a broken God

All the ways they explain the God who made earth and us: they say he is perfect, they say that he is three and one at the same time, they say that there is nothing greater or bigger or stronger. 

They say that he suffered all our sins. 
They say he was perfect. 
How does perfect and sin go together in one man? They say he was tempted by all the things that we're tempted by. They say that he didn't give in to any of the temptation. 
I give in to the temptation. 
A perfect man who suffered my sins is not perfect. He is broken. 

If I told you God was a broken man, would you say that is a wrong thing to say? Would you scuff your feet uncomfortably? 

If I tell you God is a broken man, will you stare at me weirdly? Will you shake your head angrily? 

God is a hero. Hero's aren't broken. God is a rescuer. Rescuer's aren't broken. 

But a God who takes my place and becomes what I do wrong? Where is the perfection in this? He is so broken. We know what kind of place this is. We know the kinds of things that go on here, in dark places and where everyone can see. A God who took all these pains on himself is a God so wrecked you'd hurt to look at him. 

The servant grew up before God - a scrawny seedling, a scrubby plant in a parched field. There was nothing attractive about him, nothing to cause us to take a second look. He was looked down on and passed over, a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand. One look at him and people turned away. We looked down on him, thought he was scum. But the fact is, it was our pains he carried - our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us. We thought he brought it on himself, that God was punishing him for his own failures. But it was our sins that did that to him, that ripped and tore and crushed him - our sins! He took the punishment, and that made us whole. Through his bruises we get healed. We're all like sheep who've wandered off and gotten lost. We're all done our own thing, gone our own way. And God has piled all our sins, everything we've done wrong, on him, on him. 

A perfect God with bruises, sins that ripped and tore and crushed him. This is God. He has bruises. He is disfigured. He wears secret pain you're ashamed of. Everything wrong with you is wrong with him. 
How is he perfect? He holds all our darkness. He didn't just take mine and yours as well. He is covered in sin of every human who ever filled space in this earth. 

What perfect God wears uncountable bruises takes shame we claim unspeakable? 

How can he refuse every temptation and still end up owning all the darkness in himself? Does refusing temptation make him perfect even though he became all our imperfection?  

That's what I want to know, that's where I'm at right now - I know that Jesus never did anything wrong. I know he lived what none of us would've ever done, no matter how hard we wanted to try. And I see how that makes him perfect - and how the law none of us lived out got fulfilled in him. 

But every person he comes across, compassion is him becoming their pain, their disfigurement, dissolving their shame - and the cross is the ultimate break when the bruises and hate from all of us pierce body and soul of the God who always chose to partake in the broken spaces of every womb-knitted creation he came across. 

I know he never did anything wrong - but he chose to become all we've ever done, and doesn't that look the same? 

What if God came to earth to be broken? What if God came to earth to be broken by us - because to partake in our brokenness was the way for us home. 

What if this was his real sacrifice: not to bleed on a cross, but to become a broken man by accepting the dark pain in us that had never lived in him? God is great and strong and big, immeasurably - and God coming to earth was him choosing to be wrecked like us, damaged, dirty. God became a man and what did he do? He faced people full of disgrace and shame and he looked in their pained eyes and he told them that he didn't condemn them - and he was always moved by compassion, and all that means is that he partnered them in their pain. When God takes pain into himself, shame disappears. God has no shame. Shame is fear of being rejected. People find God facing them and he kneels into their pain and in the sharing of their pain, their shame disappears. 

Maybe you can't argue out and compare broken and perfection. Maybe broken and perfection can be the same thing. Maybe if you're God you can be broken and perfect. Maybe if a perfect God can break, then a broken person can be perfect. 

Why would a perfect God break? Perfect things don't break. But a perfect God breaks on crosses every day for broken people, freeing them from their shame, 

and fully perfect things will always choose to suffer for the broken, 
because perfect things are so whole that they'll suffer brokenness for the ones they love every day of their lives. 


i don't want to accept God's enough because i want to be important enough to make my own enough. 

i want to do something important. i don't want to be where i am today, and i don't want to be where i'm supposed to be tomorrow. i want to be in important places doing important things. 

i forgot how the important thing is being in the unimportant place i am today with the people that are also here. me refusing to be present is me refusing to be intimate with God; me refusing to be present in the lowly place i am today with the people here, is me refusing the most important thing there is: intimacy with God. 

