Surrounded by religion.
Hymns, written for another generation who's experience of worship looks nothing like mine, do nothing but quell the desire for the familiar in a strange place.
Liturgy that unites our voices, but leaves me feeling like the last kid picked for kickball.
A schedule that frustrates the hell out of me, because by the time I realize God's up to something, the moment is ushered away by our 'regularly scheduled programming'.
And it's just like God to do something so outside my scope of thinking: He shows up anyway.
Like two men traveling down a road one third day, God shows up in their midst.
And they miss it.
You see, I am a blockhead. Plagued by intellect and a stubborn pride, how often have I missed God in my midst.
I knew he was here when we worshipped; the unity of our voices would have drowned out a choir of angels, could have lifted the roof and let heaven pour in. My chest began to quiver as I realized He was here.
Across the room, another voice recognizes Him.
I felt the weight of holiness, and froze in awe.
Everything in me wanted time to stop. I was afraid to move, afraid to open my eyes, lest the invisible clock keep ticking.
Yet the schedule drove on, and the sound of the ticking clock was the sound of my heart breaking.
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We don't know what to do with words like "theology", or "discipleship".
We've equated the Christian life to "letting our light shine", grievously mistaking discipleship for witnessing, and the secret code of the churched - "God is good...all the time", "Thanks be to God", and prayers prayed in King James English.
I just might puke if I hear it one more time.
We look at the life of Jesus as an example to follow, a hero to emulate.
We think we've got the Ten Commandments down pat, and wonder why the the concept of grace seems so incredibly...ungraspable.
It's no wonder we've got a powerless church.
Sure, it looks like we can walk on water, but in actuality, the sea of our faith is merely a mud puddle; sticky, dirty, and making a mess.
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We build intricate, ornate, bigger and better and architecturally splendid buildings, so we can worship a God we can't understand on the surface of our lives. Like He's an accessory, the shoes all the cool kids are wearing.
We'll address the budget, we'll address traditions. We'll even admit that, quite possibly, the God we don't understand may or may have something to do with the job we're doing well at, or the health and success of our children.
But we fail to address the Wound.
The Wound is eons old, as old as time is to us.
It leaves no scar, but penetrates deeper than we can comprehend.
It's been so long since we've felt the freshness of the pain inflicted by the Wound in the beginning, all that remains is an ache...
an ache of longing for restoration.
It's the Wound that steals our identity.
It's the Wound that drives our lives, the Wound we don't know we hide: who we REALLY are.
The wound goes so deep, so far back, that it wrecks us the moment we encounter holiness. Our shame cripples us, and just like in the garden, we hide.
It's the wound that keeps us seeking; driving us to places we think will address the ache.
When the ache isn't soothed, when our eyes aren't opened to the Truth of WHY, when we're deceived and mis-taught, this leaves us with rooms full of women who claim to be walking with Jesus, yet weep mainly because they don't know their identity.
Now we have churches full of people, here to get their weekly band-aid for the scab that life, so cruelly and yet appropriately, yanks off; wondering why it's not healing.
We have therapy rooms, doctor's offices, small groups and churches full of people who can't seem to get to the bottom of the issues in their lives, don't even know it's possible.
Who can't find peace.
It might, just might, have something to do with the spiritual atmosphere of today. Our desire to grow outward, leaves us starving in the deeps. The religious atmosphere of the day has the spiritual depth of a bologna sandwich. And I say a bologna sandwich, because at one point in time, the pig had breath in it's lungs.
Life is more than skin deep.
Love is more than skin deep.
God is... so... much... more... than skin deep.
Rip the scab off, and do it quick. The pain fades faster.
Poke at the wound.
Pick at the edges, see how deep it goes.
Examine the extent of the damage.
Where did the wound come from?
And more importantly, why aren't we asking this question??
