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[I am sitting in the sunshine, pale and sweet with autumn, in the public park in town. I am reading from my Bible and lost in thoughts private between me and my God. A woman comes suddenly to stand so close I see her feet first... and then the feet of her little children. "And if you bigots won't let me marry my partner, their other mother, the only family they have or know, what will happen to my children when I die?!" And she does not wait for a response. She is so angry. There is no time. There is no time because the effects of chemotherapy are obvious and universal. You come up behind me and only then do I realize I am standing. You saw and heard it all. You wrap your arms around me from behind. You whisper, "She doesn't know. She didn't see." But I look down at my Bible and I respond, "She saw enough." And I start to cry.]
I find the people I want around me are the ones who write a good press release. Better yet, the ones who can take a book, song, product, movie and boil it down into two sentences of why and if it's relevant.
Relevant. That means it means something. To us. Now. That means it reaches us, touches us, finds and discover us. And the "it" doesn't have to be inanimate. It can be he, she, them, even us.
Are we relevant?
I felt lost and alone. Oh, look. I'm unstable. I asked, "When you are struggling, when you're ill and hurting, is this... all of this... even relevant?"
You were silent for a long time. The distance between us clicked and hummed on the phone lines. I imagined I could count the beat of your pulse. "I'm sorry," you said, your voice low and smooth. "When did salvation become irrelevant?"
The partner you always wanted is right there.
And there. And there.
Have you ever done something, dreamed some dream (you know, a Dream), and thought it was big, it was wide, it would teach and preach and reach and touch, find and discover and no one, no one at all, would ever resistant it, ever close their hearts to it, because it was right (you know, Right)? Have you ever felt that feeling? Maybe even seen the proof in the pudding and in the reality of the reason for believing.
But you can't change a heart. You can cause a heart to open or close. You can coax or condemn a heart. But what it is, who it is, at its core, it will remain, now then forever. The scripture of the heart, wisemen like to say, is written in blood and muscle long before we are grown men. The scripture of the heart is what we have come to believe -- not the words we have memorized or the parts we have played -- but the truth behind it all. Arrogant, self-important, doomed, dreamer, useless, soldier -- the core truth is there, imprinted if not by the hand of God, than by the acts and reactions of our parents, our peers, our reality, our nonreality. The truth remains, lingering, whispering, carrying on into immortality, even after our bones (and heart) are less than dust.
I have witnessed and known -- blessed to know -- fighters who have risen from darkness and struggle and hopelessness. They are bright and they blaze trails for others to follow (or fall behind if they can't keep up). But even there, deep inside these burning hearts, there are whispers from the seed they grew from.
No. I am not saying "once poor, always poor." No. I am not saying we cannot change our station or that our lives are pre-written and we can't break away from cycles of abusive, of nature, of nurture. I am saying simply: The whispers will always be there.
So... I'll surround myself -- arm myself! -- with seeds who are:
Humble in speech
Proud by right
Relentless in desire
Driven by faith
Strong in community
Brazen in spirit
Unshaken by adversity
Deserving of respect
"No one *deserves* my respect," she told the group of teens. "They earn my respect." She looked at them each, slowly. It took time. Everyone waited their turn. "My parents. My teachers. My peers. Any and every authority. All of you. My loyalty is legendary. If you earn my respect." (Gee... think she grew up on the streets? What does her heart seed whisper?)
Earning respect. I would think, to do so, you'd have to be pretty dang relevant. You'd have to be active and push. Not passive and pull. You'd have to be a fighter. You have to read the signs.
"Push Communication is where the offer of information is initiated by the speaker. It is contrasted with Pull Communication, where the request of information is initiated by the listener."
They cannot read the signs. Because the trappings of comfortable religion (which have never fit the amorphous, limitless possibilities of faith) are just that, traps. The lightning is not Zeus. The rain is not tears. But neither is science the devil. Neither is desire the enemy.
They are lonely and lost. They are arrogant and meek. They stumble and ask questions that those who have trampled before us cannot answer. They are seeing in nature what is killed inside their churches. They are looking for truth before the faith in them dies.
"There is tranquility in ignorance, but servitude is its partner."
The New Hampshire license plate once read (still does?): Live Free or Die
Who am I serving? Who are you serving?
"You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today." --Abraham Lincoln
The whispers in my heart are wild, untamed. They turn tables. They do not waver. If I drift from the path, they call me back. If I look to the sky, they bring me dawn.
"Give us your poor, your tired, your huddled masses longing to be free..." The ones you don't want anymore, the one who are beginning to want something and it isn't you, we will take them in. And we won't all get along. And we won't all look alike. And we won't all agree. But welcome is what happens when people listen. Welcome is what happens when people speak. Community is what happens when you earn each other's respect. Christ is just a natural consequence of all that truth.
Mark Twain said once, "Principles have no real force except when one is well-fed." Especially when the diet is hollow but convincing. Tasty and neat. No clean up afterwards. Drop your tithe in the plate and continue on. The country songs croon, "Here's a twenty for last night, and another for what I'll do tonight." Now ain't that American?
Rally forces and step in time. One person made a difference, you know His name, but now He asks us to repeat His cycle. He turned the tables, turned everything upside down. No more original sin. No more sacrifices. No more anything but a direct line to Him. Times have changed. They had changed then. The old ways fall away. They were crumbling then. To be a real Christian is not to hate. It is not to oppress. It is not to deny certain inalienable rights.
