A Menagerie

A menagerie of views assaulting my mind…

Why is it you can cry out to the dark night sky, ask the starry host your inner most questions, probe the celestial sphere for earthly answers–but you don’t look up to the blue sky and wonder why? The night seems fit for asking questions, the lightness of the day hinders all questioning. No one looks up to the bright blue sky and cries out for an answer. You look up to the bright blue sky and are silenced. Something about the blackness of night imparts within you the boldness to cry out to the creation. In the glory of heaven there will be no night. The light will shine forever, for the Son of God will be that light. The comforting light that calms our fears, answers our questions, silences our confounded cries.

I don’t seek a clean Christianity where the answers are plentiful, the pews sparkling, the white-tooth smiles gleaming, and everything runs smoothly. I don’t want a Sunday-suit, clean shaven church. Worship in the Old Testament involved sacrifice. Dirty, baying animals. Spilt blood. Burnt offerings. It wasn’t clean and polished, sanitized for all to behold. This morning I sat in All Nations Indian Church, and the sage was burned before me, the smoke rising into my nostrils, and up into the sky, to the very throne room of God. Could the burning of this sage somehow be related to the burnt offerings of the Israelites? What connection is there? The blood of the slain lamb stained their hands. The smoke from the burnt sacrifice clung to their clothes. They were marked with worship. Paul sat in front of me this morning. His thrift-store clothes and unshaven face set him apart. The grocery bag at his feet and unkempt hair furthered the thought that a homeless man had come in off the street for church. But toss my judgements aside, for they are not valid. He took copious notes during the service, sitting long after the Lord’s prayer to finish.

And if the answers aren’t plentiful or a glitch comes along, what do you do? Stare at the floor? His last day at the church became a tearful goodbye for all. Perhaps for varying reasons. She came through the line, near to the end of the long chain of people, to wish the pastor and his wife well. The woman hugged the wife and kind words were exchanged. But what did he do? What could he do? Perhaps he knew the whole truth, perhaps he was grossly misinformed. Perhaps an unanswered letter still sits on his desk, chewing at his heart. Perhaps he knew where he had failed, and couldn’t fess up to the truth. But no matter what the reason, he wouldn’t meet her gaze. He refused eye contact. Stare at the floor and everything will be okay. Let another hurting human being slip by, maybe next time. In another church, in another city, in another life you can atone for your broken lies. No use trying–not here, not now. How is it that you gained the title ‘pastor’? And all I can do is cry.

You have the gall to ask of me. How’s he doing? Is everything fine? An unanswered letter sits somewhere in your possession. Yet you ignore it, like yesterday’s news. Never mind my concern, ignore my pleas. Everything’s fine now, it’s all behind us. We’re still friends right? Seventy times seven, and I can’t understand. Does forgiveness still stand at a seven hundred mile pace? And all I can do is cry.

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