I settled on the couch in the foyer…giving us each readying space. Something about the light, the breaking and mending of the clouds, steel-blue in the coming evening, held my gaze. 40 foot glass walls framed their flight across the sky about me. The world moved ( apart from my help.) Rachel Held Evans, a native of Birmingham and an admired post modern voice, wrote a post this week that resonated with me. In it, she shared her struggle with what is foolish and unproductive and just totally unhelpful that we in the church seem to think matters, at all, or to anyone outside our walls. And… her need to just do what she can, to live better.
That kind of pondering and protest absorbs a lot of my energy…sometimes too much. I compose arguments which I dream of posting for my pond of readers or about the edge of some sea at another’s blog…when offered. I rant internally, sometimes outwardly as well, but as I relayed to Rachel, a winning, but weary lieutenant of our time whom I follow freely… “Good things are coming cross our skies…things not of our doing, but surely of our dreams.” I listened to Hannah, 18, practice runs of songs that she has learned ( this week) or has written and will, no doubt, rearrange as she musically meanders about this court of her peers in minutes. I am sensing the sobriety and joy in her spirit, a co-mingling not consummated in mine. I know the night will be nakedly raw and real, and I asked myself WHY do we ( old ones) always have to go to them for that?
The sky pushed the clouds before me, they spread, fanned-out a bit, but they did not push back, resist, reroute their own direction. I could see them well; 40 x 40 is a pretty big lens. You’d think I could not miss the message.
I wrote out my sermon for Wednesday, last night. It is competent, ordered, structured, the metaphors match the content. But, I don’t feel the edge of apprehension just before intimate connection. I don’t sense my words – my person extended, like cloud: as steel but blue; broken, mended, carried. I feel like I wrote it…it seems sound and solid and something I don’t need in my depths to hear, either.
So, tonight, I will sit high in the skyline with those young-guns who dwell there and stand in that wind and be reminded how to ride, not resist and rewrite that sucker.