...and I will hear you, so says our Lord.
Come down here. Take me. Take me in the ways we always write about but have never done. Take me in your arms. Take me against your body. Take me dancing. Take me riding. Take me to the ocean where I first knew her eyes molten. Take me away from this starry sky beside this abandoned dove house, high above the wrought iron, rusty metal acidic fire escape where I first realized that she loved me, she loved me not, she didn't know me at all.
The words haunt me. They come again and again like they burn in my blood. Every time they cycle again through my heart it beats and they come like the edge of the knife a dream told me to send.
I am speechless. I am also not who you just called me.
And the fast tumble of sorry meant so much less than I thought it would.
I was not raised to forgive this.
“I wanted you.
I wanted no one else.
I thought it through.
I got you to myself...”
Your words haunt me. “She gave me sanctuary. Her home was my safe house. I would do anything... even deny everything I am, everything I was, to have one place that was stable and sane.”
I am nodding my head. Yes. I wanted that. A safe place. A home I could count on to return to. A haven, a heaven, a heart... oh Lord. I can't believe I ever said yes. I walk my laptop to the edge of the roof and let it drop. I can't burn the letters if they're all digital. But the sound of silicon and plastic and steel splintering through the alley is the sound I'm making when I open my mouth and scream.
You have no idea, my dear friend, my sister, how alike we are. How I avoid (shunned even) the labels for so long. I am above them, I insisted. I am woman, hear me (not even close to) roar. It was so much easier. I played both sides against the middle. I danced the lines between this and that, light and dark, wrong and right. I walked the fence. I rode the centerline.
Why did I finally? Why did I finally come to yes? Was it my mind or my body that betrayed me? Was it hope... because it certainty wasn't faith.
I am crying now. But not in mourning. You, my companion, my comrade, have cried enough of those tears for both of us. Six months? Six months you have mourned? My voice bounces back at me. I rip my jacket off and throw it after my computer. My t-shirt: Silence = Death. How apropos. Tear it off, grrl. Tear off your mourning veil. Throw it down. Let it catch fire and turn to ash. Channel all that burning into making love with *your* woman. What Christ has granted you, cannot be taken away. Pull her close and her choice will be obvious between every gasp, every sigh, every time she cries your name against your heart.
Throw it down, baby. Throw it down.
“You got off
every time you got onto me.
Was it wrong
to go along with insanity?”
You will never find safety with man. My father used to say that. I thought sometimes he was telling me something nonlinear and literal. I am a rape survivor. I am a lesbian. Was he telling me something I didn't know about myself then? Something that hadn't happened yet? Other times I thought he meant it as a comment on denomination. The vice grip that holds and twists and mutilates decent souls into not knowing right from wrong. The factories that encase their children in shells of fear so thick they finally combust and burn down everyone around them. Today... today I think he just meant that in Christ we find safety. Not in the mortal coil but rather in the Holy Ghost.
Yes. There it is. The trinity returns to recast herself as a reality in my life, in my heart. The three made one. Father, Son and the Being that lives in my heart and in yours. They are talking now. They know we have laid on the bed when it was already on fire. We bared our everything and worked our hours and bled and sweat and cried and did The Right Thing. Again and again and again. But our reward is Christ. Not a world of man that hands us what we have handed them.
Cry sanctuary, and I will hear you. Let me be your safe place. Build this house with me. Dance this beat with me. Watch me show the world how dedicated I can be. And they thought they'd seen me before. Christ has stripped everything else away and showed me the essentials. Do you see the same? Everyone who robbed you of your confidence has been removed from your life, shown for what they are. They have reared up and you have stood up.
You stood up, baby.
“I guess it wasn't really right.
Guess it wasn't meant to be.
It didn't matter what they said
cuz we were good in bed.”
A shooting star. There are fighters and lovers and teachers and preachers. The best partner is all of those. The waves. That night. The paint brushes scattered on the floor. The growl crack shout of my body waking up for the first time. The knowledge of Christ in the room. The realization of no. We, you and I, share so much – not just wings. I feel we are soldiers together at war. We work the system, run the lines, and know how to dance around the mines.