It is to bring change. It is to rise up and embrace thy neighbor.
Those of us who have broken free of denomination's pasture to find the Shepherd have one journey and one alone:
To keep Christianity relevant.
EJ
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Surfacing
No matter what you say about life
I learn every time I bleed.
That truth is not a stranger to me.
I admit that I'm wrong
and then I change my mind.
I realize nothing is broken.
No need to worry about everything I've done.
Live every second like it was my last one.
This is my path and I walk it.
You tell me, it's not you, it's me.
And, baby, I would have to agree.
The radio is playing, running off batteries the way my bossman ran off at the mouth today, keeping us four hours long on no extra pay to give us notes (you know, Notes) on performances phoned-in by walk-ons who weren't even there. I'm told I'm supposed to be joyful that I have work at all. And I do have it. Work. Lots of it. Work. But not sure where the money goes after rent and food and utilities. Seems like there's never enough left for anything more. Not gas, not 'net, not a movie out. Seems like we're drowning in all this work... with nothing floating on the surface.
But I take a deep breath of the cold city air and I am thankful. God bless America, I am more thankful than I can find words to express as I exhale a free woman with access to free press and a heart that loves who she pleases and how. I am aware and awake to the truth that what I take from my job is less stress than the world hands some of my friends -- where rent or food or utilities are not paid. Where kind words cease to be helpful at all if they aren't accompanied with cold, hard cash to buy shoes and winter jackets at Goodwill.
The day, my day, falls away to the pavement and I walk the last two blocks home. I stood on that street corner for half an hour coming to terms with the fact that I was so far from drowning I was laying in the sun, on the sand, drink in hand, compared to some of those I love.
No sooner do I arrive home that you take off. Take your jacket. Take your keys. You're gone. I sink down on the couch, tug at yesterday's paper. I watch you leave. I hear the lock snap. Your face, just a glimpse, was tight, angry, your teeth bared while you breathed through parted lips. I close my eyes. I think it was only for a moment.
When I open then again, you are standing in the threshold. The only light is behind you, indirect and diffuse. You are cast in shadows heavier than night. You are holding a rose, deep red, long-stemmed. You stand there forever.
A drowning man doesn't worry about pride. A drowning man will fling out a hand to any soul, friend or enemy. A drowning man who believes... who Believes in himself, in his own worth, in his own place, in his own value on the face of a world of billions, will fight fiercely until no breath remains, until oblivion swallows him whole.
He does not fight only when it is easy. He does not fight just until it gets hard. He does not fight only when there is a chance. He fights even in the maw of the lions. He fights when there is no reason or logic or peace from fighting.
Christ did not suffer... for hours... pain and humiliation, degeneration and betrayal... just so we can give up on His ticket. Just so we can step off His watch. Lay it down. Hand it over. "Let go, let God." doesn't mean give up. It means: Open up! He doesn't have a queue. He's not backed up, baby. You scream, when you bob to the surface, "Lord! Lift me up! Lord! Fill me with your fight!" And He does. He just... does.
Because that's what a Christian is. A live wire. An open conduit for Christ.
I am not understanding the reason why the Far Right pounded their chests whenever liberals (dear Lord, what does that even mean any more?!) "disrespected" the president. And yet... every right-bent blog I visit, opens with, "Hey, *I* didn't vote for him..." or "I'm conservative. That means I didn't vote for Obama." Oh. Okay. Hi! *waving* Hi there, *minority.* Hi there, loser! Hi there, person calling attention to the fact that you don't agree with most of your own country. United we stand, people. Before you blog, "Obama just won the Nobel Peace Prize for doing nothing." How about you try typing, "Obama just won the Nobel Peace Prize for proving to a world of 6,485,614,626 non-Americans that if they just wait four years, the heavy-handed, bigoted, Republican, double-dealing, intolerant white men will, by and large, be cast aside by the free thinkers who understand what the words 'freedom of religion' and 'division of church and state' mean and elect a new president... one that might *finally* be a decent man... instead of a creature owned by the institution of lies that is Man's Church." (MLA or APA Citations for these statements have been removed to encourage readers to GO READ history themselves... and perhaps the Bible, too.)
I am surfacing. I rise from the couch.
The drowning man does not have time for oratory. The drowning man does not have time for clever twists of words, barbed and stinging. The dying *man* does not strike out in his last, but rather fights on with it. It is only the dying *beast* (so close, sadly, to some men that one is the same and indistinguishable) that strikes out even as it falls. Where is the victory in pity, in pain, in energy and heartbeats spent toward two defeats?
I was nine. I was angry. In the way that only children can get angry. My mother tired to reason with me. I mother never reasoned well. She called, throwing up her hands, to my father. He lowered his paper slowly. He tipped his head and looked at me.
"You think this is righteous anger, Eliza?"
"I do, Papa."
"You think it brings glory to God?"
I am silent. He is not:
"You are the scorpion in the desert drowning in quick sand. With your last strength you strike and kill the owl. If instead you had wrapped your tail around his foot, he would have lifted you from the sand."
The thing that haunted me, stayed with me, for years afterwards, is that my father, gentle, conservative, traditional, joyful, open-minded, intellectual, had given me the blue prints for life. With that one fable -- a flash fable, like flash fiction -- he had left enough unsaid that I could carry on as pacifist or fighter. I could move forward in silence or with shrewd retort.
