how we begin.

December 26, 2010

I’m scared.

I’ve never been scared of honesty, only of what other people will do to it. Do with it. No, that’s a lie. Courage is not the absence of fear. Let’s say, then, that I’ve never shied from honesty. But for whose sake?

Honesty for my own sake is exhibitionism. Is it? Honesty for my own sake- is words on a page, written to me, for me, by me. For the world. Is that what all writing is, all revealing, all secrets out in the open world- merely shameless self-revealing, self-pandering? For the sake of self?

Why do I write?

I write for myself, in order to think. In order to pray, and most of what I write in secret, most of what I write in private is to a God whose ways I do not always understand, a God who I fear and mistrust- and yet love and trust, always, always, a vacillation of thinking. Why do I write? I write because it is how I breathe, how I think, how I process the world as it abuses my brain, how my brain sorts itself out. How I sort myself out in the company of God. How God sorts me out.

Is that for the world to see?

I don’t know. I don’t know. What is voyeurism, what is learning? What is truth, what is captivated grace? What is meaningless? What are words, what are words to you? Why do I use them, here, flog them senseless and melodramatic on a page until- until they offer up their guts to one and all, shameless and entirely dissectable, open to your eyes? Who are you, who see me thus? Who are you?

And why do I speak to you?

Really, this is a question of should I blog or should I simply write my own things, in my own private world. Difficult. Exclusion or inclusion, to display or to hide. What am I hiding, what am I displaying? Myself. Me. God.

God and me, so that you- whoever you may be- might see. And by seeing, perhaps hope, or understand. Or take faith. Or condemn or castigate or dismiss or simply deem irrelevant. But I put my life, my thoughts on show that by seeing this, you might see God in me. As little as it shows, as flawed and delicately broken- as clumsy as it is- as entirely wretched, or inane, or mundane- that you may see God through his children.

For how else are you to see how God works, if it is not in the life of the ones who claim to know him? We are the stories. And we know God best through stories. That’s what history- is, to us, who make it out of our own spun selves. Silly words. Inadequate words. But hopeful, too.

Where are the lines between you and me, between telling too much and too little, between being a witness and baring everything to you in shameless self-feeding exhibitionism? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

But it is a God who loves me, always, always. Come and see.

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