I become comfortable with the idea that God is near, and I figure it must be on account of all the stuff we have in common. He likes me. He thinks I’m interesting, I’m funny. He thinks I have great taste in music. He thinks I totally get it.
It’s easy to assume that it’s us and them, God.
God’s not that kind of love.
“Where there is error…” So much error. So easy to spot. So plain to see. Me and God, we weep for you.
But this prayer again, like flashing reflectors railing Dead Man’s Curve.
Error ahead, I glare down the hood and hit the gas: “Let me bring judgment; let me bring correction; let me bring right. Pick me pick me! I know I know!”
I brake hard when my headlights hit the next phrase:
“…may I bring truth.”
I become comfortable with the idea that truth is evident. I totally get it. Me and truth, we know what’s up. Get a load of this.
Jesus is not that kind of truth.
A thousand pages of 10 point Cambria, all the data in my brain, our galaxy of blogs… error persists, error abounds. Just speaking for my own, of course.
I needed a Word with two legs, dragging breath and will and time into every loving act. There was no fulfilling the lettered law without the living Spirit in a being, doing body. There still isn’t.
God is so close. To my erring friend. To my fool enemy.
May I bring –
with every being breath –
in every bodied act.