paroles mesurées de lundi

On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside of the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of conditions.  Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke?  Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it?  The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning.  It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets.  Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews.  For the sleeping God may wake someday and take offense, or the waking God may draw us out to where we can never return.

Annie Dillard.    

 

This has been tumbling around my heads for days.  An obstacle that keeps tripping me up: and I stumble over and around it.  It has disorientated me and kept me up at night.  The remedy to an undiagnosed illness; the solution to an unsolvable problem. 

I am not sure I want either option. A sleeping God or a waking God.

A sleeping God can’t hear me or see me.

A waking God is expectant and wary.

But the truth remains – I do not, and cannot, understand the power I so effortlessly summon.  I do not and cannot understand this God I presume to love and worship.  I try, of course, but my options are limited. 

I expect this God to be merciful and just and gracious.

I find that he is distant and faceless and too big – which is not as frustrating or as hopeless as it sounds.  It just is. 

I would be lying if I said that I longed for the day that the waking God unleashed his power.  What would that look like?  Would I survive it?   

I ask, cover my eyes and count to 10…do I dare peek? 

I don’t see anything.  I don’t hear anything.

And then there is a warm, gentle, breathe on the back of my neck.

I close my eyes. 

For now, this is enough.

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4 responses to “paroles mesurées de lundi

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