Hey Jesus, are you still feeling sad? or will you come down from the cross to play?
Jeff's theology (right now)
Faith is a bitch. We must start here. If we start here, then perhaps everything else will make sense. If we start from a perspective that faith is easy, faith is glorious, faith is amazing - ultimately we will fall hard on our face (or we should, because dammit everybody else did). When I say faith is a bitch, what do I mean? perhaps more appropriately, it's that hope is a bitch. Faith, hope - hmm what else can I throw in there?
Today, in a response to a caring individual who was wondering why I hadn't brought 'my condition' before the congregation, for prayer etc. I had a moment of clarity.
Why hadn't I stuck it on the mass prayer chain? This week was the first that I had really requested prayer to anyone in a while - so why not a whole body surely more people = more power. At least that's what the prophets of Baal thought. And that's where it is at. Standing on the mountain, dancing, repeating a line over and over, crying, prostrating, getting whole teams to do it with me - will that convince the maker of heaven and earth to set fire to the calf?
Will 400 voices twist the mighty arm? Is it possible that God just doesn't want/need to do anything here? That this is just business as usual - people get sick, people die all the time - how much time is wasted in prayer meetings that could be lived. Why am I a special case? Do I believe God can heal me? Absolutely. Do I believe that 400 people praying is going to make that a reality? Not really. Do I realize what I'm saying? Maybe.
After her husband disappears, she is left, a complete wreck, alone, isolated and afraid of everything. Shocked and confused she doesn't touch the items in the house, hoping that when he returns it will all be as it once was. A month or so passes the wallet that sits in the entrance is gathering dust, the food in the fridge has all gone moldy, the half a can of beer, totally flat. She goes into panic, carefully sealing each item in ziplock bags, trying to preserve forever the memory of what once was. A year passes, she's moved on. Sort of. The "stuff" is all put away, the walls have a fresh coat of paint, new flooring and new sofa's. She has rediscovered her old friends. But the nights are still empty - and here her mind wanders. Faith picks up, but not faith in God - he ran off with her husband. She knows it's stupid, but goes to visit the psychic her friend recommended. Shelling out the $150, the psychic tells her just enough information to inspire hope that she could hear from her lover. That her lover would communicate like this. A week passes, she goes and visits again. This time it's $250 - it's a high demand industry. Again, the psychic stumbles around and then happens to say something that the widow can latch on to. While she's confused at why her husband would want to communicate through this woman, in this place, she continues to go back and back, each time a bit more hope, each time leaving a bit more empty - knowing she is getting ripped off.
And so I go for my umpteenth doctors visit - maybe this time I will hear the voice of my lover through a Doctor. At least it's not costing me anything but time.
don't quote me on this one.