i've got it in my head that there are people out there doing things that matter, in places where they need to be. i've forgot that them doing things that matter in places where they need to be - is simply them being present with the people around them, wherever they are. 

i'll be content nowhere and nowhere will be important enough, not even my greatest idealized fantasies. i'll never save the world through something good if i choose to focus on the imaginary above the real before me today. the real before me today is the only place i was made for - there is no living out of a fantasy. i'm always wanting something else, something more - i'm not happy here? i despair where i'll be tomorrow? 

i said today that i'm feeling depressed - when what i am is discontent? when i want to make myself enough because i want to deem myself as important enough and what i need to accept is that: i am not important, and there is no place i can go that will make me more important, 

and i need to accept that i cannot make my own enough. i leave everyday wishing i'd been more, given more, achieved more, succeeded more, loved more. 

i leave everyday regretting that i'd been there. 

the fading cross on my wrist, i'd said it stood for the choice to stay here and suffer for love. i forgot what that meant. for awhile the present was the only place i could bear to be because the loss i'd suffered destroyed all the hopes that lived in my daydreams. but now the daydreams all woke up again and the present is the place i avoid, and it's all to my detriment, 

and could i admit it at all? that i can't be enough? that i'm not important? that what is important is choosing to stay present and be with the people who are here. that nothing else counts because intimacy with God is what we were made for - this is the plan God has for us - and intimacy with God only happens here. it doesn't happen in my escapism, in my self-importance. intimacy with God only happens in my acceptance of the present. 

would i accept his enough - accept my own unimportance?

would i? 
would i?

would i stop fighting to make my own enough? 
would i admit that enough has already been made? and my acceptance is choosing present-ce?  


marked under skin

So what compassion means -- is to feel somebody's pain while they are feeling it. 

And that's what you did all the time, Jesus? You hurt all the time

The car in front of me followed the round-a-bout around? Had to stop when a car flew out right in front of him. My window was down and I heard his yell, his complaint, arms flailing. That car zoomed round paying him no time of day. Papa? His anger - I don't want him to have that. Those words, they ended up being choked out - I was crying? I was crying how I cry for me - that ache inside? I never felt it for someone else before? I tried to say words for this person up ahead in that car and I've got tears and why is there this ache? 

Is this what compassion is? I'm kinda dazed, driving past those rolled barrel of wheat things - compassion is to feel their pain as if it was your own - and it becomes your own.

And if you read gospel then what you read is that anytime Jesus ever did anything - he was moved by compassion? That word salvation, its Greek sozo? Means wholeness. Salvation has never been about getting off easy? Salvation is a simple story: compassion. Compassion is a simple story? To co-suffer. Suffering is a simple story? To break. Breaking is a simple story? To become whole. It is startingly simple and it is blazingly - like hell - painful. 

Jesus bent over in the dirt, writing with his finger? While some gang of leaders stand with rocks to throw at this woman who, yeah, they'd found unclothed with some man? They wouldn't let up, kept nagging Jesus. He said the person who hadn't done anything wrong -- they could throw the first stone. Moved with compassion? He didn't understand her pain. He didn't love her in her pain - don't tell me that. He had her pain. It was his own. Maybe when he says I don't condemn you either - he is professing his shame? Jesus is wrought with their shame - Jesus is beat with rejection and humiliation -

wait, wait, wait. Jesus, when they come? He's sitting. They announce the stoning? Jesus bends down into dirt, writing. Then he stands? Says the perfect person can throw the first stone? Then he bends down again, they walk away - and he stands and speaks to the woman. 

Sits, bends, stands, bends, stands. There is something cruciform about this, its not coincidence - and how this lady stands? How they've stood her in plain sight of everyone, and she stays? 

And what these people are even saying? 'Moses, in the Law, gives order to stone such people' - Jesus here, he wrote that law on that mountain, pressing his finger into stone? - gave it to Moses? 

When they say this, that's when he bends into dirt and writes with his finger, writes into the dust He formed us out of? Jesus is standing in front of this crowd, pulled from some stance of shame, waiting for rocks to be pelted, slammed, smashed into him? Do they know his pain? They think this woman stands alone? He's wearing her shame and his chest is pummelling with the heart beat that threatens the break and how she's barely covered now, how they're covering their eyes at what she can't disguise? He's bending and writing and standing and bending and writing and standing - 

and yeah, wrought with shame and beat with rejection and humiliation - when he says does no-one condemn you?

