the hour i first believed
i don't remember it. i look back, and i can't see it. i can't feel it. i can't even pick the time or the place or the age. i remember the cross. i remember jesus being here. i just can't remember the hour i first believed. has it been too long? did it only have half of the impact that it should? did i forget it? do i supress it? how real was it? i don't know. but it's real right now.
i found myself outside camp chapel tonight, too distracted by the flashy lights to stay in the building. as the band played "God of Wonders" i was drawn out. creation calls. espescially when you're in the redwoods. my neck hurts still as i write this from arching back to see the ends of the trees. i know they are the tops, but i can't see them, and they remind me of how He is endless. it hurts still, my neck. but i couldn't find the ends. and situated in the center stood redemption. the soft twilight floated through the trees to iluminate those boards, cut and nailed together; a cross. the cross. the cross that brings me back to the hour i first believed, but i can't see it.
and the redwoods torture my neck. they stretch upward with all the might they've been given. i don't know if each tree decides where new branches will grow, but they're everywhere. every side of the tree gets as many branches as it can hold. and the farthest i can see is the grey sky. through the trees. through the branches. through the needles on each branch i see grey sky. the black and grey silhouettes surround this cross. and it's beautiful. so beautiful it hurts. it hurts so bad to be right there, reminded of the hour i first believed, wondering when it was that it slipped out from my brain.
this body made of dirt that i thought so perfect for holding gigs and gigs of memories fails me. it's not who i am, but it's all i have to work with. but still, i look but i can't see it. i remember jesus being here. here. right here. but not right here too. here is one of the most temporary words. it changes with movement, and it's not everlasting. it can't be. that's why jesus is here, but he's not here too. i know because i've been not here and he's been there too. and i've been here, staring at the black and grey surrounding the cross, and he's here too.
i wonder if this is still the first hour. i can't begin to explain with words the beauty that those branches placed against the northern California coast glowing twilight. it's so penetrating that it hurts and uplifts and it's got a sort of a kick, and i wonder why i've never seen it before. it's right there, just beyond the cross. it isn't as if the cross was gone, but it was here, and it wasn't here too. i need it. i've needed it always. i've found it and it has carried me too here. whatever here means.
i don't think i've looked past the cross. it has never been brought to my attention before tonight. i remember clinging to the cross. i remember it. i do. but i don't remember looking past it and seeing the beauty. the beauty that is so deep it hurts and uplifts and kicks. maybe i've been here. in this place. this place that lights up the cross with penetrating sincerity. maybe i've been here too long. maybe it's been exactly as long as i've needed to be here. i'm not sure right now, but i can see past it. and it's beautiful.
i understand this and i believe this is true. i have been forgiven because Jesus died on a cross. because i have recognized my imperfections and have confessed them, i have been forgiven. and because of that, i can move on. the cross is here for me. the cross is here and it is not here too. the cross has my back, and i can move forward with the confidence that jesus moves me. his cross has my back, and his cross is in front of me, and i look past it toward the beauty and see a God that loves me in ways that i can't experience in this body that's made of dirt, but that doesn't change His love. it's still revealed in black and grey silhouettes that stand just past the cross of my redemption.
i don't remember the hour i first believed, but i am here and Jesus' cross has my back and it stands before me at the same time so that i can see the beauty that fills me, not my body made of dirt, but me, with hope and love. if this is what it is too believe, then maybe this is it. the hour i first believed.
i found myself outside camp chapel tonight, too distracted by the flashy lights to stay in the building. as the band played "God of Wonders" i was drawn out. creation calls. espescially when you're in the redwoods. my neck hurts still as i write this from arching back to see the ends of the trees. i know they are the tops, but i can't see them, and they remind me of how He is endless. it hurts still, my neck. but i couldn't find the ends. and situated in the center stood redemption. the soft twilight floated through the trees to iluminate those boards, cut and nailed together; a cross. the cross. the cross that brings me back to the hour i first believed, but i can't see it.
and the redwoods torture my neck. they stretch upward with all the might they've been given. i don't know if each tree decides where new branches will grow, but they're everywhere. every side of the tree gets as many branches as it can hold. and the farthest i can see is the grey sky. through the trees. through the branches. through the needles on each branch i see grey sky. the black and grey silhouettes surround this cross. and it's beautiful. so beautiful it hurts. it hurts so bad to be right there, reminded of the hour i first believed, wondering when it was that it slipped out from my brain.
this body made of dirt that i thought so perfect for holding gigs and gigs of memories fails me. it's not who i am, but it's all i have to work with. but still, i look but i can't see it. i remember jesus being here. here. right here. but not right here too. here is one of the most temporary words. it changes with movement, and it's not everlasting. it can't be. that's why jesus is here, but he's not here too. i know because i've been not here and he's been there too. and i've been here, staring at the black and grey surrounding the cross, and he's here too.
i wonder if this is still the first hour. i can't begin to explain with words the beauty that those branches placed against the northern California coast glowing twilight. it's so penetrating that it hurts and uplifts and it's got a sort of a kick, and i wonder why i've never seen it before. it's right there, just beyond the cross. it isn't as if the cross was gone, but it was here, and it wasn't here too. i need it. i've needed it always. i've found it and it has carried me too here. whatever here means.
i don't think i've looked past the cross. it has never been brought to my attention before tonight. i remember clinging to the cross. i remember it. i do. but i don't remember looking past it and seeing the beauty. the beauty that is so deep it hurts and uplifts and kicks. maybe i've been here. in this place. this place that lights up the cross with penetrating sincerity. maybe i've been here too long. maybe it's been exactly as long as i've needed to be here. i'm not sure right now, but i can see past it. and it's beautiful.
i understand this and i believe this is true. i have been forgiven because Jesus died on a cross. because i have recognized my imperfections and have confessed them, i have been forgiven. and because of that, i can move on. the cross is here for me. the cross is here and it is not here too. the cross has my back, and i can move forward with the confidence that jesus moves me. his cross has my back, and his cross is in front of me, and i look past it toward the beauty and see a God that loves me in ways that i can't experience in this body that's made of dirt, but that doesn't change His love. it's still revealed in black and grey silhouettes that stand just past the cross of my redemption.
i don't remember the hour i first believed, but i am here and Jesus' cross has my back and it stands before me at the same time so that i can see the beauty that fills me, not my body made of dirt, but me, with hope and love. if this is what it is too believe, then maybe this is it. the hour i first believed.
posted by Kurt Libby at 11:34 PM
1 Comments:
the bane of growing up "Christian" is the ease with which one can slip into routine & ritual - staying busy & not taking the time to rest & reflect creates a rigidiity where God intends fluidity.
Thanks for the reminder - & the call to reflect, to push back to the time of connection with God. Remembering the desperation, & the futility of me - holding tight to first love, refusing to accept the familiar confines of routine & ritual, pushing towards being in the place of the hour we first believed.
Good eating lunch w/you two (four) too.
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