We are watching Bebo Norman sing Broken in a torn up house. The boys ask me why? Why is the house broken?
I say, he wanted to fix the broken house…likes to fix’em. Knows how…
Because He can…and it is a metaphor for us. Jesus was a carpenter, after all.
Their voices are overlapping–
We are all Jesus when we do what He would do…
He is here with us and in the broken house…
….Who would not want Jesus in their house?
They are bells on a cathedral.
Small, sure voices of love.
We crave celebrity.
We want to be heard
But what if God is all those things?
What if He is irresistible?
So He comes in disguise…
Blue collar guy
So we have a choice to love Him
Undazzled by all these marks of a king
We see only the naked broken
our collective broken
I parse this down for the crazy woman
You will meet in the parking lot
Where the carts are mere flocking birds
To tell you
do not miss this
God with all the cities of the world
In His Eyes
Apocalypse has been rendered almost meaningless. Which is odd when its shadow grows long and dark with this final sunset of our story.
Our story–history, this powerful thing between us.
These horsemen comfort me, despite all tangible logic: because they are real. My fear is not irrational….
He takes the form of “a Lamb that was slain”…breaks the seal…unleashes these visions of woe.
Could I look them in the face? Brace myself for the blows? No.
Make them fierce to let us know that our nightmares and histories are the same.
Men once torched Prague and watched it burn with their shiny jackboots mirroring dark destruction. Who will save us from ourselves? A day’s wage for this handful of flowers. Flowers we leave on these graves. These graves etched in stone. Our own.