No-one, Master

"Neither do I. Go on your way. From now on, don't sin." To break - to become whole - 

the dust stone comes out of? The dust we're made of. Stone commandments and stones to throw and dust to write in, dust to form Man out of - 

how she was completely unhidden? How they'd broke into her broken and left her standing - and they all walked away? Why? Why did they all walk away? 

The sinless one among you, go first. They all walked away... beginning with the oldest. I'll walk away a million times - not out of conviction? Out of shame

The woman was bleeding inside, those wrecked edges she'd kept bandaging over? They pulled her in and while they were dragging her across the temple floor over to where he sat - the edges in him tore all up, blood dripping inside him and where she wore old bandages? It flowed out of him. We saw it pour out his hands - but the bleeding started way before then. Way before When. 

I idealised my broken, made it unlike any shame - and walked it away every, every time. I romanticised my broken to the extent that I made out like I thought it was beautiful? When all I did was hide it, hide from it, in shame. My broken never saw the light of day - and you and me never both bled into Whole. 

I'm the one always walking away, not out of conviction, but out of shame. Still carrying the stone. 

As if I thought you could con authenticity. I've hid behind broken without entering it. I've explained broken, complained broken, accentuated broken with tears. I've maintained my own ideal of broken precisely to avoid admitting that broken is what I'm most afraid of and what I am most trying to protect myself from. Every vague proclamation of my broken has really been my own careful deflection of any arrow that had power to pierce my unbroken. And now I see, now I'm broke and I fight the edges of me where blood drains... I fight the bleeding edges for control

I'll tell you why, maybe you already know? Why those men, oldest first, all walked away? "At the core of every one of our issues is this attempt to construct our identity on something else besides Christ."

You don't even dig very deep before you realise this shame you didn't even know was shaping your makeshift identity. The things I've painted all over this skin identity, how I've known myself to be too far from the ideal I insist I've got to be - and I pretend to you like I'm there, like I'm my ideal, like this is where I want to be? Like I've pulled this over me and wear it like invisible flame: I live out of a need to prove to my 'rivalry' that I am worthy of what I desire - even though I don't think I'm worthy at all. 

The woman is bleeding and she's been covering it up so long? And Jesus walks up to her and he says I don't condemn you either - and she sees the blood pouring down the edges of him. Same bleeding edges as hers? 

Oldest walked away first? The rest followed? 
That bandage isn't really sticking through all that blood. It's kinda flapping up on the edges, sorta peeling, blood seeping out. 

She might've walked away with her bleeding edges that day, in the wake of all the rest of them. Someone right there on the ground, though? He broke right then in all her same places. 

He suffered her pain exactly there - exactly where she stood was exactly where he bled.

Our own salvation, sozo? Is not really our own at all. These bleeding edges... we don't choose this sacrifice? 

We're literally, grace-fully, broken into it. And it hurts like hell. And I'm ashamed of my broken, and I hide my broken and I'll be bandaging these wounded edges like there's no shame. 

We are broken into this sacrifice of compassion. Compassion, co-suffering, breaking, whole. I thought it would be a one-time thing. A few hours on a cross and then arise! Wake up! Resurrection! 

I'm still trying to get a handle on it, this: it's an every day thing and we'll learn our name out of our co-suffering. Jesus was serious: suffering marks us, marks our lives, marks today. 

There's this cross drawn on my wrist and Papa keeps tilting me toward it - stay with it, stay here, stay at today. I'm with you here. 

This heart's all jittery. This cross bends with my skin, this makeshift identity - kinda being shifted all cruciform. 
I don't know it yet, but he calls us Beloved. 


my slaves

what if my unexplainable depression 
is unrealised compassion 

for my family crawling through sawdust rock in Aleppo 
for my little sister sister sitting on a chair outside the karaoke bar in Phnom Penh in her small skirt with painted face, tall heels to heighten her small frame
for my child brother fighting someone's war, 

what if my hyperventilating breaths 
are in sync with your burning heart 

as bombs rain over my father's city and my mother cries into his chest,
as my sister gulps, chokes, water in a sinking boat turned away from my shore,
as my sister walks through dust with dry throat, parched,
as my brother's chest heaves, empty, bulged. 

