I saw a bumper sticker today that said, "With every breath I praise God."
Bullshit.
There is just no way that is true, and the disingenuous nature of that comment makes me fume. Because with a lot of my breaths I'm sucking down nicotine, and with a lot I'm gasping from slugging down a pint of Guinness, and with a lot I'm telling the world to fuck off in general, and if you aren't careful it may be me telling you to fuck off in specific.
And guess what.
God still loves me.
And It doesn't want me to blow smoke up Its ass by pretending like I praise it all the time. God knows better.
It knows that I'm staring at the lady across the room.
It knows that I'm about 2 1/2 sheets to the wind.
It knows that when M. talks about how much weed she sells I want to become a client.
It knows.
And there is no escaping that.
The hyperbolic nature of Christan worship, and merchandising drives me insane. Should the jumping off point for our interactions with God be a bold faced lie. We don't always do anything. We aren't always in The Spirit. We aren't always full of praise, or free of doubt, or anything. If you think you are always something, let me know, I'll point out where you are wrong. And then I'll show you how messed up I am.
A long time ago a band called Six Feet Deep sang about being God's angry son:
"Born into a world I knew nothing of.
No concept of pain, I didn't know what it was.
But I was young, innocent, and so naive,
and I soon found out how it is.
Born into a world I knew nothing of.
No concept of pain, I didn't know what it was.
I thought I could trust, I thought I could lean
on this world, but I soon found out what it means...
...to fall face to the ground.
Try to get back up, pushed back down.
Outstretched hand, broken wrist.
One more name on my blacklist.
Didn't take me long to learn,
that if you trust, you get burned.
Put a name to my pain ..... life.
Attempt after attempt, can my heart
ever be free of contempt?
the scars in this flesh chronicle my life best,
eternal memories of why I've come to this.
The thorn in my side, the knife stuck into my spine,
never again to trust anyone.
Father, heal your angry son.
The portrait of hate, I stare myself in the face.
Mirror haunts, my fist bleeding, broken glass.
It twists, it writhes. It sinks its teeth into my mind
bending me against everyone.
Father, heal your angry son.
Please, set me free, I'm becoming the epitome
of what I oppose.
Father take the pain. Blood of Your
Only Begotten paid ransom of my suffering.
To Your cross this albatross I bring.
Template life led long ago,
Son of God, cleanse my soul.
This hardened heart turn to clay.
Father, heal your angry son."
Every one of my breaths can be that kind of praise. I'm not going to try and lie to God. Some days I hate my life and people. And I need It to help me. Not hollow praise from the lips of liars. That kind of praise gets a specific fuck off from me.
A specific one.
File under Vice.
3 comments:
These were supposed to slow down.
I am glad they're not.
Of course you would attach that comment to this post.
Brilliant.
I'll consider that silent ascent.
Yeah, it's an old post. Work is broken and I'm waiting for it to be fixed.
Sometimes every breath means the gasping sound you make when someone or something punches you in the stomach.
If breath is Spirit...there's something to that.
~H
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