It is in the holy call that I find Him. The passion inside
is like a burning wildfire unable to contain. This burden gift given from Divine
to share in suffering, just a small heart inside; expanded by His call. The
vision is in motion and momentum is gained and feet walk in. Into the
suffering. With good intention. Best intention. Holy intention. To end
exploitation for one more girl. What I find is I am incapable. Inadequate. Preparation
of church and knowing the right thing and having the right answer and knowing
how to pray the prayer, and check the box, and walk to the altar, and relate
the parable becomes irrelevant to a life unfamiliar. Unfamiliar to the language
of Christianese. Unfamiliar to the protocols
of church life. Unfamiliar to the stories in the book and the words in the book
that have founded and grounded belief.
And yet she cries out.
Unscripted. That is what life becomes. When you are face to face with a heart beat in
front of you whose consistent companion has been trauma, violence, coercion,
and abuse, so much so that it is the natural, known, and comfortable. And what
I offer brings apprehension. What I
offer from my lens is peace, safety, love, joy, hope, purpose, fulfillment, protection,
possibility, healing; newness. Yet breath across the table calls it square life.
It is here that I see not with eyes, but with the spirit. See the battle. See
the reality of the intangible. See that best laid, holy intentions get lost in
translation when you walk into suffering and you don’t speak the language.
And yet she cries out.
It is here that I find I am not just peeling away at layers
of trauma with the heart beat in front of me. But equally so, He is peeling
away in me anything that is irrelevant Christianity. Anything in me that is… Ritual. Routine.
Religious. And thankfully so because
flesh and bone in front of me can spot it in milliseconds; and what a gift
these moments become. As mind becomes the seeing sense and desperate dependence
on Him, just Him, to be given the gift of “tongues” that I may lose my
Christianese and learn to speak “the game”, “In the life”, and “ghetto”
languages. What eclectic conversations are
had. I hope it puts a smile on His face, when those moments erupt of pure dependence
and wall crumbling down talk, where two hearts on opposite worlds collide and glimmers
of understanding come to both. With a serious look of here is a fragment of the
real me, “Are you going to jump ship?”, the real heart on the other end of the
conversation, bursting out laughter that as different as brokenness is, it is
so differently the same. Similar. Common after all. It truly is “dope.” And the
precious wet eye that eeks out an inkling of trust that, maybe I can allow you
to bear the burden with me someday…
Because she cried out.
Long before she was placed in the Wings of Refuge Family. “What?”
This is the beauty. The beauty that no one and nothing can deny. She cried out. To God. In her need. Without
knowing how to pray the prayer and check the box or walk down an isle to an
altar, thank God. Without knowing all the parables and the words in the great
book. Without knowing Christianese and that;
that language calls her; a seeker, unchurched, one of the lost. All the strategic plans of forming opportunities
and concocting right moments to present salvation are thrown out the window. It
didn’t really matter. What mattered is
she cried out. Because deep in her soul she knew there was more. Her spirit
told her there was a God. A God who
knows her name and cares and gave her the courage and the brave heart to get out.
And yet she cries out.
To now know this one who heard her cry. Not a fabricated
program created by man. Not a conformity of Christianity. Not a, we can contain
and make Jesus our happy clappy god that we need him to be, mentality. She
cries out for the real deal. Whole. True. Pure. Relationship based. Not rules
based. Authentic. Raw. Willing to be messy and undone
Jesus. Holy over evil Jesus. Able to
make the most hideous painful past new Jesus. Not coping Jesus or behavior
modification Jesus. But majesty Jesus. Right hand rescue Jesus. I’m cleansing you and making you white Jesus.
A bride. Redeemed. From all of the horror that happened. Every single memory.
Every single moment. Unending
Jesus. Can handle a pimp Jesus. Can
handle my grief Jesus. Can handle my trauma Jesus. Can handle my language
Jesus. Can handle my doubt Jesus. Can
handle my anger Jesus. Can handle my unbelief Jesus. Can handle my confusion
Jesus. Can handle my lack of trust Jesus. Can handle my doubt over people
keeping me safe Jesus. Can handle my triggers Jesus. Can handle my grief and
sorrow of wanting to run back to it Jesus.
And yet she cries out.
To know Him. Even when we are recommended to be very careful
because “men of the cloth” have confused the view. Which is
truth in its’ rawest; pastors, priests, men of the church daily pay for sex in America
and don’t even get me started on that raging rant. But so do educators in America, so do we not
educate? Law enforcers pay for sex, so do we not enforce the law? Construction workers and landscapers pay for sex, so do we not maintain
the home? Medical professionals pay for sex, so do we not provide healthcare?
Business men and women and professionals of every level in the retail and
service world are paying for sex, so do we seclude from business and service
providers as well? By no means so. It is
so interesting to me that the offensiveness of Jesus to the world propels more
belief than I could imagine in my heart.
Because we are not promoting a man with a name who hurt as a form of
belief, we are not promoting a horizontal belief, we are offering an invitation
to a vertical relationship with God himself…and so we must ourselves be only
vertical with Him.
And so I cry out.
And realize our cries are “dolo”…in harmony. Hers and mine. It is a powerful song of broken
as we sing the same song to the King. Verse changing to belief. Chorus raging
to The Unseen. And it is there that I learn the song of unchurch, unrehearsed,
unprepared feeling more prepared than I could ever be; rolled up sleeves ready
to dig into the layers of broken in the dark to see the Perfect Love of Perfection
shine in.
Will you cry out?
Will you be unchurched?
IF it was all taken away today..your Christianese language,
your social media bible verse scrolls, Pinterest Jesus, missional blog posts,
the printed word of God, church and doctrine, and worship music and small group
and community group, prayer service, Wednesday night fellowship, your favorite sermon
on pod-casts, decorative signs in your home promoting faith, jewelry around your
neck stamping you as Christian, tattoos on your skin staking belief, billboard t-shirts
as your wardrobe of belief, hail Marys’ and holy water, and first communions,
and confirmation classes, sprinkles and dunks in the water through baptism,
altars, and bible camp, revival services, hymnals; crusades and conferences in
stadiums, your sponsored child programs and short term mission trips, feeding
the hungry at the shelter and giving your used stuff to the poor. If you could have or do none of that what
would be left?
Would you hear Him crying out then?
For we are the product of His hand, heaven’s poetry etched
on lives, created in the anointed, Jesus, to accomplish good works God arranged
long ago.” –Ephesians 2:10
Lord Jesus tattoo my life up with Heaven’s poetry……that the
majestic reality of only you may been seen in me. Amen.
