The other side is not absent of gravity, but somewhere living in the pixels of our identities. Don’t pretend like you don’t live on that little line called “about me” like a tumbly, ole bear called Pooh. He lived on those lines too, and we’re all a character in someone’s illustrations—God, or maybe Tom from MySpace. But he is the new Obsolete Man. Goodbye, Burgess Merideth. Goodbye the Word of God, whatever that may be.
Google reminds me that aeolian processes are land formations created by the wind. I put it in a poem so you can know, too. Egyptians said suck the brains out cause we don’t need em. Now, we are only grey matter, nothing more.
Our strands are history.
Religion is abstract.
But spirituality is a romantic dance.
Let’s talk about this notion of forgiveness. We are no longer the protesters—our buildings are utilitarian, but at least the church’s sins used to amount to beauty. Why question the wind and sand, the poetry of the earth and off Israel’s lips? Because we need retribution, satisfaction, affirmation, a stale constitution. We’re redeeming ourselves to the Saved Ones while an entire belief system gets bombed. Oh, but we’re next. Listen to me recite Job’s plea:
In the whirlwind, he said, All of this is too wonderful for me. And then he barfed through a grin of moldy teeth.
“Trust in Jesus! He will redeem you to the world,” Miller mocks. The sad truth is the game, and bitterness is the middle name of human kind. Make your allegories come alive.
“The church is a whore, and she is my mother.”
Remember, my friends: This is a warning, not an argument.