I learned:
To let a bigot talk himself out... and then use his own grandiose flight against him.
To find my footing, and then strike.
To call for help, and value help, but still know forever who my enemies are.
To struggle. Always. Until I get it right.
To see my attackers for what they are: A chance to stretch, to reach, to grow.
To trust that God will always send the owl.
And that the owl will try to eat me.
And that sometimes I will have to sting the owl when we are still in flight.
But falling through a sky of Christ's own stars is the best kind of drowning I can imagine.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
It is not morbid or emo to admit, to announce, to confess and to confer that we are all drowning men. In sadness, in regret, in anger, in inaction. We are all drowning in some small or large way because we are not perfect, we are not divine, we are men, we are human, we are mortal. We can wash ourselves with thankfulness that we are not another man, who no longer can break the glassy surface of the stormy sea, but thankfulness alone doesn't buoy us for long. We can stop the weeds of wallowing self-pity from tugging us down, but eventually, even thankfulness will fail if we are surrounded by other drowning men.
But what happens if instead of dying together, we cross the fathoms and give to each other everything we have? Do we drown faster? If we are all struggling together, if we all unify to struggle toward one goal -- to host an art show, to hold an open mic, to launch a book... a shuttle... a dream -- aren't our chances for survival a thousand times magnified? Aren't we stronger in numbers, as a community, as a people?
Abraham Lincoln, before his election, said to a prominent preacher, a man who could bring about or bring down Lincoln's nomination to the party, "I will join a church when they ask me to subscribe not to man's word, but to the words of Christ: To love one's neighbor as oneself. To see all men as equal in the eyes of the Lord."
Standing before you, the scent of roses from one rose, the ceiling disappears and I am beneath a billion stars. I could stand here forever, tracing angel constellations, wishing that someone would defend me.
But I would rather stand here and shout, sing, pray. And defend someone else.
Just think if we all saved a drowning man today, how clear the sea would look tomorrow.
EJ
I learn every time I bleed.
That truth is not a stranger to me.
I admit that I'm wrong
and then I change my mind.
I realize nothing is broken.
No need to worry about everything I've done.
Live every second like it was my last one.
This is my path and I walk it.
You tell me, it's not you, it's me.
And, baby, I would have to agree.
The radio is playing, running off batteries the way my bossman ran off at the mouth today, keeping us four hours long on no extra pay to give us notes (you know, Notes) on performances phoned-in by walk-ons who weren't even there. I'm told I'm supposed to be joyful that I have work at all. And I do have it. Work. Lots of it. Work. But not sure where the money goes after rent and food and utilities. Seems like there's never enough left for anything more. Not gas, not 'net, not a movie out. Seems like we're drowning in all this work... with nothing floating on the surface.
But I take a deep breath of the cold city air and I am thankful. God bless America, I am more thankful than I can find words to express as I exhale a free woman with access to free press and a heart that loves who she pleases and how. I am aware and awake to the truth that what I take from my job is less stress than the world hands some of my friends -- where rent or food or utilities are not paid. Where kind words cease to be helpful at all if they aren't accompanied with cold, hard cash to buy shoes and winter jackets at Goodwill.
The day, my day, falls away to the pavement and I walk the last two blocks home. I stood on that street corner for half an hour coming to terms with the fact that I was so far from drowning I was laying in the sun, on the sand, drink in hand, compared to some of those I love.
No sooner do I arrive home that you take off. Take your jacket. Take your keys. You're gone. I sink down on the couch, tug at yesterday's paper. I watch you leave. I hear the lock snap. Your face, just a glimpse, was tight, angry, your teeth bared while you breathed through parted lips. I close my eyes. I think it was only for a moment.
When I open then again, you are standing in the threshold. The only light is behind you, indirect and diffuse. You are cast in shadows heavier than night. You are holding a rose, deep red, long-stemmed. You stand there forever.
A drowning man doesn't worry about pride. A drowning man will fling out a hand to any soul, friend or enemy. A drowning man who believes... who Believes in himself, in his own worth, in his own place, in his own value on the face of a world of billions, will fight fiercely until no breath remains, until oblivion swallows him whole.
He does not fight only when it is easy. He does not fight just until it gets hard. He does not fight only when there is a chance. He fights even in the maw of the lions. He fights when there is no reason or logic or peace from fighting.
Christ did not suffer... for hours... pain and humiliation, degeneration and betrayal... just so we can give up on His ticket. Just so we can step off His watch. Lay it down. Hand it over. "Let go, let God." doesn't mean give up. It means: Open up! He doesn't have a queue. He's not backed up, baby. You scream, when you bob to the surface, "Lord! Lift me up! Lord! Fill me with your fight!" And He does. He just... does.
Because that's what a Christian is. A live wire. An open conduit for Christ.