She tells me your personal myth. She has woven you into the tapestry of her muscles. She says in words, white on black: She is incorruptible. She is bronze and forest eyes, still and quiet and sure. She is passion like flame across my skin. Yes was never a question. When was the question. I cannot exist without her. She was angel and threw herself down for me. I was... so hurt... and she had seen enough. She wanted it done. The damage was done. But the certainty was I would find salvation in her arms. It would take almost forever, it seemed, but the first time... in blood, and tears... breathless... salvation.
She says that you snuck up on her. She didn't know until your feathers tumbled over her body, bare in the blue light of post-midnight. She didn't know until you wouldn't take no for an answer. She cried sanctuary. You provided one without tearing apart her world.
Step outside under these stars with me. The celestial dome is perfection, flawless, effortless in the singular purpose: To give the trees something to hold up. Christ said: I am here because you will never love each other as I will love you. You will never understand each other as I will understand you. You will never hold each other as I will hold you.
There are no lies, no deceptions, nothing but Christ when you hold each other. Keep each other in that truth.
“Guess I stuck around for
all the wrong reasons...”
I am, once again, laying here, renaming constellations. Without my connection to the digital world. Without my armor. Even my steed is far away. My feet, my hands, my muscles and bones brought me here. I am alone. But you are here. I knew you would be. You want nothing from me. You are in my world one day and the next and five months from then. You are not daily, weekly, monthly, scheduled or neat. You are not conditional. You are constant. Now then forever. I name my North Star after you. My fingertips trace lines and curves. I discover hosts of angels in the sky.
How will this story be retold to strangers I will never know?
I cannot deny the smile that slides across my face. Shh. Come closer. Lay down beside me. I have found the Southern Cross above the streets of LA. I have found something, someone, so good for me. All this was worth my discovery of you.
“Singing amen, amen.
I'm alive.”
EJ
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
The Holy Trinity
Father. Son. Holy Ghost. The Holy Trinity as we have come to know it, including the words Holy Trinity, do not actually appear in the recognized scriptures, which I have always thought fascinating since the Roman Catholic church has held huge sway over what verse and laws were laid down and officiated. It would seem in their best interest that concepts like sainthood and tri-aspect divinity would be better covered.
I am enjoy very much sitting and talking about comparative religion. This is when, often, people like to argue about who did what first. Like, the church co-opted all the pagan rituals and holy days to better woo the people. And the pagans were just co-opting the seasons (ahem *cough* made my God) and so the natural order of things (*cough* also laid down by God). I like to talk about all the different religions that have their own Great Flood, or Virgin Birth, or Risen Savior. Some of my co-workers like to think they can unravel my faith if they just read enough ancient history and human mythology. What they fail to comprehend (in all their textbook comprehension) is that my Lord is as nonlinear and universal (literally) as their lord (facts) is black, white, and all straight lines.
And you all know how I feel about straight lines.
The true Trinity, of course, is God, Christ and us. God, our Lord of Lords, the force that created the universe as His own divine Bang. Christ, as the physical, mortal manifestation of that force who walked on Earth and taught us before returning to that force (without ever leaving it, nonlinear awesomeness and all that). And us, the thinking, feeling, mortal, physical, limited, loving, scared and sacred by-products of that before mentioned Bang and so creations of God and Christ and pretty much awesome... *just as we are made.* (Yes, I went there. You know what I'm talking about... or do you? We'll see May 26.)
Is God in all of us? Of course! He made the whole universe! He's everywhere! Are we all God? Of course not! We are creations of Him. We are part of His masterpiece that is this existence. Just as my paintings are a reflection of me, are a mirror to my heart, my hopes, but they are not me, so are we the reflections and hopes of God without being Him.
And yet... my paintings mean so much to me. Didn't He say, we mean *everything* to Him?
Yes. He did. And so did He.
EJ
I am enjoy very much sitting and talking about comparative religion. This is when, often, people like to argue about who did what first. Like, the church co-opted all the pagan rituals and holy days to better woo the people. And the pagans were just co-opting the seasons (ahem *cough* made my God) and so the natural order of things (*cough* also laid down by God). I like to talk about all the different religions that have their own Great Flood, or Virgin Birth, or Risen Savior. Some of my co-workers like to think they can unravel my faith if they just read enough ancient history and human mythology. What they fail to comprehend (in all their textbook comprehension) is that my Lord is as nonlinear and universal (literally) as their lord (facts) is black, white, and all straight lines.
