I used to be one of them. The only thing higher than my hands was my gaze. I had the sway, in the Spirit of course. Tears, laughter, yelling–it didn’t matter. It was all genuine. From the view in the balcony that feels like a lifetime ago.
Sitting here I wonder what happened, what changed? How can I go from something that felt so real to questioning if it ever was? Now I sit and wonder where I went wrong. Clearly, it must be my fault, right? The church is the church. It couldn’t be them. They don’t get it wrong.
The funny thing is that I’m not jealous of the people looking so genuine. I don’t even long for what they have. After all, the experience isn’t mine, so why would I want it? Plus, even if I had it, how long would it be until it went away?
A woman in front catches my eye. Her dress sways as she dances for her Lord, her Love. I used to dance for Him, too. Now I dance more to the Top 40 in my kitchen.
The lump in my throat gets bigger with every beat of the drum. I hope it was all real. The only thing sadder than it being real and being gone is if it never was.
If that’s the case than where is the hope? Some say this is a season. Well, five years is a long season. I know, I know they had much longer ‘seasons’ in Moses’ day, but I can’t bear the thought of 35 more years here in this place. I’ll surely lose hope.
I haven’t lost hope in Him — just the institution. I know it’s not about the insititution, but it sure is lonely without it. Maybe I’m meant for lonely. Maybe loving God was never about a building or dressing up in our Sunday best to put on a show for him. I don’t think He buys the act anyway. Maybe it’s about coming to the cross in everything, plain and real and messy. Maybe it’s about being with my family instead of sending them to their assigned rooms. Maybe, just maybe it’s not about me as much as it is about Him and me.
Do you think anyone here is faking it? I did for awhile and then I gave that up too. Why bother? I’ve never done fake well…my heart always bleeds out onto my sleeve. Most people cannot handle the sight of blood. Now, I’d rather bleed on the cross than bleed on the altar.
Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.