A Saturday night. I've gone to bed wrong. I can tell. I don't feel at all convinced it's what I should be doing. I'm attacked by thoughts and behind those thoughts, anger. Wrongs and grievances lashing me to the bed- feeling suddenly alone and without help, with no one in my life that choses me first. Like my life without a champion or a friend. The incidents themselves were true, and all the hurt and the reality of living alone. True too. It was getting dicey in this infinite space.
And in the midst of it I returned to a landscape I've often been in. I think I understand where this place is- but by the looks of it- a dry expanse buttressed by sheer cliffs a long way off, a remote and fortified castle built into the side of a mountain, with a single round turret on which I often sit, wearing a really brilliant Victorian styled Gold number. And a medallion on a chain around my neck- which has been to me, since I've gotten it called 'the gift of loneliness'... I heard that in a sermon recently and I almost jumped out of my skin but now I can't remember- impossible to snatch. My deceased cat appears as a reluctant cherub in strapped on wings, hovering just above the rail. A paunch miniature bobcat looking at me askance. Anyway, therein has suddenly appeared a strong and narrow current which has cut itself through the scorched landscape. And there Jesus was, as he often is. Asking me to relinquish all weapons before I got in this new river. It was comical and melodramatic the amount of artillery...
You know. The gag where the weapons keep coming. And my fleshly self knows what it's lost in choosing eternity with Jesus. I said to him, if the good in me corrupted completely I would be good at revenge, and wrath. I would be unrelenting and consuming- self, others. Murder maybe. I am in touch with my darkside, to know the mercy of the one who called to me. But still I didn't want to get in- the current- too too of everything. I did, since he assured me I was tethered to him- this ferocious place of love, and asked me to release the prickly dead fruits in my hand- I did.
And I eventually slept. Reset. Worship music to sleep.
The next day I got up to go to church, trying to find a mental way around it and couldn't. I retrieved my necklace from the auspices of my St. Francis statue. And the phrase "the penitential man will kneel" flew through and i wondered what exactly God had in store for me-- which in my head I misquoted from IJ:the last crusade. It's the first test Indiana passes through entitled the "breath of God"- Only the penitent man will pass. And then the breath of the wind passing through the tunnel and billowing the cobwebs, and then giant blades loping off heads.
Yea. Church is going to be fun!
In the last season I've felt fairly directed about where to sit. And most unpleasantly I've been sitting in the very front for sometime. If you knew me when-- I seem to think to myself to no one in particular all the time. No one sits in the first pew at this particular place. One pew on the left is taken up by the security guard, who eyes me suspiciously since I'm so close. The 2nd (center) pew is taken up by the errant helper and tech equipment and the ominous countdown clock- the numbers turn red when the speaker goes over. So many sermons I listen to and usually not one escapes the mention of time... I digress- the 3rd front pew is taken up by the pastor usually, who has of late only come out after worship is over.
God seems to tell me consistently to Expect Him. It's very Ephiphanl. Expect to see. Expectancy. Expect me to show up and work. And so I do sit front and center, with varying degrees of attitude. This particular time I was feeling fairly neutral. During the three worship songs- the dialogue in my head went like this, "Ok I want you to kneel now." Lord, no. Ok, well only if I feel moved to by the...and Lord, no, look- the kids are sitting next to me now for worship and their handler Lord. This is awkward... (silence). As the first song goes I'm trying to compel myself to kneel on the floor where no one ever is, no one usually does. I'm sort of hunched over like I have a stomach ache. Eventually after the inner dialogue doesn't quiet I drop down into the 2nd song- and with nothing to buffer the weight. I whine. But I remain. Then by the 3rd song, as my mind is now wondering if I'll be able to get up or will I have to topple to the side and pull myself back up onto the pew, I hear, "Now, I want you to worship." So there I go, raising my arms full up and out to the Lord.
It is not as insincere as it sounds. But a mere prelude or preparation. Obedience is a practice.
So the sermon ensues. And all I can think is that it's enticing. It's trying. It's luring. But something is off. I ask, what is it. I see a "heart" and I see Jesus' signature- or his personhood. Ok. Ok. But wouldn't it be beautiful if pain - that was the subject- were benign? and if we were just to assign it no object of good or bad but just what "is" everything would be better. That however, is all our effort, and frankly it denies grace. Maybe if I tried harder. And I mean is that possibly anywhere modeled in scripture? No. NO. NO. Jesus is dying on the cross- and he's thinking, this is agony. He's not thinking, you know what- I'm going about this all wrong. People I spoke to heard this particular sermon saying it "spoke to them" or was "reassuring"- time again. Which makes the discerning among the congregation screaming "am I taking crazy pills!?" Though one person I spoke to said, well I thought about sending it to my atheist friends... yes. Because? It-didn't-have-God-in-it. Once in an endless book discussion my friends- an agnostic and an atheist- both said, I agree with everything he says, if you cut God out of it. Right. So you don't? Well... And that's ok. But you don't. Anyway I digress.