what if my clamour for control 
is my denial of your pain,

older brother lying awake hours later, empty,
little brother pointing gun at man he does not know, 
mum and dad screaming at little boy to crawl, run, 
mum and dad 
beating heart 

little sister 

my family are slaves,
and my unexplainable depression makes sense now,
and so does the panic that doesn't easily cease. 

my family are slaves,
and i am their keeper. 

i fight insivible lords for peace of mind,
i create environment and relationship that sits in the palm of my hand,

i lock my family in a cage
because i want my control
i want my peace of mind 
i want your success to hold 

and my family are my slaves,
because i am their only keeper 


missing at the end

To have come to the end of myself, it doesn't come with the certainty I thought. It's not all bad, because at least at the end of myself, there's hope of God. But the end of myself feels like holding the end of a rope and having no idea what I'm dangling above. Having no idea what I'm about to fall into, or if I'll be holding on desperately forever. 

I'm not aware of the people in front of me, anymore. There's a dull ache in the back of my head, the only colour is yellow light, and when I start hyperventilating, I walk away as fast as I can before I start choking on air. 

There's a glass wall separating me from you. I can see you, hear you, speak with you -- and I cannot go any further. I can't nestle with your soul... I'm gone. You stand in front of me and I shake and my fingers curl up, and I can't get to you... can't gaze into your eyes, can't fall into your embrace... can't still out underneath the skies anymore. 

I drive, fighting some kind of soul-food deprivation and sheer exhaustion, battling hard breaths and shame in tearless cries, yells, pleas. 

Where have I gone? No, really, I don't know where I went. I've gone missing, and even though I know it's really for the best, I mourn myself. At least I mustered up some kind of feeling, at least I managed to caress your soul with some kind of grace. But now I am gone, and with me, gone any heart, gone any deeply felt memory. 

We don't mean anything anymore.. our loss isn't devastating now, because it's not really loss, it's just admission; were we really here, in the first place? 

I don't care anymore, and don't ask about specifics, because I'm torn up about the universe. I'm torn up about places I have to be and places I won't be, I'm torn up about the dull ache that signifies the deep breaking place, the place I end up either nothing or resurrected, and if I knew how, maybe I'd let go of the rope and risk whatever's beneath me.

I'm glad you dream, though, and I'm glad I haven't taken that from you. Maybe soon I'll be alive for real, maybe I'll wake, and know you for the first time. 
I hope you'll forgive me for faking being found, and have mercy on me now that you know I'm missing. 

I've been looking for myself, and CS Lewis words have been murmuring under the pain of my head these days, these:  Nothing in you that has not died will ever be raised from the dead. Look for yourself, and you will find in the long run only hatred, loneliness, despair, rage, ruin, and decay. But look for Christ and you will find Him, and with Him everything else thrown in.

Guess I'm wondering still, how long I can hold on, and if my hands end up slipping, what really is beneath me. 

Guess this is the moment, hey, to hope in what I've been unable to press into all these years for being stuck with the illusion of myself -- God & resurrection. 

Swing, swing, here is death, where is resurrection, 

I gone missing and I could believe, look for God & him I will find. 


ministry of reconciliation

I guess I'd start with the fact that humanity for some reason has always been pretty messed up.

Sometime in history, though, God came to earth as a man. The reason he came was to undo the man we’d become. The reason God came to earth as a man was to transform broken humanity through blood, sweat, and tears. God as man plowed through the destruction of our humanity and re-made man: reconciled man to himself.

God's birth, life, death, resurrection and ascension as man was not simply an event in history that apparently means salvation but has no real effect on our lives. His birth, life, death, resurrection and ascension was this: the restoration of humanity to its true self. Through the life of God as man, humanity's brokenness has been un-done.

But it doesn't seem undone, does it? We seem worse than ever. Did God actually do something relevant to now? Did it change anything for now, or just for some vague notion of the future, of 'heaven', of making us good enough to go there should we recognise the opportunity and really not want to go to a place called hell?

Good news: God's human birth, life, death, resurrection and ascension is entirely relevant to now. His death involved the destruction of the brokenness of man.  How can someone's death result in the destruction of something so invasive as brokenness? How can death break brokenness? The destruction of brokenness occurred because day by day in his human life, God as man refused to give in to our brokenness. He re-made humanity through re-creating man in his own life. In restoring humanity through his human life, God's human death birthed humanity all over again.

