Rebellion

I’ve heard Christ called a rebel (cheers to unpleasant labels!). And I’ve read Paul writing “do not conform to this world”. So I should just follow my gut and do what I know I want to do, right?

Today, I believe the answer is wrong.

Jesus was in the temple when his parents didn’t expect it. His defense: “don’t you know I should be in my father’s house?” (Luke 2:49). I read these lines this morning and couldn’t hold some part of my soul back from stretching itself out of my body with such yearning to be free. I wanted to get up and run and tell my mother, my mentors, my family, my friends “People! Look! This is who I am, this is what I was made to do, this is what Christ said, so LET ME BE!”

Let me be selfish, let me be ungrateful, let me be irresponsible, let me be irrational, let me be insane. This is how I was made and this is how I will be. I am wonderfully and fearfully made, and God has a plan for me, not for evil but for hope and a great future that no eye has seen nor ear heard!

Oh wait, the passage continues:

⁵⁰They couldn’t understand what he said…

⁵¹Then he went down with them…and was obedient to them.

WHAT!? *yearning-stretching soul snaps back on elastic cord* Look, this is Jesus Christ of Nazareth we’re talking about here. He knew God like, like no one had even imagined a human being could know God. His parents could not understand the things he knew! And still he went. Like, hello!? WHAT was WRONG with him!?

So I sat there at the foot of my bed, staring at the words, my eyes popping.

*dejected face-palm*

You know what? I think his time hadn’t come. He was twelve. It took him not another ten, not fifteen, but eighteen years to get there. And after that? Well!

---

It’s misty out, and I see only the shadow of the second step. But I see that shadow without a doubt. I’m gonna put my foot there.

My second thoughts on the future.

I have been called stupid and irresponsible among other unpleasant things. And by general standards I probably am*. But even by these “general” standards (forgive me for generalizing), I can twist my words about decently well. Now while I get paid well enough for a growing child my age, to do this thing with words, I have other uses for it also.

 

We used to live very high up at the very top of a little mountain called Upper Hantana. It connects to one end of the Hantana Range and – needless to say – commands a lovely view. The drive there, past where I live now, takes you by the little muddy lake which sometimes homes demure manel pondering the clouds, up the quieter and quieter tarred road watched on either side by the towering forests of pine, to cooler air. On an evening, one inevitably meets villagers traversing up, down and sometimes simply across the road – furred ones, quilled ones, tusked ones, spotted ones, and all generally inoffensive and shy.

The thing I remember today is the mist. Mornings up there are freezing, cold at best. To splash tap-water on your face is to have it slightly numbed for some time or stinging at least. To open the front door or even windows before the sun is clearly out is to invite the clouds in to gulp the warmth right out of your tea. On a bad day, to step out of the house at dawn is a thrilling adventure.

I can see the upper step, but the second is only a shadow. The lowest one is completely invisible. But I know it’s there. I can’t see the flat stones that pave step-by-step the eight or ten yards between the door and the little swinging gate that leads out to the pine-carpeted vehicle path. But I know they’re there. I have only to stretch my arm out in front of me to lose my hand, although I know it’s there. It is cold. And despite the thrill of the dewy air teasing my blood, making my skin tingle, my brain is hassled by the familiar unfamiliar.

If I venture off the first step onto the shadow of what I know is the second, I will begin to see the shadow of the third. If I step off the second onto the shadow of what I know is the third, I will see the first stepping stone. I can make it to the gate and beyond.

I can have a whole adventure.

All I need is a shadow, without a doubt.

 

If, after this whole artistic harangue, you still hold the opinion that my policy on “planning the future” exposes a character that is stupid and irresponsible, let me bring your notice to the fact that there was an asterisk (*) – gosh, Live Writer turned that into a orangey-balooney-cartooney-graphic-monstrosity! – just after “I probably am” in the first paragraph (it’s alright if you absolutely must scroll back up to check). This, dear uneducated reader, denotes what is called a ‘footnote’. See below. FAIL.

“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt” -- James 1:5,6

*disclaimer – my standards are completely different and by those, people who think me stupid and irresponsible (and let me add irrational also, for good measure) are just failures.

In Praise

In the praise of a man…

 

In the praise of his flowing hair

I forgot, O Lord,

a crown of thorns.

In the praise of his mellow voice

I forgot, O Lord,

the breath of Life.

 

In the praise of his strong arms,

wrinkled elbows, the tender crook

I forgot, O Lord,

shoulders. bearing weights.

heavy weights.

burdens.

sin. fear. shame. anger. lust. hate.

 

In the praise of his fine hands,

tap’ring fingers, the shocking touch

I forgot, O Lord,

wrists.

skin bruised. pierced.

flesh torn. ripped. shredded.

bone cracked broken crushed. shattered.

 

In the praise of his shining skin

glowing soft coveted honey of bees

I forgot, O Lord,

a back.

lashed.

red. lashed.

cut. lashed.

blood. lashed.

open flesh. lashed.

gaping wound. lashed.

throbbing muscle. lashed.

screaming nerves. lashed.

naked bone. gleaming lashed.

numb.

lashed.

lashed. lashed. lashed. gasp lashed. lashed. moan lashed. lashed. teeth chatter. lashed. bladder leaks lashed. lights. lashed. blur. lashed. black.

And we are not even half done.

 

In the praise of a man

I forgot his maker.

 

O Lord, have mercy on me.

* “They exchanged the truth about God for a lie, and worshiped and served created things rather than the creator – who is forever praised. Amen.” Romans 1:25 (NIV)

My thoughts on the future.

I have been wasting too much time today (and yesterday, and the day before, and for many many days before that) in front of the computer, producing ZERO work. So, despite the fact that there are now two computer screens and four hands (two left and two right, the middle two oddly juxtaposed onto each other - the wonders of our sensory system, really!) in front of my eyes (I jumped the gun with the "sensory system" comment there it seems...) I WILL WRITE.

The elder places of a "young mind" doesn't seem all that accurate a description of the source of these rants anymore. I am starting to worry. As much as I drill myself to walk the walk and trust that "so much more" will God provide for me, my thoughts often go to actually having to foot my own bills rather than doing it simply because it gives me a kick. I have come to another one of those places.

Suddenly it's all about my "plans" again. With only six months left to go with the blasted degree, people want to know what I'm "going to do next". So far, I have not had a problem with the question because:

a.) I don't worry much

b.) I have (and always have had) a (very vague) "plan"

c.) Talking about it helps sort things further

d.) It also allows me to enjoy the sounds of my voice

e.) I love the sound of my voice

f.) I'm so much fun to listen to

g.) People don't always care so very few problems occur in the rare instance my monologue develops into an actually conversation/discussion

h.) If a problem occurs I can always still enjoy the sound of my voice

i.) I'm so much fun to listen to!

But I really do have a problem. But you already knew that. Only you never knew what the problem was. Good.

Bite me.

*And forgive me the arrogance of deciding to leave in the typo.