I am not understanding the reason why the Far Right pounded their chests whenever liberals (dear Lord, what does that even mean any more?!) "disrespected" the president. And yet... every right-bent blog I visit, opens with, "Hey, *I* didn't vote for him..." or "I'm conservative. That means I didn't vote for Obama." Oh. Okay. Hi! *waving* Hi there, *minority.* Hi there, loser! Hi there, person calling attention to the fact that you don't agree with most of your own country. United we stand, people. Before you blog, "Obama just won the Nobel Peace Prize for doing nothing." How about you try typing, "Obama just won the Nobel Peace Prize for proving to a world of 6,485,614,626 non-Americans that if they just wait four years, the heavy-handed, bigoted, Republican, double-dealing, intolerant white men will, by and large, be cast aside by the free thinkers who understand what the words 'freedom of religion' and 'division of church and state' mean and elect a new president... one that might *finally* be a decent man... instead of a creature owned by the institution of lies that is Man's Church." (MLA or APA Citations for these statements have been removed to encourage readers to GO READ history themselves... and perhaps the Bible, too.)
I am surfacing. I rise from the couch.
The drowning man does not have time for oratory. The drowning man does not have time for clever twists of words, barbed and stinging. The dying *man* does not strike out in his last, but rather fights on with it. It is only the dying *beast* (so close, sadly, to some men that one is the same and indistinguishable) that strikes out even as it falls. Where is the victory in pity, in pain, in energy and heartbeats spent toward two defeats?
I was nine. I was angry. In the way that only children can get angry. My mother tired to reason with me. I mother never reasoned well. She called, throwing up her hands, to my father. He lowered his paper slowly. He tipped his head and looked at me.
"You think this is righteous anger, Eliza?"
"I do, Papa."
"You think it brings glory to God?"
I am silent. He is not:
"You are the scorpion in the desert drowning in quick sand. With your last strength you strike and kill the owl. If instead you had wrapped your tail around his foot, he would have lifted you from the sand."
The thing that haunted me, stayed with me, for years afterwards, is that my father, gentle, conservative, traditional, joyful, open-minded, intellectual, had given me the blue prints for life. With that one fable -- a flash fable, like flash fiction -- he had left enough unsaid that I could carry on as pacifist or fighter. I could move forward in silence or with shrewd retort.
I learned:
To let a bigot talk himself out... and then use his own grandiose flight against him.
To find my footing, and then strike.
To call for help, and value help, but still know forever who my enemies are.
To struggle. Always. Until I get it right.
To see my attackers for what they are: A chance to stretch, to reach, to grow.
To trust that God will always send the owl.
And that the owl will try to eat me.
And that sometimes I will have to sting the owl when we are still in flight.
But falling through a sky of Christ's own stars is the best kind of drowning I can imagine.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
It is not morbid or emo to admit, to announce, to confess and to confer that we are all drowning men. In sadness, in regret, in anger, in inaction. We are all drowning in some small or large way because we are not perfect, we are not divine, we are men, we are human, we are mortal. We can wash ourselves with thankfulness that we are not another man, who no longer can break the glassy surface of the stormy sea, but thankfulness alone doesn't buoy us for long. We can stop the weeds of wallowing self-pity from tugging us down, but eventually, even thankfulness will fail if we are surrounded by other drowning men.
But what happens if instead of dying together, we cross the fathoms and give to each other everything we have? Do we drown faster? If we are all struggling together, if we all unify to struggle toward one goal -- to host an art show, to hold an open mic, to launch a book... a shuttle... a dream -- aren't our chances for survival a thousand times magnified? Aren't we stronger in numbers, as a community, as a people?
Abraham Lincoln, before his election, said to a prominent preacher, a man who could bring about or bring down Lincoln's nomination to the party, "I will join a church when they ask me to subscribe not to man's word, but to the words of Christ: To love one's neighbor as oneself. To see all men as equal in the eyes of the Lord."
Standing before you, the scent of roses from one rose, the ceiling disappears and I am beneath a billion stars. I could stand here forever, tracing angel constellations, wishing that someone would defend me.
But I would rather stand here and shout, sing, pray. And defend someone else.
Just think if we all saved a drowning man today, how clear the sea would look tomorrow.
EJ
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Think It Through
The simplest solution is often the best solution. Think of the almost incomprehensible number of creatures and objects and rules of physics that God had to craft with creation. Try to grasp that and you’ll see quickly what logical sense it made that He wove everything – everything! – from fractals that repeat and flip and turn and slide into place. Genesis made simple... only for God, of course, but you get my idea.
In teen out-reach (“RL Bible Study”) tonight one teen asked me point blank, “Why did God make sex feel good?”
An older grrl across the circle muttered, “It does?”
But I gave in. I played along. “You’re really asking, why did God make sex feel good if we have to wait until we’re married... or until we’re trying to conceive?”
The teen flipped her hair and shook her head, popping her gum and adjusting the belt on her jeans. “No. Not *that* kind of sex. The other kind.”
And my sharp retort of pleased/amused laughter rang off the church basement floor. I looked up at my co-teacher with great big eyes full up of joyful opportunity. He looked back at me with klaxons of alarm sounding. Oh... I looked away. Right. As Christians... we’re not supposed to *like* our bodies.
*shrug*
Too bad. I do.
And so I said:
I stood on the beach with the waves around my bare feet and cresting around my calves and she was running, laughing, her hair wet with the spray, leaving a trail of clothes behind her until she threw herself into my arms, tackling me into the waves and locking our mouths, our hips, our hearts... and it all felt so good. Why? Because I was alive. And she was alive. And we had the entire ocean to discover and each other.
And it was all a gift from God.
