Thursday, May 3, 2012

'Jerusalem', a Poem*, and the Analysis of a Surgery

Oh Jerusalem,
The town that calls for signs and murders the prophets;
I have called you home.

And my name has not left these stones, even as I would tear them down;
I will build them up.
And my name has not left your lips, fouled and chapped with tasting dust and soil;
I will soften them, I will soothe them.

Open your mouth, and I will fill it, says the Lord,
an eagle to her chick;
Open your mouth and hunger no more.

And so I opened my mouth, and felt no food, but swallowed and was made strong.
And so I opened my mouth, and remembered having been made strong, and swallowed,
and again, I found my strength.

And so I opened my mouth to praise, and was filled.
And I opened my mouth to pray, and was filled.
I opened my mouth to speak, and was filled.
I opened my mouth and was silenced, and was met.

I have met you.

I have seen you in a thousand drifting whirligigs in a forest of lob-lolly pine, and at the beach.
I have heard you in scripture, in a call for my rest, for my sleep.
I have seen you in the wisdom of defining love, and in the wisdom of beauty and purpose.
I have heard you in the voice of friends, and community, and those that love.
I have seen you in pouring out, in serving and bowing.
I have heard you in the music of a thousand artists.
I have seen you in familial reconciliation, in healing, in new life unmistakable.
I have heard you in my own prayers, in my own waiting, in my silence.
I have seen you in my love.
I have heard you in my writing.

In repentance and rest has been my strength,
In quietness and trust has been my salvation;
I have turned to what I believed, and walked again,
I have slept when I could have feared, rested when I could have panicked.
I have spent many days in quietness, and offered many fears in trust.
I have called my fears as though a bluff, and have found hope to be a path to travel
rather than a destination.

You have moved me, for friends and family,
for regulars and the sons of prostitutes.
I have repented of seeking emotion as a sign,
and you have given me emotion again.
I have opened my mouth, empty and hollow,
empty of praises and strength,
and have found my full in His provision,
and not in my perfection.

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Even as I sat down to write, and prepared to write, I was flooded with anxiety.  Today was a good day, no reason for these emotions now.  I talked about some hard things, but nothing worthy of anxiety.  And so I find myself trying to dissect it, trying to cut it out, and finding my hands shaking, ineffective.

And I think this is where my lines have fallen, where God has brought me.  I have arrived at a place in which most of the anxiety or doubt that crops up holds no merit.  It simply is present.  Be it the continued influence of a broken flesh, a broken heart, or be it attack of the Enemy- it is present.  A lingering suspicion that I have got it all wrong, that I am not loving at all, that I am failing.  Be it tied to times when my love has been challenged in the past, or if it's the repercussions of trying to open my mind further, I do not know.  It is present.

Yet, I do not need to.   And there lies the knockout gas in the surgery room, or the IV drip that puts you under.  I do not need to know why.

This year the Lord has taught me that I cannot fix my own problems.  Which, of course, I should have known.  I might have known.  A dirty knife cleaning a dirty wound does no good- it will likely even do harm.  Still, my fleshly pride persists; in anxiety, surely I must find the root. I must find the seed that has grown into fear.  For, what if it has validity?  What if it reveals something lacking in myself?  In my perception of God?  In God Himself?

This, then, is how I have lived.  In fear, and in self-diagnosis.  And this year, God has taught me to instead offer my anxieties to Him.  Allow Him to root them out, to heal them.  He is the Great Physician, I believe.  His diagnosis are true, and his scalpel perfectly disinfected.

In many ways, this year has simply been a process of choosing to believe what I have seen, and looking to them more resolutely, with more disciplined regularity.  Yes, I have sought more signs, more direction, more intimacy.  But time and time again I have return to Sabbath, the day in which we rely on yesterday's manna, and have find what He has done to be enough, conclusive, decisive and directive.  Day to day I still don't know much of what I'm doing**.  But I am clinging to God with lesser and lesser degrees of fear, with more and more degrees of love and certainty.

And in that believing and looking (repenting and believing, one might say), I have been led to rest again and again, to Scripture, again and again, and to the transforming power of the love of God.  Even as I find anxiety within me now, I speak against it, as David did.  Why are you downcast, oh my soul?  Hope in God- I will again praise Him.

And so this year has left me praising.  Struggling, absolutely, but in a different way.  A healthy way.  I now struggle in being quick to apply the Gospel, the love and strength of God, to the moment.  I fight with grace instead of my understanding or emotions.  And that is a much more powerful sword, I'll tell you.  A much sharper scalpel, indeed.

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*I think, to best describe where the Lord has brought me in the past year, a poem would suit.  A poem I will call 'Jerusalem'.  Often my prayers and poems overlap, as do my songs.  Sometimes form God to me, sometimes me to God, sometimes (rarely, though), you're even involved.

**I think I may have been in sin yesterday when I took the mulberry cuttings without asking permission.  I felt like I maybe should have, but it was dark and I didn't want to awkwardly knock at 9pm.  Hard for me to figure out if I'm in sin sometimes.  Blessedly enough, I don't have to understand it all.  Grace abounds, and I can try again tomorrow.  Refer to the previous paragraphs.

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