't you open up the sky?
Where is your gaze, piercing the fog and smoldering this afflicted rock with your Truth that we can not look away from?
Why is everything unclear? Do you not feel like giving answers?
Why did you even make me? I would have preferred to skip the human phase.
Your promises are pages I might be tearing out because you seem to have forgotten them.
If I pain you, will you open your eyes in my direction?
No comments:
Post a Comment