Ruth was a prostitute who worked the dirty streets every night to make ends meet at home. She saw the billboards proclaiming the true happiness found in Jesus. “Jesus Loves YOU.” “Jesus Saves.” But the hostility she found waiting for her in that auditorium was enough to make her want to burst.
Peter was a gambler who blew it and lost everything he owned. He had heard the stories of the man who had died to take the punishment (or something) of his sin (was that the word?). He could feel the eyes like daggers focused on him past every church he walked by, and he couldn’t believe in that kind of love.
Timothy was an alcoholic who killed his girlfriend (in their shared apartment, nonetheless) in a drunken rage. Sentenced to a life of solitude and repetition, he wanted something to believe in to save him from himself. The shouts and condemnation he found waiting for him outside of the courtroom discouraged him from finding such a savior.
Sometimes it suffocates me: The need to stone the liberal, burn the liar, torture the adulterer. There is no plank in my eye. There is nothing wrong with me. I am God’s most perfect creation.
Sometimes the injustice is so strong I want to lie down and not wake up. I can’t find the cure. Where’s the cure? I believe that God is love. I believe that God is gospel. If I look on Ruth, Peter, and Timothy with disgust and disdain, then so is my relationship with God. “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.”
I can’t find the cure.
* * *
All things of grace and beauty travel down the same road to solitude. Some may find it, some don’t. A bluebird whistles in the summer breeze. A flower is handed to me by a beautiful girl. Is there grace? A man sings by himself on the road to somewhere or nowhere. It doesn’t matter which. It’s all the same to him.
Tell me a story of beauty
A story of love and rhyme
Grab hold my hand and show me
How to love in good time
A paradox. A matrix. An axiom. These are not found under heaven’s gaze. There are not found in God’s eye. Things are not good on the west side of town. Things are not good in my heart. Open your eyes. Drop the bomb. LOVE is just a four letter word. It does nothing on its own. Act. Breathe. Care. You know what to do. Question: If the heart is empty, what of your mind? Empty is never full. Why are we full of empty? Broken word, mind, heart, feet, sleep, hate, love, soul. Tears on the inside. Tears on the outside. Broken bottles, scratched soles. Play the music. Enlighten your mind. May you find what you seek, sir.
“God has eyes to see?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sad man shot. Hopeless home broken. Is there grace? Solitude can only be achieved by action. Actions beyond your measurements. Beauty is achieved through creation. Deepest mystery. Hopeless history. Languages swarm through minds of darkness and light the rays of sunlight through the window to grace upon your cheek. The never of good will never be while the never evil we’ll someday see. Speak to me in a language only God knows. Whisper in my ear like a long lost lover to his always future bride. Open your ears. A thing of beauty in my eyes. Hold me close! An ugliness penetrates everything around me. Soon you will see. Something will come. Someone. So travel down this trail. Find yourself in the river. Lose yourself in the light. We’re almost there. Don’t leave yet. You will love. You will see. Hope.
“God has heart to love?”
“Yes, son.”
Yes.
* * *
Tell me the old, old story of unseen things above,
Of Jesus and His glory, of Jesus and His love.
Tell me the story simply, as to a little child,
For I am weak and weary, and helpless and defiled.
Tell me the story slowly, that I may take it in,
That wonderful redemption, God’s remedy for sin.
Tell me the story often, for I forget so soon;
The early dew of morning has passed away at noon.
Tell me the story softly, with earnest tones and grave;
Remember I’m the sinner whom Jesus came to save.
Tell me the story always, if you would really be,
In any time of trouble, a comforter to me.
Tell me the same old story when you have cause to fear
That this world’s empty glory is costing me too dear.
Yes, and when that world’s glory is dawning on my soul,
Tell me the old, old story: “Christ Jesus makes thee whole.”