And you all know how I feel about straight lines.
The true Trinity, of course, is God, Christ and us. God, our Lord of Lords, the force that created the universe as His own divine Bang. Christ, as the physical, mortal manifestation of that force who walked on Earth and taught us before returning to that force (without ever leaving it, nonlinear awesomeness and all that). And us, the thinking, feeling, mortal, physical, limited, loving, scared and sacred by-products of that before mentioned Bang and so creations of God and Christ and pretty much awesome... *just as we are made.* (Yes, I went there. You know what I'm talking about... or do you? We'll see May 26.)
Is God in all of us? Of course! He made the whole universe! He's everywhere! Are we all God? Of course not! We are creations of Him. We are part of His masterpiece that is this existence. Just as my paintings are a reflection of me, are a mirror to my heart, my hopes, but they are not me, so are we the reflections and hopes of God without being Him.
And yet... my paintings mean so much to me. Didn't He say, we mean *everything* to Him?
Yes. He did. And so did He.
EJ
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Pocket Jesus
Sensing in me doubt, not of a spiritual kind but still doubt all the same, a pastor friend said to me two weeks ago, "I think, perhaps, you are trying to do too much. What you need is a Pocket Jesus." And indeed from his pocket he withdrew a baby Jesus, arms out-stretched above snug swaddling clothes, all carved from olive wood and no bigger than a quarter.
"How many of these do you have in there?" I grin at his deep suit jacket pocket but I am only answered with a matching grin and the little wooden figurine being pressed gently into my palm. My fingers curl around the strange little effigy and I wonder to myself, "Isn't this a graven image?" I bury my hand in the pocket of my leather jacket and silently let the gift drop into the depths. It is almost a week before I take it out again.
And realize that it is a carving of an angel, wings out-stretched, not the baby Jesus at all.
But for five days, I didn't know that.
There was something so strange about it. That little boy Jesus riding in the soft dark silk of my jacket pocket. Something so odd. I thought about it before anything else every morning. I remembered it every time I shrugged into or out of my jacket. I started to brush the hem of that pocket when I passed the jacket hanging on the coat tree at home or the hook at work. I started to close my eyes and dream of that peaceful place that nestled my talisman, my compass, my safety.
"Why should I need you?" I finally said, somewhat indignant, near the end of day four. "I do not need you." I was standing, arms crossed, feet planted wide, staring across the room at a pocket in a motorcycle jacket. I was quite honestly miffed... hurt... fuming a little even. Over-reacting? No. I had actually come to rely on that little Pocket Jesus... and it was seriously bothering me.
"I have Christ with me. I don't need you," I continued aloud. "I don't need the trappings and the rituals and the tokens of faith. I feel it here, in my chest, in my heart, in my muscles and blood and bones. I hear you... Him!... clear and strong and brave and tough. I don't need the weight of you tangible. Why do you try so hard to remind me that I am only human? That I have physical desires like touch and sight? Why do you worry away at my faith when it is all that I have?!"
And finally the moment came. The moment that had been so long in the coming -- four days had never been longer. My own epiphany. As that fourth day rolled over into the fifth and the light of dawn crept into my studio and restored color and life to the canvases and palettes around me, it became very clear.
It's okay.
We are all only human. And sometimes the rituals and the easy comforts and the tangible, factual knowledge is what we need to carry us over or past a rough emotional sea. Sometimes we just need it to be simple.
And I crossed the room and reached into the pocket and withdrew an angel. I lifted her to the dawn light and she was actually an olive tree. Then brought her closer to my eyes and saw a cross... and a dove... and a woman praying.
Just keep it simple. And divinity tumbles home.
EJ
"How many of these do you have in there?" I grin at his deep suit jacket pocket but I am only answered with a matching grin and the little wooden figurine being pressed gently into my palm. My fingers curl around the strange little effigy and I wonder to myself, "Isn't this a graven image?" I bury my hand in the pocket of my leather jacket and silently let the gift drop into the depths. It is almost a week before I take it out again.