I danced hard in the darkness and the strobes were blue green red. The beat was heavy, unrelenting, power and sex (same thing), pleasure and passion (ditto) shaking me down and turning my marrow molten bronze and my skin into rose petals. I felt free from every care, every worry, every Suit telling me what to do, how to walk, who to kiss, how to live. I was me: Endurance. Beat. Strength. Firm, slick with sweat, wild with the night. And nobody was taking me home but me. I belonged to only me.
And it was all a gift from God.
The desert was like nothing I had ever seen. And we made love in the cool blue shade of ancient stones. His tongue traced the lines of my tats and the warm metal of every piercing and I felt my body like scripture, telling truths and stories unfiltered by politics or fear. All the fighting, all the sacrifice, all the compromise and standing ground was all right there to be tasted, to be read like Braille. My hands on his shoulders then tangled in his hair, I shouted at the endless sky.
And it was all a gift from God.
Holding you while you cried hard because he could no longer meet your eyes....
Holding my father while he passed from this world....
Holding my breath the first time you looked at me....
Holding on even when the world tells me to let go.
The only letting go I ever do is to let go, let God.
And that, too, is a gift.
“I hope that answers your question,” I say with a steady gaze and a gentle smile.
She squints her eyes at me than swivels in her plastic chair and fixes her youth pastor with an incredulous stare. “Where'd you find this chick?!”
There is laughter. Mine included. And I meet your eyes across the room.
When we are given a gift, we are thankful. We are gracious. We are respectful. When we are given a gift, a gift grant to us by our Lord and woven into our bodies in a hundred million fractal parts, we should not be ashamed. We should not second guess.
We must celebrate.
EJ
In teen out-reach (“RL Bible Study”) tonight one teen asked me point blank, “Why did God make sex feel good?”
An older grrl across the circle muttered, “It does?”
But I gave in. I played along. “You’re really asking, why did God make sex feel good if we have to wait until we’re married... or until we’re trying to conceive?”
The teen flipped her hair and shook her head, popping her gum and adjusting the belt on her jeans. “No. Not *that* kind of sex. The other kind.”
And my sharp retort of pleased/amused laughter rang off the church basement floor. I looked up at my co-teacher with great big eyes full up of joyful opportunity. He looked back at me with klaxons of alarm sounding. Oh... I looked away. Right. As Christians... we’re not supposed to *like* our bodies.
*shrug*
Too bad. I do.
And so I said:
I stood on the beach with the waves around my bare feet and cresting around my calves and she was running, laughing, her hair wet with the spray, leaving a trail of clothes behind her until she threw herself into my arms, tackling me into the waves and locking our mouths, our hips, our hearts... and it all felt so good. Why? Because I was alive. And she was alive. And we had the entire ocean to discover and each other.
And it was all a gift from God.
I danced hard in the darkness and the strobes were blue green red. The beat was heavy, unrelenting, power and sex (same thing), pleasure and passion (ditto) shaking me down and turning my marrow molten bronze and my skin into rose petals. I felt free from every care, every worry, every Suit telling me what to do, how to walk, who to kiss, how to live. I was me: Endurance. Beat. Strength. Firm, slick with sweat, wild with the night. And nobody was taking me home but me. I belonged to only me.
And it was all a gift from God.
The desert was like nothing I had ever seen. And we made love in the cool blue shade of ancient stones. His tongue traced the lines of my tats and the warm metal of every piercing and I felt my body like scripture, telling truths and stories unfiltered by politics or fear. All the fighting, all the sacrifice, all the compromise and standing ground was all right there to be tasted, to be read like Braille. My hands on his shoulders then tangled in his hair, I shouted at the endless sky.
And it was all a gift from God.
Holding you while you cried hard because he could no longer meet your eyes....
Holding my father while he passed from this world....
Holding my breath the first time you looked at me....
Holding on even when the world tells me to let go.
The only letting go I ever do is to let go, let God.
And that, too, is a gift.
“I hope that answers your question,” I say with a steady gaze and a gentle smile.
She squints her eyes at me than swivels in her plastic chair and fixes her youth pastor with an incredulous stare. “Where'd you find this chick?!”
There is laughter. Mine included. And I meet your eyes across the room.
When we are given a gift, we are thankful. We are gracious. We are respectful. When we are given a gift, a gift grant to us by our Lord and woven into our bodies in a hundred million fractal parts, we should not be ashamed. We should not second guess.
We must celebrate.
EJ
Sunday, August 09, 2009
God Whispers: Down. Stay. Good Grrl.
...or The Importance of Inaction
I am sitting alone with you (is that an oxymoron?) above the sea. I used to ride out here, the speed easing me half way to the healing that the sea would complete, and then sit on the bluff at the side of the road. But that isn't how you roll. You have a little... a lot... more class than I do. You are elegant and refined, cultured and measured. I think this is why you have had so many lovers. I don't think many creatures like you exist any more. Especially not in GenX.
You whisper: I don't want my angel on the side of the road.
I like it when you call me your angel.
"No playing games.
You're watching me.
All those simple things you do.
They draw me in."
And so I am alone (with you) perched on the balcony railing of a five star hotel, the sea crashing three storeys below me. My bare feet dangling to the drop, my back to your chest, your hands slipping forward to open eight buttons. I find myself counting them come undone... as I come undone... all in time with the waves cresting, crashing, cascading, creating a new shoreline with every slip, slide, seduction of you. Your fingertips brush my hem, open cloth like you open by heart. Thumbs stroke down abs recently tightened for work. I shudder. They continue down then alight, with no other fingers, on my heavy Kawasaki belt buckle.