In being born again through the death of God's human life, we have literally been raised to an entirely new self: we have received an entirely new identity. The people we are because of God's human birth, life, death, resurrection and ascension is exactly who we were created to be. Humanity has been given its true identity. Our true identity is the human life of God.

Then why do we seem the same? Why does it seem that none of us have changed? The sad truth is this: most of us are blind to who we are. We believe lies about ourselves. We see ourselves as unloved, unaccepted, unapproved. We do not see ourselves as we truly are. We are blind to our true identity.

The human birth, life, death, resurrection and ascension of God is the story of our adoption into the family of God. It is the story of God reconciling us to himself. It is us literally receiving the identity of the human life of God. The human life of God knew who he was, and where he was going. The human life of God was entirely loved, entirely accepted, and entirely approved by the family of God. The human life of God did not want any glory from a person, because the human life of God knew that he was glorified by the family of God.

God human identified himself as he truly was. When we fail to identify ourselves as we truly are, we believe that we are "not", and therefore strive to become. Relationships, work, play, fame and religion become our mission to create an identity for ourselves that involves meaning, significance and glory. The deeper we are entrenched in the development of our legends and inventions, the further we are distanced from the truth of who we really are, of the glory that is already surrounding us, of the life that is friendship, meaning, and full. 

When we know our true selves, our relations with people, work, play, fame and religion change. Like the human life of God, Jesus -- we know ourselves as entirely loved, accepted, and approved by the family of God. Our engaging with people and creation becomes about seeing and making known to humanity who they truly are -- entirely loved, accepted and approved by the family of God, the family they've been adopted into by the birth, life, death, resurrection and ascension of the human life of God -- Jesus Christ.



I wrote a bunch of true stuff, but the truth is that Job's friends said all the true stuff and there was nothing true about it at all, really.

i am tired of hurting. i am tired of hurt that i think is going to make me burst, and the only thing i can do when it's like this is cut into my skin. tired of having a tired heart. tired of misunderstanding existence. tired of needing to be accepted by you because i'm too ashamed to accept myself. i am tired of the sick feeling at the thought of today and another day and a few decades of years worth. i'm tired of occasional good days that make me believe good is the reality. they're like a mean, cruel, trick. because even if they are the true reality, they aren't mine.

i'm tired of the jealousy i can't escape, as if it's my energy, as it's fuel i use to keep on. it devastates my soul, and yours. tired of this teeth grinding, this loud heart beating, this every night take a tablet in the hope that tomorrow it'll be alright.

yeah, it's too much for you, i know. i smelled a flower yesterday, and then the same one again today. it's on a tree in the backyard, they're spring blooms, they'll be gone soon. the bees like them, too. it smelled so sweet i just wanted to stand there forever, breathing it in. it's the first time i have smelled a flower without wrinkling my nose in disgust.

the last few days i've been going outside again, like i used to. i used to say that i can't breathe indoors, and it's still true. i don't know how much oxygen i have left. outside, i have been breathing. my thoughts have been shifting when i'm out there. somehow they move to God, about how us being here now is about us being one with God. about how everything is moving forward into him. that's when my lungs really inhale. same as with that flower. for some reason i keep walking away.

i'm glad to be writing this now. i gave up writing in my diary quite a long time ago. i don't pen it all down nearly enough.

i run a lot lately. i ate chocolate today, which was a bit of a rarity, come lately. sometimes i don't want to eat food at all. i don't know why all these things are wrong suddenly. or not so suddenly. maybe entirely gradually.

the main thing is what i see in my mind. a long road to nowhere, all the roads cut off. dead ends. road work signs that keep me out. it's like a tenacious fear that chains me to my insides: this, my pathetic life. amounting to nothing.............

i like ending posts with some poetic-y line about hope.
i don't know what to say, though. Job's friends would. i don't want to be like them anymore though. i only want to say the stuff that's really true. the stuff that mostly comes without answers.

i listen to the jon foreman station on pandora a lot. and the pride and prejudice station. i run to it, without headphones.
how are you? take a deep breath. i just did. sometimes it helps. even if you can't breathe very deep at all.


dear beloved,

We are the Father, and the Son, and the Spirit. We are a free, full circle of utter oneness. We make up the best jokes and hold our sides until we can breathe again. When we breathe, it's deep and never constricted. You might say that we dance in complete harmony, or that we paint with every shade of the universe. 