And realize that it is a carving of an angel, wings out-stretched, not the baby Jesus at all.
But for five days, I didn't know that.
There was something so strange about it. That little boy Jesus riding in the soft dark silk of my jacket pocket. Something so odd. I thought about it before anything else every morning. I remembered it every time I shrugged into or out of my jacket. I started to brush the hem of that pocket when I passed the jacket hanging on the coat tree at home or the hook at work. I started to close my eyes and dream of that peaceful place that nestled my talisman, my compass, my safety.
"Why should I need you?" I finally said, somewhat indignant, near the end of day four. "I do not need you." I was standing, arms crossed, feet planted wide, staring across the room at a pocket in a motorcycle jacket. I was quite honestly miffed... hurt... fuming a little even. Over-reacting? No. I had actually come to rely on that little Pocket Jesus... and it was seriously bothering me.
"I have Christ with me. I don't need you," I continued aloud. "I don't need the trappings and the rituals and the tokens of faith. I feel it here, in my chest, in my heart, in my muscles and blood and bones. I hear you... Him!... clear and strong and brave and tough. I don't need the weight of you tangible. Why do you try so hard to remind me that I am only human? That I have physical desires like touch and sight? Why do you worry away at my faith when it is all that I have?!"
And finally the moment came. The moment that had been so long in the coming -- four days had never been longer. My own epiphany. As that fourth day rolled over into the fifth and the light of dawn crept into my studio and restored color and life to the canvases and palettes around me, it became very clear.
It's okay.
We are all only human. And sometimes the rituals and the easy comforts and the tangible, factual knowledge is what we need to carry us over or past a rough emotional sea. Sometimes we just need it to be simple.
And I crossed the room and reached into the pocket and withdrew an angel. I lifted her to the dawn light and she was actually an olive tree. Then brought her closer to my eyes and saw a cross... and a dove... and a woman praying.
Just keep it simple. And divinity tumbles home.
EJ
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Bearing Witness
"...may you bear witness for Christ in His glory, showing all who cross your path how the wonder of Him lives in all things, more than any man can comprehend, and with a plan that only He discerns. If His desire was for all of us to be the same, He would not have formed us so differently."
And so it came to pass that she found herself alone on the path and with child and she was not certain how it was that she came to walk upon this way and she was not certain how it was that she was without companion or champion, but she was quite certain why it was that she was unafraid. She was unafraid because with every step she was bearing witness for Christ.
It is nothing short of miracle, I think, that critics and market analysts place "Juno" and "The Passion of the Christ" in the same category. They both, it seems, spoke to the Christian population who responded by putting their money on the counter at cineplexes coast to coast. The brutal, perhaps over-dramatized life of Christ and the young, hip, abortion-isn't-right-for-me teen grrl, spoke to the modern Christian... as did the controversy that surrounded (to different extents) both films. The "Christian Dollar" is an elusive one, and the Church (as all denominations are called by the industry) is not easily courted. Which makes sense. I would suppose that Father isn't keen on dating studios (all of which are from the other side of the tracks).
We (as Christians) seem to like movies where we see our ethics come out on top. "See, Juno? Pre-martial sex was a complicated no-no, huh?" We like to see mirrors held up that we can see bits of ourselves reflected in and so justified. "See what my Christ went through? How can you not believe?!" But I find it endlessly fascinating that we tend to flock (pun intended) to the extremes. We want "Left Behind" and images of pious, pure and perfect Christians. You know... the kind that don't really exist.
There is an on-going movement by Dove (and others) to show little grrls that even rare and fabulously beautiful models and actors require an enormous amount of air-brushing. I think someone... um, maybe me, maybe you... should launch a campaign to show people, to show even other Christians, what *real* Christians look like.
Because being a Christian is being a believer in the teachings and the heart of Jesus Christ. It is being gentle. It is knowing forgiveness -- given and received. It is righteous anger. It is riotous laughter. It is freedom and confidence in our hearts. It is pushing ourselves to our full possible potential because anything less would be to fall short of what God hard-wired into our genome. Being a Christian is celebrating the temples of our body, granted by Christ, His gift to us. Elevation of music. Redemption in kisses. Hallelujah in every whispered I love you. Prayer in every moment.
