Of Children, Pigs, and Priests
What does one do
with being misled? I’m not lost down some blind alley. That’s not the misleading. It’s more like “Look! It’s a bird!” misdirection. I looked and let myself be led to foolishness baffled by a half-truth, a lie. Ok, yes, I am temporarily lost, unsure of the right path. I don’t know now who you are, what lengths you’ll go to to stay hidden. And what lies beneath. We were two (too?) innocent children holding hands wandering through this forest of life, aware there are beasts in the underbrush, but merrily skipping down the road nonetheless. But I dropped your hand out of shock, and looked and now I’m . . . where? I look up, But I don’t know what I see in your eyes. “Trust me”? And “Please believe,” I think, but I don’t what to believe. Believe what? Your lies? Or something deeper you need me to believe despite the truth so that we can happily continue our journey as before? No. I cannot. For I would see you as you are-- not some golden screen image I Echo back to you in the background while languishing for real connection. No. I want flesh and blood brokenness and longing need, in open grace-- not some coy fan-dance of pretty feathers concealing and revealing your nakedness. I want you utterly nude, in full-spectrum light with blemishes, scars, rashes, rolls of fat, farting naked in all your glorious self revealed. For you are glorious, though not omniperfect. I am awed in the holy of holies of your adobe temple polished shiny smooth with ponderous writings on the walls where fiery lamps lick light. A Waterville stream babbles forth baptismal promise beneath a solid oak table set with your blessing gifts to the world-- bread, beer, and an open book of computational fluid dynamics-- ever eager for communion . . . as long as you don’t have to venture out and others earn your admittance. (I do not take my admission lightly but with reverent praise.) But in a dark corner there is a screen behind which no one sees shame, deep shame, piled up like dusty broken chairs in a forgotten warehouse presumed to be haunted, of not being good enough of not fitting in, fear of abandonment, judgment, repulsion. of deeds you’d rather forget due to regret. I understand the need for hiding, concealing the mess of it all, the naked shame of all the fat piled on to protect from the pain of truth-- that life hurts and we are not all we had hoped we’d be nor as good as we thought we could easily be. We’re a broken mess. And that’s ok. I’m a mess, you’re a mess. Everyone’s a mess mess. We all fall down. But we have a choice when we stumble-- to rise from the muck or wallow in it, pretending we’re pretty pigs when we’re just sullied in shit and rolling in it. Lord knows I’ve done my share of wallowing, mostly in chocolate, to the point where I’m fat and not pretty. And that’s just the truth. So I, too, want to hide behind a soft cozy blanket. But I cannot have true naked intimacy without dropping my cover of security and coming out from hiding to see if maybe, just maybe, instead of mockery or rejection at this shameful cross road, there might be acceptance, empathy, ministration, and forgiveness that precedes self-prescribed penance without absolution. So where are we? Pigs and children and great high priests, fan dancers all. But we can choose whether we’ll be two separate pigs wallowing in hidden shame or come clean and be clothed in our right minds, joining our hands in holy accountable communion to continue our skipping journey, aware now of our beasts but determined to face them with torches of absolution together. Tess Lockhart, June 2019 |