You whisper: I'm listening.
I like it when you're listening.
"The places you touch
you mark with a kiss.
No one knows your secret
but sometimes you let me in."
I try to open my mouth but my lungs fill with sea spray and salt. Suddenly I want the sand at my back, you above me, those freezing cold curtains of mist and wave washing up and away around us. I want you inside me, filling me up in a way that only the Holy Spirit can. I want to *do.* Not talk about doing. I want *action.* Not planning. I want to shut up and take you against me. I want to scream your name like the time the neighbors came knocking to make sure we were okay. I don't want to talk. I want to do. You open my belt. I'm waiting, you tell me, without words. I push against you but you won't be persuaded. I stare at the sea and imagine drowning sweet and wild in you. Come on, grrl, you're coaxing, tracing the lines of my muscles and bones. Then, roughly, without pretense, you turn me into your arms. Kiss me hard. I feel my hands let go of the railing and I'm flailing, trying to find a purchase in your clothes, your hair, your... but you are holding me so tightly that I do not need to hold on. And anyway, I've already fallen. Oh God, you know how hard I've fallen for you.
You whisper: You will talk to me.
I like it when you insist.
"I can't wait to begin.
I can't breathe while I wait."
I tell you everything. Everything. Everything that no one else knows. Everything that I never admitted to even myself. The fears, the dreams, the hopes, the broken heart. I tell you everything. I even tell you the truth. My own quiet truth, soft and tender. And so much of what I say starts and ends with, "They said..." and "...they say." So much of my reality shaped by how other people see me -- and the labels of culture, tradition, society, religion and politics that they glue all over me. Five times... I see your eyes counting... ten times... I watch your smile keeping track... twelve times is the charm and you stop me. Your finger tips against my lips is like an electric shock crackling through my body. You are fire and ice and I want you so much it's almost unbearable. I moan. You step away, leaving me in the plush hotel room chair.
You step back... but not too far. I can still smell your perfume. You unzip your bomber jacket and it falls over your shoulders as you shrug it back. It slides down your arms and back and pools, chocolate-and-nutmeg brown, at your boots. You hold my gaze. You tilt your chin. Your hands travel your body. You shudder. I lean forward in my chair, tensing. You hold up one hand, one finger poised. You shake your head with a faint smile. I lean back. I will stay. I will do anything you command.
You whisper: Are you watching?
I like watching you.
"Every time that I look
you're more inviting."
Shirt... button by button. Skirt... button and zipper. Boots... the arch of your back, the rise of your ass, as you bend over, the swell of each breast threatening to do exactly what you do for them a moment later. You are standing in nothing but a tasteful swatch of black silk and purple lace. Now you raise your hand again. But this time, you beckon me forward. I come obediently, willingly. You have never before allowed me... you have never beckoned me to you with this look on your face, so open, so honest, so obvious what you are saying. But then, you say it.
You whisper: Touch me.
I like...
Words and music fail me. I never thought you would say those two words. Never. I do as told. Gently, shuddering myself now. Slowly, unwilling to rush this moment so rare and precious. I explore and discover your hidden places, your secrets tucked beneath your waves of hair, aside the curve of your ribs, the taut rise of your shoulder blade. I take my time because in dreams (which surely this is) you can take all the time in the world. I am certain there are more than twenty-four hours in this day to touch you. We are the same height exactly so when I run my hands down your sides, cradle your hips and lean into your nape, your lips nestle against my ear.
You whisper: ...
And my eyes fly wide with surprise and pleasure. I cannot stop the gasp that escapes me. I cannot breathe, think, speak. I simply hear your two-word command and sink to my knees.
The sun sets. The balcony doors have remained open and I hear the waves even as I taste your heartbeat and feel my own pounding in my blush. Your hands tight in my hair, some minutes... hours? ...later, and then you ask the question: *They* say what you had wasn't real. *They* say it wasn't valid with only words. You have lived with me for months. I have taken your body countless times. And now you have taken mine. So, tell me, little angel: Which one of us do you know better, him or me?
I blink. I blink again.
You know who I know best.
Sometimes the truth can only be found in inaction. Sometimes action does nothing to show us the way. Sometimes it changes nothing. Sometimes all we need is the ability to be still and listen.
EJ
I am sitting alone with you (is that an oxymoron?) above the sea. I used to ride out here, the speed easing me half way to the healing that the sea would complete, and then sit on the bluff at the side of the road. But that isn't how you roll. You have a little... a lot... more class than I do. You are elegant and refined, cultured and measured. I think this is why you have had so many lovers. I don't think many creatures like you exist any more. Especially not in GenX.
You whisper: I don't want my angel on the side of the road.
I like it when you call me your angel.
"No playing games.
You're watching me.
All those simple things you do.
They draw me in."
And so I am alone (with you) perched on the balcony railing of a five star hotel, the sea crashing three storeys below me. My bare feet dangling to the drop, my back to your chest, your hands slipping forward to open eight buttons. I find myself counting them come undone... as I come undone... all in time with the waves cresting, crashing, cascading, creating a new shoreline with every slip, slide, seduction of you. Your fingertips brush my hem, open cloth like you open by heart. Thumbs stroke down abs recently tightened for work. I shudder. They continue down then alight, with no other fingers, on my heavy Kawasaki belt buckle.
You whisper: I'm listening.