I bolt out of my seat during the "transitional" prayer and on the way out an acquaintance asks, how's the weather with you... and I say, dry dry dry. Arid desert dry. And just like turning around and passing out on your face, I turn and hold out my hands and they're trembling and humming. And I think, Lord, I am so angry. I am turning over the tables in the temple angry. I walk into the café and my whole body is vibrating. I'm not seeing red. I'm not having murderous thoughts, but the whole of me has a knowing that the Lord is grieved. I feel the Lord's wrath and His power. I sound a bit lunatic to myself as I say this. The ecstatic experiences I've had with the Lord so far, are never pleasant and harpsaical. And this is all new to me besides. So I don't know what...
But that's what it was.
I plunked my head down on a café table, commenced with deep breathing exercises, repeating my sacred word. And still. Then a friend comes up and says, my husband is coming (as he has a set time to pray and meditate every sunday), and she sees my face, and she says, oh you two are going to have fun, and I say to her, I'm so angry. And then I just start weeping. We hug. She leaves. I argue with a hapless staff member to turn down the sermon so I don't hear it again. She refuses and suggests I go sit on the cement outside, near the info table? And that my concerns are "valid". He arrives. I'm not calming. He starts reading the psalms and I feel myself receding, not out of control, but submitting to an experience as I can feel the rhythm of my night to day intertwining in the real- in what He was telling me, and preparing me for. I feel safe, even if I feel I may break apart.
The penitent man kneels. I go further this time. I get on my face. I get full on the concrete floor -prostrate- in the middle of the café spread out on my stomach with arms out and nose to the cold. And I pray. For a good 10minutes or however long. I think no particular thoughts. The worship is ending (since I can hear the whole thing replaying), and I say, ok, I think I can walk and go outside. Chatter. More prayer. Chatter. And then I have someone pray over me and I'm vibrating and weeping and laughing and my whole body is electric and singing the Lord's anger and His wrath and His great love. Because of course- we come up to compassion, we come out in worship- but it isn't an idle passage as I imparted, or carried, or interceded for something I can only try and snatch out of the air. But true. And only the foolish but HolySpirit embued man who prayed for me sipped his coffee as he prayed for me, as if it was no particular big deal. As if this sort of thing happens all the time, as if the mystery isn't to be pondered. As if God wasn't touched. Or I obliterated in the face of---
till next.
And in the midst of it I returned to a landscape I've often been in. I think I understand where this place is- but by the looks of it- a dry expanse buttressed by sheer cliffs a long way off, a remote and fortified castle built into the side of a mountain, with a single round turret on which I often sit, wearing a really brilliant Victorian styled Gold number. And a medallion on a chain around my neck- which has been to me, since I've gotten it called 'the gift of loneliness'... I heard that in a sermon recently and I almost jumped out of my skin but now I can't remember- impossible to snatch. My deceased cat appears as a reluctant cherub in strapped on wings, hovering just above the rail. A paunch miniature bobcat looking at me askance. Anyway, therein has suddenly appeared a strong and narrow current which has cut itself through the scorched landscape. And there Jesus was, as he often is. Asking me to relinquish all weapons before I got in this new river. It was comical and melodramatic the amount of artillery...
You know. The gag where the weapons keep coming. And my fleshly self knows what it's lost in choosing eternity with Jesus. I said to him, if the good in me corrupted completely I would be good at revenge, and wrath. I would be unrelenting and consuming- self, others. Murder maybe. I am in touch with my darkside, to know the mercy of the one who called to me. But still I didn't want to get in- the current- too too of everything. I did, since he assured me I was tethered to him- this ferocious place of love, and asked me to release the prickly dead fruits in my hand- I did.
And I eventually slept. Reset. Worship music to sleep.
The next day I got up to go to church, trying to find a mental way around it and couldn't. I retrieved my necklace from the auspices of my St. Francis statue. And the phrase "the penitential man will kneel" flew through and i wondered what exactly God had in store for me-- which in my head I misquoted from IJ:the last crusade. It's the first test Indiana passes through entitled the "breath of God"- Only the penitent man will pass. And then the breath of the wind passing through the tunnel and billowing the cobwebs, and then giant blades loping off heads.
Yea. Church is going to be fun!