We'd be the encompassment of every precious moment. We'd be the day you knew you'd fallen in love. We'd be the song on the radio that held you close. We'd be the night with your friends you never stopped laughing and that one day you were absolutely sure of who you were. 

Our breaths make creation like sunsets and ocean waves in forms you never heard of. We're language and physics and we make tone and rhythm with our heart and our eyes and our mind. 

Creation and humanity, you don't exist outside of us. Hear us, we don't live in outer space. We created outer space. Don't look for us there. We don't float about in nothingness, and there is no darkness in our home. We aren't locked away in a snow globe. 

Do you think we're far away? Does it seem like we don't exist at all? Did we abandon you? 

Today, hear us. We are Father, Son, and Spirit. 
We breathed and sculpted you because we long for you to experience the life we share in the circle of who we are. The life we share together is so precious to us that we dreamed you up in order for you to come and live with us, because it is good and to share it with you brings us so much joy. We are always growing in freedom, and love, and laughter. 

You there, you are depressed. You are anxious. You are bored. Can you fathom a life any different? You look at us and you see relationship and you think, that sounds like hell. You look at our constant self-giving and our communion and our passion and wonder that it could have gone on this long. (All of eternity is a concept you have not yet grasped.) 

What does our fullness really entail? You still think we float around in space, don't you? 
You would think of our home only as land, so I will describe it as being the fulfillment of land. The fulfillment of ocean and sky, tree and flower. Of sunrise and waterfall and canyon. 

We're adventures for all eternity. We're not mountain top experiences; we speak mountains into existence. We grow and inside us is intimacy and glory and pleasure that you'll explore and discover and laugh with for all eternity. 

Is it too overwhelming? Maybe start here:  
Lying on the trampoline facing this sky of stars
Making pancakes in the middle of the night 
Stirring chocolate into the cookie dough mixture
Making a mark in the footy game
Writing a story about something you know deeply 
Solving the equation you spent half the night trying to figure out
Weeding and planting a garden
Unexpected good news
Adventuring a country & culture you've never been 
Sketching all the tiny components of something
Knitting a scarf, a jumper, a blanket 
Using wood to make a table
The construction of a home 
Drawing a plan
Cooking a meal for people
Going for a run
Being reunited with the one you missed 
A dream coming true 
Dog sitting with you when you're sad 
Catching a wave 
Water when you're thirsty 
A clean room 
Warm fire in winter 

You're compiled of dreams and stories and moments. You are past, and present, and future. You are regret and forgotten and dismembered. You are individual and collective and compartmentalized. 

I AM whole. 

We are God; Father, Son and Spirit. 
We have existed in threefold community for all eternity, and in our complete intimacy exists all joy, adventure, discovery and beauty that is always growing. 

Long before your universe was conceived, we dreamed of opening ourselves to you. Long before any of your souls were breathed, we dreamed of creating you to share in our wholeness. 

Long before there was any garden, or trees, or technology, we wrote out the story of humanity. It's story is creation, and liberation, and reconciliation. 

Long before you knew our name, we'd painted out the story of your adoption into our community. We wrote your name and beauty into creation in order to share our life with you.

Your turning away in the garden didn't have us scampering for a plan two. Liberation and reconciliation was our story for you. Before we laid any universal foundation we founded our desire for you: a place in our trinitiarian life. 

Oppression and separation made way for liberation and reconciliation. Today, please listen. The Son didn't become dust because the Father could no longer look at you. The Son became dust because this story exists for the fulfillment of our dream: to share our intimacy with you, humanity. To open ourselves to you and share our oneness with you. 

We made dirt and breathed into it and created you, humanity, that you might be one heart and mind with us. 


prodigal children

And then I saw it: I, too, strive for perfection. 

I hated myself but I must have loved myself, 
because all I loved in you was what I made to look like me. 

I saw it when I read the truth that had been written out for me: 

I too strive for perfection. 

This was when I saw how I anger at who you are, 
This was when I saw how I try break you, and mould you, and change you.

I thought you tried to do the same thing,
but I think that all along, you only wanted me to love you. 

I don't know why I wanted to make another me,
when you are in front of me and every part of you was sculpted and breathed into living by the Maker of us all. 

