Living House
My child eyes stared at a vaulted ceiling, mind swirling like the fans swirling above. Following wooden beams like rainbows. A map to the supernatural mind. Other heads looked down, lips murmuring, eyes closed. In my daddy's house, I look at him when he is talking to me. In my daddy's house, I sit in his lap my soft fingers feeling the rugged scars of his hands. But here, in this house of God, we look down. But here, in the living body of Christ, we cannot feel Him. Silently, I wondered Why?
I spent a seventh of my life in houses like this one. The innards exposed. An occasional veinish wire, a dislocated pipe, stitching between beams, all painted over with chipping white paint. Feet, dressed in their Sunday best, have flayed the skin of soft thin carpet from the skeletal cement surface below. A patch of another color covers the gap, a scab that won't remain long. The feet will tear it from its spot, leaving the wound exposed to be trampled on once again. This house teams with life. Its members move, pulsing from pew to pew, room to room. Laughter floats like bubbles in the bloodstream. Sporadic bursts of merriment. And I, a body within this Body, I feel the sting of it splashing against my cheek. Pain puddles up just under the surface of my skin, forming blue and black blisters. I cry, and other members reply...sometimes. But they too are invalid ones. The conclusion never follows their premises, or comfort their promises, because hurts cannot be truly heard or exposed in this house's hypocrisy of health. In the sanctuary, song sounds ripple, reverberating on my heart strings. We sway for salvation. And I know the Song, the Word, the Way. But singing, talking, and walking doesn't make this house a living house. We are piles of disembodied limbs, twitching from nerves. Stationary, I seize inside. A transplanted member. Again, I do not belong.
In every house, there is a Table of flesh and blood. Wood stained and broken in the shape of the words, "DO THIS IN REMEMBRANCE OF ME." The Heart of this body, life pours from it. The blood that was poured out brings me there every week. I don't know why, but I belong at Tables like these. I keep coming for the Table. Hungry. Thirsty. I enter the stream of faces through fragile glass doors, held open by two members serving, one young another old. I see the gap between them only in passing. The younger is less young than he was than when I first came. The older is older still. Both smile at me--weak, genuine smiles. Welcome. Still I wonder which, Life or Death, will deprive me of this one small civility. It's the one word I can guarantee hearing every time, but not feeling for very long.
My eyes look around me; on the backdrop of stained glass window panes I see faces smile and people embrace. My eyes following pews like webs. The nervous system of Christ's body. In my dad's house, we don't turn our eyes from a brother's crying. In my dad's house, we hold the hurting hand of a sister. But not here. Here, unfeeling and looking down, I pray Why?
I spent a seventh of my life in houses like this one. The innards exposed. An occasional veinish wire, a dislocated pipe, stitching between beams, all painted over with chipping white paint. Feet, dressed in their Sunday best, have flayed the skin of soft thin carpet from the skeletal cement surface below. A patch of another color covers the gap, a scab that won't remain long. The feet will tear it from its spot, leaving the wound exposed to be trampled on once again. This house teams with life. Its members move, pulsing from pew to pew, room to room. Laughter floats like bubbles in the bloodstream. Sporadic bursts of merriment. And I, a body within this Body, I feel the sting of it splashing against my cheek. Pain puddles up just under the surface of my skin, forming blue and black blisters. I cry, and other members reply...sometimes. But they too are invalid ones. The conclusion never follows their premises, or comfort their promises, because hurts cannot be truly heard or exposed in this house's hypocrisy of health. In the sanctuary, song sounds ripple, reverberating on my heart strings. We sway for salvation. And I know the Song, the Word, the Way. But singing, talking, and walking doesn't make this house a living house. We are piles of disembodied limbs, twitching from nerves. Stationary, I seize inside. A transplanted member. Again, I do not belong.
In every house, there is a Table of flesh and blood. Wood stained and broken in the shape of the words, "DO THIS IN REMEMBRANCE OF ME." The Heart of this body, life pours from it. The blood that was poured out brings me there every week. I don't know why, but I belong at Tables like these. I keep coming for the Table. Hungry. Thirsty. I enter the stream of faces through fragile glass doors, held open by two members serving, one young another old. I see the gap between them only in passing. The younger is less young than he was than when I first came. The older is older still. Both smile at me--weak, genuine smiles. Welcome. Still I wonder which, Life or Death, will deprive me of this one small civility. It's the one word I can guarantee hearing every time, but not feeling for very long.
My eyes look around me; on the backdrop of stained glass window panes I see faces smile and people embrace. My eyes following pews like webs. The nervous system of Christ's body. In my dad's house, we don't turn our eyes from a brother's crying. In my dad's house, we hold the hurting hand of a sister. But not here. Here, unfeeling and looking down, I pray Why?
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