We Pray for God to Stand

"The latest story of my life is that the devil's at my door tonight."

And it's times like this we pray. When our lips forget how to give forgiveness--or how to say please. And every prayer starts off the same way:

"I know we haven't talked in a while..."

And we make our cases, we make our demands, we damn, and we curse. We remember what it was like to be eighteen. Sing the songs; don't forget. But we're growing older, hoping we're growing up.

And people tell me God is not great--that he's not even good. Mots doubts, and then, without even touching the wounds, proclaims, "My Lord and my God!" We beg for signs, but we don't want the answers. Never cared for a response. We have faith in nothing.

We pray for God to stand. To come down off that cross; to stand up in the garden and take this cup like a man. The cup he just offered to his disciples as his own blood--the very same one he asks to be taken from him as he falls face first to the ground, weeping great drops of blood.

How does a man three times predict his own death and then three times ask to be spared? Why is Peter allowed to deny three times and then three times reaffirm and lead the flock? Meanwhile, Judas hangs, swaying in silence until he plummets to the ground, his insides bursting open and flowing over the soil. The field of blood is bought for thirty pieces of filthy silver. (And just where are those silver pieces today?)

How does one man fix all the world's problems in a weekend when I can barely get the lawn mowed?

If we are the body of Christ, must we all be just as broken? Which of us are the holes in wrists and feet? Who among us the chasm in his side? Can we be blood and water both? Can we be Beloved?

"I know you think that I'm someone you can trust, but I'm scared I'll get scared and I swear I'll try to nail you back up. I know you're coming for the people like me, but we all got wood and nails."