I too strive for perfection, boy. And I told you today: I haven't accepted you... because I wanted to make whatever I imagine perfect to be. 

I didn't realize that you're all these perfectly formed lines that our Maker drew and coloured and that he's always refining you.

You're this rock of glory that he's cutting into stone and you're this field of trees he's growing into maturity,

You're wildflowers and you're unpaved mountains and you're morning sun that yawns and lifts and stretches right out into sky. 

I've missed the soul and the spaces of God inside you, boy. These spaces make up your wholeness and I covered them up with marks and cuts. 

I told who you could be and who you couldn't, and I never wanted that person to be the one you were made to be. 

I am sorry. I've said I'm sorry many times,
but today I am truly sorry, boy. 

I want to know the soul and the holy spaces of God inside you. I want to watch you rise as morning sun and grow like a wildflower garden. I want to walk the unpaved paths that Papa reveals inside of you, the paths that travel into restoration and redemption and the aggressive forgiveness we call grace. 

I am asking Papa why I haven't loved you as I ought. As I was made to do. 
He asks if I know how he loves me. 

How do I think Papa loves me? 
I think it means that he wants to change me. 
I think that he loves the person that he knows I will eventually be. I think even that he sees me as the person that I will one day become. 

But I do not think he cares much for the person I am today. 

This makes me wonder if I have approached you the same way that I suppose Papa approaches me, 
as if I love and long for some future version of you. 

I have tried so hard to not want to be loved,
and approved,
and accepted,
and liked,
and wanted, 
and praised. 

And I failed miserably. 

Could I even confess that I have tried to live through you? That's embarrassing.

So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal. (02 Corinthians 4:16-20)

Maybe I'm always longing to be the person I ought to be, 
and maybe it's high time I believed that Papa loves even the broken me. 

Maybe that's what's kept me from the precious broken boy you are, matey. 

I didn't believe that a broken soul was worthy of love and acceptance, either mine or yours. 

A broken soul is a soul our Maker has always been in love with,

and He has shared Himself with me in you, boy. 



I will tell you what faith is. It is the waiting place. Faith is the place where you will never know if what you're holding on to is something that you made up in your head. 

Faith is when you are sure of nothing. It is when the only thought you have is of the only thing that you can feel: breaking. 

It is when all the worst things happen, when something you like gets wrecked, and something you worked hard on gets all twisted up, when you can't love without needing. 

It is square one, as if you never moved on. 

"Mystify us, arouse and confuse us. Shatter all our illusions and plans so that we lose our way, and see neither path nor light until we have found you." jean-pierre de caussade

It is having no-where left to wander. It is isolation.
Faith is the waiting place, this dark womb. 

It is when the only thing there is to do is to decide that you didn't make it up in your head, to decide that what is happening in this waiting place is some kind of growing,

and what happens, what will happen, is some kind of birth,

marked by death and resurrection. 


and then, finally

because you compare yourself with the rest of them. that's why jealousy grows like some tempestuous weed inside you. 
and you don't know if that big word even makes sense in the sentence but it seems cowardly to backspace it. 

because you look at yourself in the mirror and you see a dirty face and ugliness. 
you could be beautiful 
you could be ugly and do great things 
you could be alone 
you could be in love 

and you can find security in your beauty, 
or in your greatness, 
or in your relationships. 

and you can find no security in your beauty,
and in your greatness,
and in your relationships. 

and then you look into the sky and into the Bible and through stained glass windows. 
you can find security in what you believe 
and in the things that you do 
and in the places you live 
and in your prayers and everything. 

i confuse knowing my identity in Jesus with finding my identity in my religion. 
i can't help but realise that the person of Jesus isn't religious, that the freedom words in Galatians say that neither my most conscientious religion not disregard of religion amounts to anything. That what matters is something far more interior: faith expressed in love. 

this ridiculous jealousy gnaws at too many places, wraps right round me. i need this boy to love me, to be single-mindedly devoted to me,

and Papa is at this cross, breaking the curtain, this tearing down of the veil, this tearing down that makes turning in us, of us, re-turning, home. 

to be single-mindedly devoted to Him? to be so, so, so certain of His love for me? to be so, so, so certain of His love for me that I don't need this boy to love me? that i don't need his single-minded devotion? to be so, so, so certain of His love for me that i am entirely secure and at rest in Jesus. 
to be so, so, so, so certain of how deep and real and incredibly extravagantly and fully certainly Jesus loves me that... I don't need any more love. I don't need anymore anything. 

