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also, the confession of a fleshy heart
I came to my journal today and realized it had been exactly a week since I wrote in it. The thought of that ubiquitous Catholic confession came to my mind, though I have never been Catholic, nor uttered those words to any man… “It’s been a week since my last confession.”
So, This is an intermission, a little timeout in the sermon series, which will resume promptly at 10 AM Sunday.
Confession
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned
Again, and again, and again, and again
It’s been a week since my last confession
I don’t know if that one made much an impression
I thought it’d get easier, but I was wrong
Just like I am, just like I’ve been…
all along
Hear me, Father, for I am weak
And hardly know the words to speak
I might’ve rehearsed them if I hadn’t forgot
Instead, I make them right up on the spot
I put them in rhymes and lines like a song
But if I say too much, if I talk too long
I know I’ll just…
Get it all wrong
Fix me, Father, for I am broken
I’m a tale untold and words unspoken
I’m a tender leaf on a winter tree
I’m a hymn of grief, I’m a poor man’s plea
You built me right, You built me strong
But here in the night, don’t leave me…
Broken and alone
Lift me, Father, for I have fallen
Cussing, crying, when I should be calling
Pleading mercy and grace
And not my case
Before your righteous Throne
I bring my advocate, Your only Son—
I am not alone
Depression
I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore. Yes, I have taken up the pulpit again, and yes, I am sure that is the right thing to do. No, I have not improved. I am still marred, flawed, stalled, puttering, sputtering, and feeling my way along. Like a blind man reading Braille, I tackle each doubt, each pout, and every trouble armed with “thus saith the Lord.”
Like a blind man reading Braille, I tackle each doubt, each pout, and every trouble armed with “thus saith the Lord.”
Impression
I don’t want to make the wrong impression.
In fact, I don’t want to impress you at all, other than to impress upon you the utter need of every human occupying this dust ball for a loving, living, breathing, Triune God.
Some might think, “Hey, Gene is preaching again. He must have it all figured out again.”
Yes, I am.
No, I do not.
I will never have “It all figured out” again. That is where pride meets destruction. Been there. Done that. Burned the t-shirt.
When it comes to preachers, if you want one of flesh and bone, where the flesh is foul and the bone brittle, settle in.
See you in Sunday School. I will hold your seat.
