He will love me, still. (The Lamb and the City)

There are waters here, clear and beautiful. The sunlight dances over it like a crystal sheet. It spreads out into the distance, dazzling me with its supernatural glow.

There are streets here, golden and shinning. Earthly gold turns to clay the more pure it is, but this is the purest form and it is solid under your feet.

Heaven.

A heavenly hand touches the corner of my eyes and moves down to the hallow of my cheeks. The tears that filled up and spilled over my lashes are immediately dried and gone. The reason for the tears erased, like some dream not even worth remembering.

A joy fills my heart at that moment, and a city comes into focus.

It is glorious. Majestic building peaks and streams of that dazzling water. The sky is brilliant yet there is no sun to be seen. There he sits in the midst of this New Jerusalem, the lamb that was slain yet now lives.

I am pulled forward by an invisible force. My feet ascending the holy mountain until I feel gold under my feet. I am here, the city of Yahweh and His Son.

The faces of believers look back on me, they smile and greet me with a kiss. This is holy ground but no fire or fear comes sneaking into my heart. Only joy here, only shalom.

But then, I feel myself tumbling backwards.

My hands reach out and frantically grab at the people who welcomed me. My hands go through them, I cannot hold onto anyone. Their faces that were serene and beautiful are now distant and look past me.

I am screaming. Please! Please, don’t you see me falling away away away from you? Do something!

But my pleas are ignored. My outstretched hands grow tired of panicked grabbing, they fall loosely at my sides. It is useless. My words are not understood here, I realize. My form is no longer one they can see.

But the lamb, I see him sitting there in the middle of this. His clothing is brilliant, brighter than even one thousand suns. He looks at me. He looks at me.

In his face, in his eyes, in his smile, I see love. His hands open wide, his arms stretch out, he comes to me in an embrace. I can have his love, still. I can know him in a different way.

He releases me. He gives me the permission I desire to walk back down the holy mountain, away from the glorious city of Yah, and into the unknown. Somehow, I feel, wherever that is- he will be there.

And he will love me. He will love me still.

Breaking Loose, Letting Go

Come to me, O weary, O lost and broken one

I give you rest, find your peace, bind your wounds

Carry you like a lamb, resting half-slain in my other-worldly arms

No longer can I find that salvation. The ship has sailed, and its course is along uncharted seas. No longer do my hands find themselves wrapped together in prayer, my lungs crying out to the Father who sits on his throne in the heavens.

Seven broken seals lay wasted in the corner. A prophet demands a count for my sins and tells me the visions of my recompense. I will not wander these shores of Galilee any longer.

No one understands the pain of my broken heart. The heart of the lover of God and Christ is not one the world can understand. Yet here I am, falling into the arms of the world like a long lost lover, sinking into it like sinking sand.

The bible so worn with use lays unopened upon the reading table. The songs of praise no long grace my ears. I cannot bear it. Like a sullen and cast aside lover can’t stand to read the letters that her darling once sent her, the psalms sting my heart so they go unread.

I stepped out into a new realm of freedom, but doesn’t what gives you freedom bind you in chains? I believed that once.

I believed so many, many things.

Faith once stood like a strong tower, casting a mighty shadow over my life. The shadow comforted me, yet also darkened my horizons like sunset at the seashore. Yes, your waves and breakers wash over me. Selah.

I sleep at night next to my youngest baby, the other side of my bed grown cold without my Husband; and now a piece of me grows cold without the bridegroom Messiah.

But I had to do it; with tears, with fits and fierce resistance. I tore myself flesh from sinews, bone from marrow, and blood in the bowl like a sacrifice. I had to do it. It was a true death just like I was born again under the waters of a lake at 21.

I had to know me. The true me. Who is she? What is my life? My destiny? My worth?

I had to break loose of all things and walk alone. Any mistake I make, I will own. Anything worthwhile, anything of beauty, any good and perfect thing, I will accept as my own rather than from above.

I have to walk this road, step by trembling step, in the raw honesty of this freedom. I have to make this life my own.

I would say this is goodbye, but I can’t yet know that. No father lets his daughter walk away. Maybe I will come back in some reincarnated form, some new spiritual revival of the heart and relationship between us- bride and bridegroom, Heavenly Father and child.

The truth shall set us free.

Amen.

Tattoo of My Name

He tattooed my name on his chest today. His actions reflect both his instability and his desperation. His mania and delusions giving way to frantic attempts at reconciliation. The restraining order I placed against my Husband stands like an iron wall between us, his fists banging and his hands clawing to get in. He wants to be inside with me again, in our home and more deeply, in my heart. Our marriage has been our lifeboat, but I jumped out and started swimming; he is sinking.

It may not be entirely honest to say that I swam, it was more of a half-drowning breaststroke across turbulent waters. But our lifeboat had become a death to me. I jumped in order to save myself, it was the only way. An act of self-preservation that felt like a near suicide. I jumped clutching our babies to my chest, I have to save them from this.