In the last season I've felt fairly directed about where to sit. And most unpleasantly I've been sitting in the very front for sometime. If you knew me when-- I seem to think to myself to no one in particular all the time. No one sits in the first pew at this particular place. One pew on the left is taken up by the security guard, who eyes me suspiciously since I'm so close. The 2nd (center) pew is taken up by the errant helper and tech equipment and the ominous countdown clock- the numbers turn red when the speaker goes over. So many sermons I listen to and usually not one escapes the mention of time... I digress- the 3rd front pew is taken up by the pastor usually, who has of late only come out after worship is over.
God seems to tell me consistently to Expect Him. It's very Ephiphanl. Expect to see. Expectancy. Expect me to show up and work. And so I do sit front and center, with varying degrees of attitude. This particular time I was feeling fairly neutral. During the three worship songs- the dialogue in my head went like this, "Ok I want you to kneel now." Lord, no. Ok, well only if I feel moved to by the...and Lord, no, look- the kids are sitting next to me now for worship and their handler Lord. This is awkward... (silence). As the first song goes I'm trying to compel myself to kneel on the floor where no one ever is, no one usually does. I'm sort of hunched over like I have a stomach ache. Eventually after the inner dialogue doesn't quiet I drop down into the 2nd song- and with nothing to buffer the weight. I whine. But I remain. Then by the 3rd song, as my mind is now wondering if I'll be able to get up or will I have to topple to the side and pull myself back up onto the pew, I hear, "Now, I want you to worship." So there I go, raising my arms full up and out to the Lord.
It is not as insincere as it sounds. But a mere prelude or preparation. Obedience is a practice.
So the sermon ensues. And all I can think is that it's enticing. It's trying. It's luring. But something is off. I ask, what is it. I see a "heart" and I see Jesus' signature- or his personhood. Ok. Ok. But wouldn't it be beautiful if pain - that was the subject- were benign? and if we were just to assign it no object of good or bad but just what "is" everything would be better. That however, is all our effort, and frankly it denies grace. Maybe if I tried harder. And I mean is that possibly anywhere modeled in scripture? No. NO. NO. Jesus is dying on the cross- and he's thinking, this is agony. He's not thinking, you know what- I'm going about this all wrong. People I spoke to heard this particular sermon saying it "spoke to them" or was "reassuring"- time again. Which makes the discerning among the congregation screaming "am I taking crazy pills!?" Though one person I spoke to said, well I thought about sending it to my atheist friends... yes. Because? It-didn't-have-God-in-it. Once in an endless book discussion my friends- an agnostic and an atheist- both said, I agree with everything he says, if you cut God out of it. Right. So you don't? Well... And that's ok. But you don't. Anyway I digress.
I bolt out of my seat during the "transitional" prayer and on the way out an acquaintance asks, how's the weather with you... and I say, dry dry dry. Arid desert dry. And just like turning around and passing out on your face, I turn and hold out my hands and they're trembling and humming. And I think, Lord, I am so angry. I am turning over the tables in the temple angry. I walk into the café and my whole body is vibrating. I'm not seeing red. I'm not having murderous thoughts, but the whole of me has a knowing that the Lord is grieved. I feel the Lord's wrath and His power. I sound a bit lunatic to myself as I say this. The ecstatic experiences I've had with the Lord so far, are never pleasant and harpsaical. And this is all new to me besides. So I don't know what...
But that's what it was.
I plunked my head down on a café table, commenced with deep breathing exercises, repeating my sacred word. And still. Then a friend comes up and says, my husband is coming (as he has a set time to pray and meditate every sunday), and she sees my face, and she says, oh you two are going to have fun, and I say to her, I'm so angry. And then I just start weeping. We hug. She leaves. I argue with a hapless staff member to turn down the sermon so I don't hear it again. She refuses and suggests I go sit on the cement outside, near the info table? And that my concerns are "valid". He arrives. I'm not calming. He starts reading the psalms and I feel myself receding, not out of control, but submitting to an experience as I can feel the rhythm of my night to day intertwining in the real- in what He was telling me, and preparing me for. I feel safe, even if I feel I may break apart.
The penitent man kneels. I go further this time. I get on my face. I get full on the concrete floor -prostrate- in the middle of the café spread out on my stomach with arms out and nose to the cold. And I pray. For a good 10minutes or however long. I think no particular thoughts. The worship is ending (since I can hear the whole thing replaying), and I say, ok, I think I can walk and go outside. Chatter. More prayer. Chatter. And then I have someone pray over me and I'm vibrating and weeping and laughing and my whole body is electric and singing the Lord's anger and His wrath and His great love. Because of course- we come up to compassion, we come out in worship- but it isn't an idle passage as I imparted, or carried, or interceded for something I can only try and snatch out of the air. But true. And only the foolish but HolySpirit embued man who prayed for me sipped his coffee as he prayed for me, as if it was no particular big deal. As if this sort of thing happens all the time, as if the mystery isn't to be pondered. As if God wasn't touched. Or I obliterated in the face of---
till next.