That...  when I was knowing and experiencing such love in this: Christ sacrificing his life for us, I would be constantly, continually, longingly... loving this boy out of the deep, secure, satisfying love of Jesus that always grows and never fades. 



Why I am alive? I'm wearing pajama pants and a jumper and it's too cold inside, and when I go outside, the sun beams down and all this material that I am boils up. I've reached the end, I hope I have, because I can't do this anymore, because all I'm asking God is what I'm supposed to do, and he's trying to remind me, that I'm supposed to be, but I can't listen to him anymore, because you, the one I want to love me most, you say I'm too far gone, I'm too sad, that I need my hopelessness fixed, because it wrecks your happy, because you've only got one life and you doesn't want to waste it. 

You wants to know why I do nothing with my life, and I try to explain that I have nothing to do, that there's nothing that I care about, that I'm not going to go out and try make a life, and force my way, and force my happy, because happy is just a feeling like sad and I've already spent years chasing it. Last night I was driving home, and fog was so thick around me, and the road I thought I knew suddenly seemed so different, and I drove it so much slower than usual, and I was so scared, and I wished that I wasn't alone. I wanted to stop, and cry, and I was trying to change the light so that I could see better, and at one point, I accidentally turned off my car lights and the world was blacker than I ever saw it, and I gasped, and I turned them on again and the fog was still there, and I just kept on, and then a bit later, it all disappeared, and the road that I knew was there again, in front of me. My fear went away with it, and I took a deep breath and I filled with relief, because I could see the way home, and it wasn't hidden by fog. 

But that's where I am right now, metaphorically, and I'm full of sad, and I hurt a lot, my heart it just starts to tear. 

Sometimes I find it really hard to believe that I'm supposed to be here, this place in the world, and then other times, something deep within me knows that I am, and I'm not afraid of sad, because for some reason, I don't care so much about a decently happy, balanced, full-of-variety life. I don't care about it at all. I'm too low down. I can't do anything else but wait for God. I can't try anymore! I know I seem ridiculous. I know. I don't know anything. There is nothing to me. I actually am hopeless. I'm not trying to impress God. I'm wishing to just die. I'm a coward. I'm weak. I'm afraid of things that no-one is afraid of. I'm sad about this, I'm sad that I'm sitting here at home alone, I'm sad that I'm not doing anything with my life, I'm sad that I'm wasting it. I really am. I wish I was doing the things that mattered to me, like walking a neighbourhood and befriending the lost, and inviting them to come and see Jesus,

but you see the thing is, I am lost, and I wish someone would invite me to come with them and see Jesus. I couldn't invite someone, I have no idea where he is. I have no idea. I am so lost. I am so... wrecked. I am so stuck. I wish I didn't have to take any more breaths. Everything in my life is half-hearted and incomplete, I'll stop sticking up for myself. Not all those who are lost, wander. Some of us stay. I don't want anything but God. I have no right to ask for him. I want you God. God. 

I don't want advice for a better life. 
I don't want to become complete and healthy with a job and prosperity. I don't know, maybe I'm completely alone in this. But when I think about poverty, I want people to have a home, I don't want them to be sold for sex, I want them to have families that love each other. But the answer to their lives and to our lives isn't to eradicate poverty, isn't to improve our own prosperity, the answer isn't to feel happy about who we are and we're headed, it's not to feel sure about a ten year plan, a life-long plan, it's not to feel foolish about a hopeless present, a hopeless life. I'm not eager for this sadness to lift so that I can feel okay again. I don't want to just feel okay again. 

I refuse to meander along. I refuse to figure it out eventually. I will waste my life. I will waste it. I am wasting it. You know I am, you wish I wasn't, because you care about me. You really do. You want the best for me, you want me to happy! And you are so genuine, I know you are. 

But hear me, please, hear me. I need God. I need him so, so much. I really do. And I know I'm going about this all wrong, but please believe me when I tell you that this is the only place I can be, I'm stuck. It would be easier to be content with anything.
I'll get to the end and I'll never have known him, and I'll have missed him. 
I'm just waiting for him to find me. I'm selfish and thoughtless and I'm just desperate, for your sake, I hope he finds me soon.