From what? From his wild ramblings and outbursts of rage. Our oldest staring at him with a half nervous smile, should I laugh or be afraid; I could see the question in her little mind.

He held me down and told me I couldn’t say no. He leaned down very close with his mouth curling next to mine, Masterrr, he hissed at me.

I cried at this monster pretending to be my Husband. Surely, there must be a mistake. Surely this creature is not the man who vowed to love me, who cradled our babies, who tenderly held my hand. This snake hissing his control over me is a stranger I don’t want to know.

But still, he isn’t a monster. If only it were so black and white, so easy to delineate between good and bad. He is kind, he is empathetic, he is creative, and he is strong. He is hurtful, he is angry, he is controlling and wrong. They are all wrapped into the same person. His artwork hangs on my (our?) bedroom wall, his eyes look back at me in the lovely faces of our children that we made together with wide open love. It was not all monsters and shadows and want, it was light and beauty and full.

I too am a contradiction of love; scared, angry, lonely, lost. Yet my home was in him, my heart rested its weight in the crescent of his hands. I was his, he was mine.

He thinks a tattoo of my name on his chest will bring him back my devotion. He is like an addict deliriously searching for his fix, his actions look confused to everyone but him. I need him to stop doing everything to win me back but the very things I asked of him; take care of yourself, be patient, learn to love without abuse.

Here I am, learning too.

Learning that God doesn’t want me a slave in my household, stepping on eggshells that break on my soft heels.

Learning that heaven can come down here earth-side too, in the big belly laughs of my baby, in the soft beauty of my daughters face against my breast.

Learning that life is indeed short, so I must live it, breathe it in, open wide my arms to it.

Learning that I can love my Husband, and believe in his love for me, without accepting abuse.

I am learning, please baby, so should you.

It takes so much more than a tattoo.

Our Marriage

When I think of you, my heart breaks. Our marriage has become something to survive, something to be endured with gritted teeth. There is no peace here anymore. Is there love? Yes. Love still survives here, like a stubborn flame that won’t go out. I pour water on it, curse it, and beg that flame to just leave me alone to grow cold. But still it flickers, at times it grows into a raging fire. It devours me like a dry timber forest, the flames licking up the sides of my heart, consuming me in violence. You pour gasoline on that flame. You stoke its embers, you call me to remember our love. You are fanning those flames and begging me not to let the fire die. My tears just aren’t enough to kill this. No matter how much water I pour on those flames; it flickers, it shines, it lights. Our marriage is a slavery that I contracted for. I am your servant, you are my master. Even behind those bars you are in my every step, behind my every thought. Your presence never leaves me. That flame just won’t stop burning. Please, I am afraid. I am scared of this fire. It will consume me if you leave again. I won’t survive. There is no safe escape, only the burning, burning, burning of our love.

Keeping Faith During Trials

I am feeling a bit down today. Lately I have been going through some trials financially and medically. It can be really difficult to keep a positive outlook when times are rough. I have been contemplating Yahweh’s provision a lot lately, how he provides for his children. Our Lord Yahushua (Jesus) prays for thankfulness for our “daily bread” and he also warns us not to worry since worrying is ineffective and shows a lack of trust in our Heavenly Father.

The thing is, we as human beings can only see so far. Just like the disciples, we can only look at the two fishes and few loaves of bread we have and exclaim “no way could we ever possibly feed thousands of people!” But our Lord exhorts us to have faith in him that he will provide what we need when we need it. Yahushua seems almost exasperated by the disciple’s lack of faith. He takes the meager food we offer him and blesses it, breaks it, and not only are the thousands fed but there are basketfuls leftover!

Oh, how I wish I would always trust in him to take what little I have and use it for my good. I wish I could always have faith that although it appears impossible in the flesh, nothing is impossible with God.

Our God is a God who calls us into the raging waters before he runs the river dry.

He asks us to trust in him, actively not just giving our mental assent to doctrines and creeds. He wants more of us, he wants more of me. And I am painfully aware of how far I fall short. That is when I fall into the arms of my Savior and say “thank you my Master, thank you for doing it perfectly, thank you for cleansing me and giving me grace so I can start again tomorrow.”

I am amazed at the faith of James when we exhorts us to “count trials of any kind a joy” (James 1:2). He is looking to the Heavenly things, the crown of life and salvation of those who preserve. Peter tells us that trials serve to test our faith, refine it like fire, so that it may result in glory and praise when Messiah returns (1 Peter 1:6-7)

There are many references to being joyful and blessed to endure persecution and trials. We are taught to regard them as fleeting, nothing compared to what lays in store for us when we preserve with faith. We are taught to identify with Messiah who endure such suffering for our sakes. In Hebrews 11 we see the faith of the saints laid before us “who the world was not worthy” and the theme is there in the Word occurring over and over again.