The on-going conversation with Christ that includes the price of gas, the taste of bubblegum, the sound of children on the playground, the scent of new dawn, the realization when we meet the gaze of a friend that more awaits us in those quiet depths than we ever saw before.
Bear witness. Stand up for your Christ as He stood up, lay down, and rose again for you. Come out of the closet. Tell one person who didn't know that you are a Christian. But don't invite them to church. Don't spout man's scripture to them. Do it like this:
I am a raver, a biker chick, a gamer grrl, and a Christian. So yeah, that new movie does appeal to me on all sorts of levels.
...or...
That last time I had a solid KO in MMA was when this great big guy started giving me trouble because I wear a cross, cuz I'm a Christian, you know? But I've got short hair, and a grrlfriend, and I'm a chick... and he thought that didn't mesh. Like he's all into my business. That's between me and Christ.
...or...
I am not pro-choice because I believe that there are lots of choices but killing a living baby isn't one of them. However, I don't believe that candidates should be decided on one issue. I will place my vote for the person who will best guide this entire country, not just the Christian part. I am a Christian but I will not allow the pulpit to cast my vote. God gave me a brain of my own.
...or, simply...
I am a Christian. I am not a stereotype.
Real life is not about evangelic speeches. Real life is about showing, not telling. Make it real. Make it your own. Bear witness for Christ as you. Because whatever and whoever you are, if He walks with you, than you are a Christian.
EJ
And so it came to pass that she found herself alone on the path and with child and she was not certain how it was that she came to walk upon this way and she was not certain how it was that she was without companion or champion, but she was quite certain why it was that she was unafraid. She was unafraid because with every step she was bearing witness for Christ.
It is nothing short of miracle, I think, that critics and market analysts place "Juno" and "The Passion of the Christ" in the same category. They both, it seems, spoke to the Christian population who responded by putting their money on the counter at cineplexes coast to coast. The brutal, perhaps over-dramatized life of Christ and the young, hip, abortion-isn't-right-for-me teen grrl, spoke to the modern Christian... as did the controversy that surrounded (to different extents) both films. The "Christian Dollar" is an elusive one, and the Church (as all denominations are called by the industry) is not easily courted. Which makes sense. I would suppose that Father isn't keen on dating studios (all of which are from the other side of the tracks).
We (as Christians) seem to like movies where we see our ethics come out on top. "See, Juno? Pre-martial sex was a complicated no-no, huh?" We like to see mirrors held up that we can see bits of ourselves reflected in and so justified. "See what my Christ went through? How can you not believe?!" But I find it endlessly fascinating that we tend to flock (pun intended) to the extremes. We want "Left Behind" and images of pious, pure and perfect Christians. You know... the kind that don't really exist.
There is an on-going movement by Dove (and others) to show little grrls that even rare and fabulously beautiful models and actors require an enormous amount of air-brushing. I think someone... um, maybe me, maybe you... should launch a campaign to show people, to show even other Christians, what *real* Christians look like.
Because being a Christian is being a believer in the teachings and the heart of Jesus Christ. It is being gentle. It is knowing forgiveness -- given and received. It is righteous anger. It is riotous laughter. It is freedom and confidence in our hearts. It is pushing ourselves to our full possible potential because anything less would be to fall short of what God hard-wired into our genome. Being a Christian is celebrating the temples of our body, granted by Christ, His gift to us. Elevation of music. Redemption in kisses. Hallelujah in every whispered I love you. Prayer in every moment.
The on-going conversation with Christ that includes the price of gas, the taste of bubblegum, the sound of children on the playground, the scent of new dawn, the realization when we meet the gaze of a friend that more awaits us in those quiet depths than we ever saw before.
Bear witness. Stand up for your Christ as He stood up, lay down, and rose again for you. Come out of the closet. Tell one person who didn't know that you are a Christian. But don't invite them to church. Don't spout man's scripture to them. Do it like this:
I am a raver, a biker chick, a gamer grrl, and a Christian. So yeah, that new movie does appeal to me on all sorts of levels.
...or...
