Worshipful Wounds

The past few days I’ve been out of it – Depressed, the mean reds, totally under the howl. But I told all my friends I’d be at church tonight. So I bundle up my paper-thin, monochrome, crinkled soul and get in the car.

“I will sing to and worship...”

Sometimes people talk of feeling or seeing the hand of God. More often, I have the sense of being under His thumb – pressing down on my forehead and my tear ducts – pushing into and through me, driving me into the world like a thumbtack. The world hurts.

“Everybody singing Glory, Glory, Hallelujah…”

This crazy little blue ball, hanging in space. Mostly, when I picture it in my mind’s eye, I see black clouds swirling; clouds of willfulness, greed, despair; clouds of anxiety and hopelessness and all the things that seem invincible. I see our dark marble of a world again tonight, with different eyes.

“All God’s children singing...”

As we sing, I see beneath those clouds a little column of brilliant light, streaming to God over a distance that is both infinite and nonexistent. I realize this point of light is kindled every time any of us come together anywhere, every time we worship, and it beats back the clouds. Spiritually, the earth burns brighter than the sun.

“Better is one day in Your courts...”

I open my eyes, expecting to actually see the liquid gold I feel flowing down the aisle, coming on me from behind. As molten love and power pour over me, I feel the dry husk that is me catch fire and burn. The fire hurts like healing; it consumes me utterly while leaving me intact. As if I weren’t already overwhelmed.

“You are the only one I need”

I identify with the dry bones. It’s tempting to be a dry bone – dry bones can’t bleed. The fire burns, but it doesn’t make things hurt any less. It is a comfort, though. The fire is hope. Hope that the fire can burn brighter. Hope that it will burn away the darkness within and without. Hope that I will endure, abide, and, eventually… thrive.