The message is loud and clear.

Trust in Abba, Yahweh. Have faith in him who has raised Messiah from the death. Believe in him who has proven himself faithful, who has kept you from stumbling and chastened you into a more perfect faith while we await for his return.

Fear not this world, cling not to its passions, store up treasure in heaven and focus on the perfecting of your faith in trials.

In fact the Word says that those who are not chastened by the Father are not legitimate children. It is an honor to be under the discipline of the Lord because it means he loves us. In time these trials will produce a “peaceful fruit of righteousness” (Heb 12:7-11).

In times like this I can do nothing but shout like the mourning Father “I believe, help my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24).

A Tale of PTSD, Faith, and Renewal

Every so often I get the breath knocked from out of me. My lungs constrict and trap air like iron fists. I can feel my stomach turning, my heart racing, and my hands sweating. My legs start to shake, like my bones are quivering from the pain. It can be as simple as a photograph of an abandoned building that some lost soul has made their dirty home. It could be a song, a smell, a phrase or touch that feels too familiar. All of a sudden I am a quivering shaking fool. All of a sudden my guts feel like they are being ripped out from inside of me.

It can be a terrible thing, to remember.

Perhaps that is why I tried so hard to cut my past out of the tapestry of my life like a cancer. It is making me sick, I scream, as my hands tear the past to shreds. Stop following me! Stop forcing your way back into the present! The past ghosts and terrorizing memories laugh quietly at my absurd outbursts. They go into hiding, but they always come back. They always knock the breath out of me when I am least suspecting.

It may be time for a new way of dealing with this.

With this gap between what used to be and what now is. This huge hole that I have dug between my history and my present, afraid that my history may infect my future if it is allowed out of its quarantine. I lay awake at night with eyes wide open, and terror gripping my heart. What if it happens again? I can hardly even dare ask the question, barely whisper it to myself alone in the dark at night. What if all that pain and addiction and despair and loathing comes back? My husband will be a widower, my children will be orphans. I violently shake the thoughts out my head. No, I insist, that is an impossibility. I would never allow it; a fate worse than death.

But my past hunts me like a wild animal, and I cower in fear.

I throw my hands up in exasperation. But what I can do? I wail to myself. I cannot allow that old me to come back again to destroy everything I have worked for. I cannot possibly survive if I allow myself to feel the pain of those years. I would never stop crying. I would go mad. I would drown in a thousand tears.

Is it true? Would I never survive it?

Even now my chest is tightening and am fighting back those bastard tears.

Could I ever survive the memory of being held down and torn into and broken inside? Could I ever handle the enormity of that pain? Can I look at that broken and lost teenager I was, sleeping outside on top of cardboard boxes, bartering her body away after it had been taken from her? Can I remember what it felt like to dig crooked needles into my arms? The blood and water sprayed on the walls, down my clothing, heart pounding, eyes wide?

Can I ever survive the memories of dirty mattresses on the floor? Of skinny children begging for food in the project halls? Of the men, oh the many men, who grabbed and stole and took and broke me in until I was nothing but a hallow shell of a girl, filling myself with drugs to numb the pain?

What about when I realized that I was addicted? What about when I realized that I couldn’t stop? What about when I dragged razor blades across my arms and went mad because of the unrelenting suffering of it all? The despair of utter hopelessness and disdain for my life? The hatred that I felt after allowing them to abuse me, over and over again.

The confusing whirlwind of emotions that the doctors tried to drug into oblivion and lock me away for? It never worked, their drugs. I never believed that they could understand or help me. They never did.

How could it have become normal to sleep in crack houses and sidewalks? How could it become normal to treat my body like a dollar bill? How could it ever have been acceptable to hurt myself the way I did? I don’t understand how it got that bad, and I didn’t know it was that bad until I had escaped it.

Escape? Or was it more like a beautiful liberation?

Standing between two godly men, they lowered me into the waters of baptism and I declared my faith. In a faith that saved me. In a God who was able to rescue a dying girl like me. Faith that binds the broken and sets the captives free; leaping like gazelles. A birth just as real as when I came wet and screaming from my mother. A new beginning that will never end. A love from a Father who will never leave me. Forgiveness that makes what was red like blood and filthy, white as the purest of snow.

He who reached out to me and said, “Go, and sin no more. Your sins are forgiven.”

Those who have been forgiven much, love much, the Savior says. It is true. Truth that can never be destroyed; even by a thousand lies.

But how do I cope with the old me? How do I endure these crippling memories?

Maybe I need to bridge that hole that I dug. Maybe I need to embrace my history, with all its hurt and suffering and filthiness. Maybe I need to accept who I was in order to fully understand who I am today. I do not have to be that person again, but she did exist. I need to allow her to have existed. I need to allow her history to flow into my present and future, as new. She was, and she felt, and she endured, and she survived and she was reborn into this fresh new creature in faith and truth and love.