That last time I had a solid KO in MMA was when this great big guy started giving me trouble because I wear a cross, cuz I'm a Christian, you know? But I've got short hair, and a grrlfriend, and I'm a chick... and he thought that didn't mesh. Like he's all into my business. That's between me and Christ.
...or...
I am not pro-choice because I believe that there are lots of choices but killing a living baby isn't one of them. However, I don't believe that candidates should be decided on one issue. I will place my vote for the person who will best guide this entire country, not just the Christian part. I am a Christian but I will not allow the pulpit to cast my vote. God gave me a brain of my own.
...or, simply...
I am a Christian. I am not a stereotype.
Real life is not about evangelic speeches. Real life is about showing, not telling. Make it real. Make it your own. Bear witness for Christ as you. Because whatever and whoever you are, if He walks with you, than you are a Christian.
EJ
Sunday, May 03, 2009
And Suddenly, I Knew...
"How do you manage?"
"I just do."
"How do you do it?"
"You might as well ask me how I breathe."
I was raised to fight this hard.
I do not believe in raised Christians. Meaning, I do not believe that someone can be raised a Christian. They can be raised in a Christian household... but standing in a garage doesn't make you a car. I believe that Christians are grown. They evolve naturally, the way a plant is first a bloom, and then a seed, and finally a living thing.
I think we all, as human beings, grow and change over the course of our lives. We are influenced by how much sun and how much rain and how many rocks and how many weeds but most of us do manage to transform from one thing to another and another all through our years. And I think that more of us grow to be Christians than know it.
You are sitting on the rooftop at my side and you are renaming constellations, making up new mythology for them. All of your myths involve young heroes forced again and again to prove themselves to the even the people who love them. Most of your heroes are plain-looking, by your descriptions "unremarkable" or even "odd." All of your heroes are men.
As I sit silently and listen to you, just talking softly while I type with the FlipStart on my knees, I think to myself that you are a Christian and you don't even know it. This voice of guidance and solace that whispers to you in the night and in your dreams and when you lean in pointedly, is so obviously the voice of Christ. But you insist you believe nothing. When our soul leaves our body (and you do admit that the soul is part of our anatomy) it simply does something, goes somewhere but this life is all there is.
You think that makes you not a Christian.
I think that makes you content. You are unafraid to spend your days -- two or twenty thousand -- living fully in your body.
A friend says to me:
"If her touch is the height of sensation I will ever feel... if the most divine moments of my existence are beneath her hands, her mouth... than I walk willingly into any den of lions, into any fire. Christ has placed her in my life and I rejoice with every fiber of my being. I know eternity in her arms."
This is what Terrapyres are. Those children of Fallen Angels and man who are half of the Mardi Gras 3000 brand. They are my messengers. They present a type of Christianity that is alive and untamed, untethered to church or pulpit. They crackle with passion, with seize the moment, with joy. They tumble into oceans of emotion, of possibilities, of experiences and emerge, surface, better people. They cast aside the question of cultural, popular ethics and ethos and embrace transcendent living that is painful, that is brilliant, that is everything beating in their racing hearts.
I think a Christian has to be that alive. There is no such thing as an "arm chair believer."
It seems simple, but I will say it again and again:
I love your loud laughter. I love your bawdy humor. I love your harsh critique and your selfless nature. You are a small woman who takes big risks. You are a fighter, a lover, a charmer, a mother... a Christian. With leather jacket and right wristlet, in dancing, beaded braids and burning eyes, you are everything Christ demanded of us.
We need more warriors to wake up and realize that they have been Christians all along. We need more gamers to wake up and realize that they can change the world because they form their own mythos. We need to wake up and see dawn and accept it as the miracle it is.
My friend writes to me:
"Like the rain when it isn't falling across my face, like the sun on snowy nights, like the sight of the sea beyond the porch, and the crash of the waves throughout the night... I miss you. I think of you. I am not alone but I feel something is missing and it lies in the miles between us. That something is you. Sister. Soldier. Please know I am with you."
And every day when I wake, I realize I am more Awake than ever before. I am not interested in spending my days simply existing, but rather I want to be fully alive. Seize the day is too simple. I want to seize my own potential. Not do everything I want, but to do everything I do to the best of my ability -- beyond my best.
