Saturday, April 10, 2004
Rants in Pants
Eyes : heavy. aching in tandem to throb in temples.
Hair : dishevelled. Dry. crunchy, dead hay.
Spirit : ? frustrated. listless. ? disgruntled.
Perhaps it's the chain of nights getting to me. Disrupted sleep cycles.
Or perhaps I've caught PMS off a woman.
pause.
shudder. God forbid.
:)
*****
Listening, two weeks (was it two?) ago to a gentle voice exhort (? cajole) our God, in his gentle American accent to remember Them. We love you God, we hold you on up high. Remember us O' Lord, we love you lord. In your mercy, hold us close, we love you lord......
The words blend into a single, long, monotonous litany of love. We... you. We... you.
? Communion
My head upright. My eyes, furious.
I know it's just me. My bad. I shouldn't be feeling like this now, not here of all places. I turn to my side, and watch my mother drinking it all in. I turn to the other, and an american stranger, hands bent at the elbows, palms upturned, somewhere else faraway in rapturous reverie.
Why do some Christians always feel this burning need to remind their God how good they've been, how much they deserve to be saved?
God doesn't need you to remind Him. He knows. He remembers.
He died on the cross for us all.
And asked only that we remember Him.
Why do we feel compelled, over and over and over again to wheedle, beg, plead him to make this gift to us, when He has already promised. Or don't we believe?
How did we come to turn the table (metaphorically speaking) so completely. God, you are not worthy to so much as to partake of the crumbs under our table, but only say the word and you shall heal us.
Wrong.
My bad. Evil me.
*****
Reading another's words, mind ticking over. Eyes, to brain. Assimilate, masticate, process. Digest, into thought; struggle to understand and empathise. The occasional speed-hump, backtracking and re-reading to glean the meaning of that phrase designed to bridge the gaps between writer, and reader. Final comprehension.
Strange. I've done it so often I take for granted that understanding is an active process involving effort. I've become deaf through habit of the weary creakings of the joints within my brain.
Yet when I read her there seems to be no effort. There are no speed humps. Eyes, to thoughts. A direct window. I can see into her world.
Stranger still, this stranger has somehow burnt through the looking glass; calmly watched her way through the one-way-mirror of the interrogation chamber he's grown accustomed to.
Or did he let her in?
(rushes to check the bolts... Oh. Bugger. lol)
*****
Ranting. Flailing. Falling.
Lying still for a while.
rest.
Eyes : heavy. aching in tandem to throb in temples.
Hair : dishevelled. Dry. crunchy, dead hay.
Spirit : ? frustrated. listless. ? disgruntled.
Perhaps it's the chain of nights getting to me. Disrupted sleep cycles.
Or perhaps I've caught PMS off a woman.
pause.
shudder. God forbid.
:)
*****
Listening, two weeks (was it two?) ago to a gentle voice exhort (? cajole) our God, in his gentle American accent to remember Them. We love you God, we hold you on up high. Remember us O' Lord, we love you lord. In your mercy, hold us close, we love you lord......
The words blend into a single, long, monotonous litany of love. We... you. We... you.
? Communion
My head upright. My eyes, furious.
I know it's just me. My bad. I shouldn't be feeling like this now, not here of all places. I turn to my side, and watch my mother drinking it all in. I turn to the other, and an american stranger, hands bent at the elbows, palms upturned, somewhere else faraway in rapturous reverie.
Why do some Christians always feel this burning need to remind their God how good they've been, how much they deserve to be saved?
God doesn't need you to remind Him. He knows. He remembers.
He died on the cross for us all.
And asked only that we remember Him.
Why do we feel compelled, over and over and over again to wheedle, beg, plead him to make this gift to us, when He has already promised. Or don't we believe?
How did we come to turn the table (metaphorically speaking) so completely. God, you are not worthy to so much as to partake of the crumbs under our table, but only say the word and you shall heal us.
Wrong.
My bad. Evil me.
*****
Reading another's words, mind ticking over. Eyes, to brain. Assimilate, masticate, process. Digest, into thought; struggle to understand and empathise. The occasional speed-hump, backtracking and re-reading to glean the meaning of that phrase designed to bridge the gaps between writer, and reader. Final comprehension.
Strange. I've done it so often I take for granted that understanding is an active process involving effort. I've become deaf through habit of the weary creakings of the joints within my brain.
Yet when I read her there seems to be no effort. There are no speed humps. Eyes, to thoughts. A direct window. I can see into her world.
Stranger still, this stranger has somehow burnt through the looking glass; calmly watched her way through the one-way-mirror of the interrogation chamber he's grown accustomed to.
Or did he let her in?
(rushes to check the bolts... Oh. Bugger. lol)
*****
Ranting. Flailing. Falling.
Lying still for a while.
rest.