She was redeemed, cleansed, forgiven. I need to forgive her too. She needs space in my life, my emotions, because these memories will not go away. I cannot run forever.

I can stare my past in the face with all its ugliness and say “I survived you” or I can run and hide and wait for it to attack me again.

I think I may start standing up and facing what once was, so that I can keep going forward without being terrified of the past.

How I Became a Christian Heretic

So much has changed since I confessed to my Pastor and Christian friends that my theology has changed. Out of everyone I spoke to, only one person is still actively my friend in any real sense of the word. This hurts me, for sure.

So, how did this happen? How did I go from happily and dutifully affirming the creeds of the “church fathers”, to being some kind of theological deviant and heretical outlier?

I’m only being partially sarcastic, truly this is what I am now considered to be.

Well, the answer is both simple and complicated.

It’s simple because I am just reading the Word, finding the best understanding and obeying God’s Word to the best of my ability and to the best of my knowledge.

It’s complicated because it took close to two years, a lot of study, a lot of prayer, and some major uncomfortable paradigm shifting that has effectively slammed the door of mainstream orthodoxy shut in my face, and the most common response was “don’t let the door hit you on your way out”.

How many people said, “lets open the scriptures together and study this out?”, only a single person came close to that and I appericate his love and concern for me and my family. Although I do not believe I am in error, I found his reaching out to be very touching because it is coming from a place of love.

Other than him, I was met with mostly offended egos and refusal of discussion. I was accused of many things, but hardly ever listened to. I was met with the fact that doctrine is what shapes the Bible, rather than the Bible shaping doctrine, for many believers in the church.

There are many who believe that if a person rejects the doctrine of the Trinity, they are unsaved. I was never confronted with any scriptural evidence to support this assertion however.

No, mostly I was told “this is the way it is” and if you don’t like it, take your heretical self and your heretical questions someplace else, because here, we don’t ask these questions and we certainly don’t ever entertain the remote possibility that the creeds we affirm could be wrong.

So, here I am.

Here I am, the church pariah.

I don’t say this as a “woe is me” attitude. I’ve cried my tears, I’ve mourned my lost friendships and church family. I’d be a lair if I said it doesn’t hurt, but I’m no longer allowing myself to mope around in mourning.

I am comforted by the fact that I know the journey I have taken, the journey that not a single person I spoke to asked to hear about.

I am comforted when I read the Word of God and I can see it as one entity instead of two separate parts, one being “old, irrelevant” and the other “new, relevant”.

I am happy that if I am asked who God is, and I can give them a very clear and easy to understand answer, that is easily shown through the scriptures instead of saying “I don’t know how to understand God, no one can understand who he is, and no one can explain it you, his nature makes no logical sense , it’s a mystery, but yet you must believe it or go to hell”.

I am happy that if I am asked who Jesus is, I can give an equally logical, consistent, and scripturally based answer.

I have had to resign myself to some things.

One, some people will always make assumptions about me. I am legalistic. I think I’m better than other people. I am unwilling to listen and learn. The list goes on.

It used to bother me greatly when people did this, because it hurt me and because it’s frustrating to not be listened to. I mean really listened to, as in being understood by someone.

It still bothers me, but Yahweh is helping me to let go of people-pleasing. I am learning the very difficult lesson, of following God even if it’s extremely unpopular, even when friends are lost, even when I am misunderstood and misrepresented as a person. I have got to let it go, because it’s not in my control.

The only person I can control is myself. And the only concern I have is; is my heart right with God? Is God pleased with me? Can I come before him with an open heart, can I read his Word and be receptive? Can I learn new things, can I correct my errors? If I can yes to these things, then I am well.

I find it disconcerting that I am being easily labeled, yet if asked these same people doing the labeling would not be able to explain to you why or how I have come to believe what I do, or really what it is I believe!

I was asked by my Pastor (ex-Pastor) where we would go from here. “Are you going to find a new church or just be outcasts by yourselves?” He asked me.

Well, I don’t know. If Trinitarian churches would welcome to the fellowship someone who loves Jesus but doesn’t believe in the Trinity, I would go. But as it stands, we are not welcome. If we were welcome, I would be thrilled to once again fellowship with those who I love, in Christ. But the feelings of welcome are not reciprocated.

 So, the answer is that we will go where God leads, and if that means we are “outcasts” so be it. It’s not my desire to be an outcast but I happen to remember a small band of outcasts, claiming they saw a dead man come back to life, who turned the world upside-down. If I am an outcast, I think I’m in good company.

If trying to understand the Word of God, and valuing what the Bible says over creeds and doctrines, makes me a heretic then a heretic I shall be.