I want the rain on my face. I want the sun. I want the snowy nights. The sea. Your kiss. Your hands in my hair. The heat of our bodies. The cold of the starlight. The speed of my bike, the beat of the music. If I miss you (and I do) than I want to feel it, a tangible ache in my chest. I would rather yearn for you, my sister, my soldier, my friend, than feel nothing.
I don't think a real Christian can feel nothing.
And I have never felt more real.
EJ
"I just do."
"How do you do it?"
"You might as well ask me how I breathe."
I was raised to fight this hard.
I do not believe in raised Christians. Meaning, I do not believe that someone can be raised a Christian. They can be raised in a Christian household... but standing in a garage doesn't make you a car. I believe that Christians are grown. They evolve naturally, the way a plant is first a bloom, and then a seed, and finally a living thing.
I think we all, as human beings, grow and change over the course of our lives. We are influenced by how much sun and how much rain and how many rocks and how many weeds but most of us do manage to transform from one thing to another and another all through our years. And I think that more of us grow to be Christians than know it.
You are sitting on the rooftop at my side and you are renaming constellations, making up new mythology for them. All of your myths involve young heroes forced again and again to prove themselves to the even the people who love them. Most of your heroes are plain-looking, by your descriptions "unremarkable" or even "odd." All of your heroes are men.
As I sit silently and listen to you, just talking softly while I type with the FlipStart on my knees, I think to myself that you are a Christian and you don't even know it. This voice of guidance and solace that whispers to you in the night and in your dreams and when you lean in pointedly, is so obviously the voice of Christ. But you insist you believe nothing. When our soul leaves our body (and you do admit that the soul is part of our anatomy) it simply does something, goes somewhere but this life is all there is.
You think that makes you not a Christian.
I think that makes you content. You are unafraid to spend your days -- two or twenty thousand -- living fully in your body.
A friend says to me:
"If her touch is the height of sensation I will ever feel... if the most divine moments of my existence are beneath her hands, her mouth... than I walk willingly into any den of lions, into any fire. Christ has placed her in my life and I rejoice with every fiber of my being. I know eternity in her arms."
This is what Terrapyres are. Those children of Fallen Angels and man who are half of the Mardi Gras 3000 brand. They are my messengers. They present a type of Christianity that is alive and untamed, untethered to church or pulpit. They crackle with passion, with seize the moment, with joy. They tumble into oceans of emotion, of possibilities, of experiences and emerge, surface, better people. They cast aside the question of cultural, popular ethics and ethos and embrace transcendent living that is painful, that is brilliant, that is everything beating in their racing hearts.
I think a Christian has to be that alive. There is no such thing as an "arm chair believer."
It seems simple, but I will say it again and again:
I love your loud laughter. I love your bawdy humor. I love your harsh critique and your selfless nature. You are a small woman who takes big risks. You are a fighter, a lover, a charmer, a mother... a Christian. With leather jacket and right wristlet, in dancing, beaded braids and burning eyes, you are everything Christ demanded of us.
We need more warriors to wake up and realize that they have been Christians all along. We need more gamers to wake up and realize that they can change the world because they form their own mythos. We need to wake up and see dawn and accept it as the miracle it is.
My friend writes to me:
"Like the rain when it isn't falling across my face, like the sun on snowy nights, like the sight of the sea beyond the porch, and the crash of the waves throughout the night... I miss you. I think of you. I am not alone but I feel something is missing and it lies in the miles between us. That something is you. Sister. Soldier. Please know I am with you."
And every day when I wake, I realize I am more Awake than ever before. I am not interested in spending my days simply existing, but rather I want to be fully alive. Seize the day is too simple. I want to seize my own potential. Not do everything I want, but to do everything I do to the best of my ability -- beyond my best.
I want the rain on my face. I want the sun. I want the snowy nights. The sea. Your kiss. Your hands in my hair. The heat of our bodies. The cold of the starlight. The speed of my bike, the beat of the music. If I miss you (and I do) than I want to feel it, a tangible ache in my chest. I would rather yearn for you, my sister, my soldier, my friend, than feel nothing.
I don't think a real Christian can feel nothing.
And I have never felt more real.
EJ
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