I like it when you're listening.
"The places you touch
you mark with a kiss.
No one knows your secret
but sometimes you let me in."
I try to open my mouth but my lungs fill with sea spray and salt. Suddenly I want the sand at my back, you above me, those freezing cold curtains of mist and wave washing up and away around us. I want you inside me, filling me up in a way that only the Holy Spirit can. I want to *do.* Not talk about doing. I want *action.* Not planning. I want to shut up and take you against me. I want to scream your name like the time the neighbors came knocking to make sure we were okay. I don't want to talk. I want to do. You open my belt. I'm waiting, you tell me, without words. I push against you but you won't be persuaded. I stare at the sea and imagine drowning sweet and wild in you. Come on, grrl, you're coaxing, tracing the lines of my muscles and bones. Then, roughly, without pretense, you turn me into your arms. Kiss me hard. I feel my hands let go of the railing and I'm flailing, trying to find a purchase in your clothes, your hair, your... but you are holding me so tightly that I do not need to hold on. And anyway, I've already fallen. Oh God, you know how hard I've fallen for you.
You whisper: You will talk to me.
I like it when you insist.
"I can't wait to begin.
I can't breathe while I wait."
I tell you everything. Everything. Everything that no one else knows. Everything that I never admitted to even myself. The fears, the dreams, the hopes, the broken heart. I tell you everything. I even tell you the truth. My own quiet truth, soft and tender. And so much of what I say starts and ends with, "They said..." and "...they say." So much of my reality shaped by how other people see me -- and the labels of culture, tradition, society, religion and politics that they glue all over me. Five times... I see your eyes counting... ten times... I watch your smile keeping track... twelve times is the charm and you stop me. Your finger tips against my lips is like an electric shock crackling through my body. You are fire and ice and I want you so much it's almost unbearable. I moan. You step away, leaving me in the plush hotel room chair.
You step back... but not too far. I can still smell your perfume. You unzip your bomber jacket and it falls over your shoulders as you shrug it back. It slides down your arms and back and pools, chocolate-and-nutmeg brown, at your boots. You hold my gaze. You tilt your chin. Your hands travel your body. You shudder. I lean forward in my chair, tensing. You hold up one hand, one finger poised. You shake your head with a faint smile. I lean back. I will stay. I will do anything you command.
You whisper: Are you watching?
I like watching you.
"Every time that I look
you're more inviting."
Shirt... button by button. Skirt... button and zipper. Boots... the arch of your back, the rise of your ass, as you bend over, the swell of each breast threatening to do exactly what you do for them a moment later. You are standing in nothing but a tasteful swatch of black silk and purple lace. Now you raise your hand again. But this time, you beckon me forward. I come obediently, willingly. You have never before allowed me... you have never beckoned me to you with this look on your face, so open, so honest, so obvious what you are saying. But then, you say it.
You whisper: Touch me.
I like...
Words and music fail me. I never thought you would say those two words. Never. I do as told. Gently, shuddering myself now. Slowly, unwilling to rush this moment so rare and precious. I explore and discover your hidden places, your secrets tucked beneath your waves of hair, aside the curve of your ribs, the taut rise of your shoulder blade. I take my time because in dreams (which surely this is) you can take all the time in the world. I am certain there are more than twenty-four hours in this day to touch you. We are the same height exactly so when I run my hands down your sides, cradle your hips and lean into your nape, your lips nestle against my ear.
You whisper: ...
And my eyes fly wide with surprise and pleasure. I cannot stop the gasp that escapes me. I cannot breathe, think, speak. I simply hear your two-word command and sink to my knees.
The sun sets. The balcony doors have remained open and I hear the waves even as I taste your heartbeat and feel my own pounding in my blush. Your hands tight in my hair, some minutes... hours? ...later, and then you ask the question: *They* say what you had wasn't real. *They* say it wasn't valid with only words. You have lived with me for months. I have taken your body countless times. And now you have taken mine. So, tell me, little angel: Which one of us do you know better, him or me?
I blink. I blink again.
You know who I know best.
Sometimes the truth can only be found in inaction. Sometimes action does nothing to show us the way. Sometimes it changes nothing. Sometimes all we need is the ability to be still and listen.
EJ
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Give Me Five (Days)
If I whisper it, if I gasp it, if I murmur and coax with words and touch, will you walk with me and me alone, not now then forever, but more than just this night, will you stand at my side, will you be my beloved, for just five days. Will you give me all of you, will you trust and support me, will you try me on for size, will you hear my yes and hand me yours, will you guide my heart, my body and my life... for just five days?
A friend of mine said powerfully once, "I do not believe what the pulpit tells me. The pulpit is made of wood. If my church ceased to preach what I believe inside myself than I would cease to be a Baptist." She refused to be a label. She was stating, simply, that should her church change their mind tomorrow -- receive divinity retold -- she would walk away to worship one-on-one, just her, just Christ, just the truth. A new holy trinity.
Denomination is broken. Oh? Are you clicking away, closing the browser, muttering to yourself, "Here she goes again!" But here I go again is exactly where I'm going:
Mob mentality. If enough people, or the "right" people say it, repeat it, phrase it or shape it, we believe it. Not our logical mind. Not our heart. Not the voice of God in our own ears. We are egotistical, I suppose, if we have the strength, the confidence to say: I understand that you believe that, mother (father, pastor), but that is not what I believe."
