Sweet words, tender action. Yet, surely confused, and wrong.
Deciding, as though it were mine to resolve, to conclude.
How I feel it is mine to resolve, to conclude!
Perhaps I run away naked; I hope, I hope I run away, naked. Oh for that honor.
No, they brought him to me, with all their slingshots and bamboo daggers, as I knew they would. I was ready, I waited for them. Asked when they would be coming. And they brought him. Of course. I followed Him too, in the old way, the way that predates Twitter by a Millennia.
But they brought him to me, and they were so proud, so coyly smiling. Oh, fear and trembling within me: I swallowed it down. I must decide this, and I know.
Well, they line up against the marble wall and take turns. It doesn't matter that no two are the same. It doesn't matter that all are weak, none are strong, no pair corroborates and no pair congeals. It is their sheer number that outweighs hope, outweighs life and joy. A weak flood can kill crops as surely as a strong one, should it persist long enough.
Oh, they tell me, we heard him say things, like, I will tear down what you call religion, or, I will steal what you lean upon for security and control. We heard him say he could replace it over night, or over two, whatever he said.
Now look, I told him, this is all as it's supposed to be, you set this up. I am supposed to sit here, high backed and richly carved as it is. I have to decide this, you know that. Say something, please. Say something. You have to say something. You always say something.
Look, I said, are you the Christ?
Does it even matter? And I waited.
Then, Yep, he whispered. And yes. But I've already told you as much. And yes, I do run this show, and no, you cannot decide this. You never could, and I will make sure you know this. Or I will die trying.
Well, what do you think of that?
Look! Brandished wooden guns, and whittled pocket knives waggle before my eyes. Look! He said you can't decide this. He won't answer, he won't refute us. He knows. He knows. Damn him to hell, back where he came from, take his control, it's yours to have, is it not? It's you're high chair, is it not? Damn Him to hell, damn yourself, damn us all if that's what it takes to keep the high chair. That's what I think. That's what you think, isn't it?
This is my chair. You gave me this chair, didn't you? Didn't you? Well you surely aren't standing up for yourself. So helpful.
Come on. Prove yourself. Prophesy, damn it. Who hit you?
--
sit in that a minute before you read the next bit.
--
I have, by grace, been moved out of much of my doubt and anxiety in the past month. Nearly all of it, in fact. Therefore, do not fear: this is not a relapse. But as I read the passion narrative in Mark this morning, I could not shake the similarities between my experience with doubt and the court of the High Priest immediately preceding Jesus's crucifixion. It is a highly condemning post, revealing of my own pride and depravity and desire for control. But I felt as though sharing it, in a first-person narrative format, might be of some edification to others wrestling with doubt. It is an evil, evil proceeding. It is the nature of our hearts. If you have questions about this post, or any others for that matter, light or heavy, always know that you are invited to ask. As I have been given I will try to give, as freely as I know how.
So, that's what this post is about. That's why it seems to come out of nowhere, why it seems out of character from my past few weeks. Because, frankly, it is.
And thank you to all who have been praying for me in this season. God has answered much prayer, and I am grateful. Very, very grateful.