Because in order to say that -- loudly, proudly -- we must know what we believe and know who we are. We must be, if not doubt free (though the strongest people I know are) than on the path to that shining destination.
How can you know that I am not the one who will love and cherish you, fight for you and hold you? How can you know when you will not look at me, look in the mirror, look into the surface of the baptismal pool and see our faces, side by side, every Sunday? You have seen me awash with desire for you. You have seen me fight with words and fists for you. But you resist, you insist, you desist any activity that might allow you to glimpse me as more than just a creature passing through your life when you need it. To you I am first a miracle and second transitory, short-lived. You leave me notes that thank me for reports and charts and chocolate chip cookies and unspoken, unexplained evenings of passion, and you compare me to falling stars, comets, bright, brilliant, burning away.
And Christ says just the same. Why are you mine only on Sundays? Why am I yours only when ministry fills your ears? Why won't you carry me with you always? Why don't you hear me when I urge you, "Kiss him..." Why do you allow secular doubt to fill the sacred, holy places I made hollow only so you could fill yourself with me?
Does doubt help you? Decide. Move. Looking back doesn't teach any lesson. If you must look back for the lesson, it wasn't yours to learn.
Does fret buoy you? Or does it sink you into mire and muck and shadowlands of twisted paths cobbled with more of the above (doubt)? Throw out fret because it kills you and kills your light, and reach out for faith.
Does that sound overly simple? Do you crease your brow and cry, "How?"
Just try it. Replace every single act or thought of doubt or fret with action. With decision and with faith. That means doing the work. Going the extra step. Do it for five minutes. Than five hours. Then, finally, five days. When you doubt, decide. Sometimes you will be wrong. But do it anyway. When you fret, turn to faith. Turn to the light, to the sky, to a child's embrace, to a friend's laughter, to a favorite verse in poetry, in song, in scripture. Instead of leaving your place of worry filled with dread and inaction, go forward from your place of light. Open yourself up to inspiration... and then leap.
Leap right in.
Five days. Be mine. Look at me and see that I will love you forever. That my promises are absolute. That my mind is my own, but my heart is already yours. For five days look at me... and see yourself in my eyes. You will know everything inside me if you only take the time to see. Just five days. In the eyes of our Lord. Just five days.
It will change your life.
EJ
A friend of mine said powerfully once, "I do not believe what the pulpit tells me. The pulpit is made of wood. If my church ceased to preach what I believe inside myself than I would cease to be a Baptist." She refused to be a label. She was stating, simply, that should her church change their mind tomorrow -- receive divinity retold -- she would walk away to worship one-on-one, just her, just Christ, just the truth. A new holy trinity.
Denomination is broken. Oh? Are you clicking away, closing the browser, muttering to yourself, "Here she goes again!" But here I go again is exactly where I'm going:
Mob mentality. If enough people, or the "right" people say it, repeat it, phrase it or shape it, we believe it. Not our logical mind. Not our heart. Not the voice of God in our own ears. We are egotistical, I suppose, if we have the strength, the confidence to say: I understand that you believe that, mother (father, pastor), but that is not what I believe."
Because in order to say that -- loudly, proudly -- we must know what we believe and know who we are. We must be, if not doubt free (though the strongest people I know are) than on the path to that shining destination.
How can you know that I am not the one who will love and cherish you, fight for you and hold you? How can you know when you will not look at me, look in the mirror, look into the surface of the baptismal pool and see our faces, side by side, every Sunday? You have seen me awash with desire for you. You have seen me fight with words and fists for you. But you resist, you insist, you desist any activity that might allow you to glimpse me as more than just a creature passing through your life when you need it. To you I am first a miracle and second transitory, short-lived. You leave me notes that thank me for reports and charts and chocolate chip cookies and unspoken, unexplained evenings of passion, and you compare me to falling stars, comets, bright, brilliant, burning away.
And Christ says just the same. Why are you mine only on Sundays? Why am I yours only when ministry fills your ears? Why won't you carry me with you always? Why don't you hear me when I urge you, "Kiss him..." Why do you allow secular doubt to fill the sacred, holy places I made hollow only so you could fill yourself with me?
Does doubt help you? Decide. Move. Looking back doesn't teach any lesson. If you must look back for the lesson, it wasn't yours to learn.
Does fret buoy you? Or does it sink you into mire and muck and shadowlands of twisted paths cobbled with more of the above (doubt)? Throw out fret because it kills you and kills your light, and reach out for faith.
Does that sound overly simple? Do you crease your brow and cry, "How?"
Just try it. Replace every single act or thought of doubt or fret with action. With decision and with faith. That means doing the work. Going the extra step. Do it for five minutes. Than five hours. Then, finally, five days. When you doubt, decide. Sometimes you will be wrong. But do it anyway. When you fret, turn to faith. Turn to the light, to the sky, to a child's embrace, to a friend's laughter, to a favorite verse in poetry, in song, in scripture. Instead of leaving your place of worry filled with dread and inaction, go forward from your place of light. Open yourself up to inspiration... and then leap.
Leap right in.
Five days. Be mine. Look at me and see that I will love you forever. That my promises are absolute. That my mind is my own, but my heart is already yours. For five days look at me... and see yourself in my eyes. You will know everything inside me if you only take the time to see. Just five days. In the eyes of our Lord. Just five days.
It will change your life.
EJ
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