I live in a 1920s home that has been renovated into 4 flats, 2 up, 2 down. Having lived here for a year and a half, I have become inured to the idiosyncracies of the place: the sloping floors, the poorly hung doors, the leaky plumbing. The space is safe; it's mine, and I am happy here, and that's all that matters to me for the most part.
My roommate's brother visited recently, and the first thing out of his mouth after crossing the threshold of the apartment was a comment about having forgotten to bring his level with him. He thought it might have been of some use to whoever had done the flat conversion job. Of course, his comment elicited any number of stories about the floors and doors and our landlord and more laughter. His eye is a trained one in such things. As someone who works on building projects daily, namely a 100 year-old boat, he is keen. He knows by the results -- the angles, the quality of materials, the placement of the nails, the skill of the tradesman. He can spot a hack within seconds.
I have pondered his comment for weeks. How, I wonder, does God, when he looks on us, respond? For many years, I figured his reaction regarding myself would be that of my roommate's brother. Let's blow out a few walls, tear up the floors and get out the drills, saw, and level. Time to renovate to renovare: to make new again. Certainly God is skilled and able, capable of the hardest job. But is this how he approaches us, is this how he decides to rectify -- to make straight -- the bent, the twisted, the untoward? After all, he can, as Jeffrey did, spot a fraud in a split-second.
I was often taught by zealous, fat, sweating preachers to believe this was God's day job, tearing down the house --inducing trauma in my life -- (see last post), in order to rebuild it, "The Right Way." At night, he would go about ordering world affairs while I slept off my pain from being the day's construction zone, and then, come morning, the jackhammer and pounding would start all over again. Sanctification was where it was at, Baby! Yes, you're justified and washed in the Blood, but you are screwed and Jesus has got to fix you! It's his only concern, his only 'problem' with you. Once you're all tidied up and righted, you'll be ready for regular attendance at your favourite pew. And may even be worthy of service in the Kingdom. God just might make something of you, yet!
Ouch, ouch, ouch.
I had to get off that Glory Train, and quick! This wasn't the Jesus of my knowing. The Jesus I met basically just moved in with me, into the place of my creaking floors and unsealed windows. He felt the drafts coming in under the doors and knew that my neighbours were exotic dancers and bouncers. He loved me, said he felt welcome in my ramshackle place, and said he would stay forever if I would have him. He liked me, even in my frailty and brokenness. Eventually, I realised that he had a special perspective on life, one that I could respect, admire, and ultimately defer to: because I wanted to, not because he was about to swing a hammer aimed at my head, saying it was for my own good.
I know God is holy with a capital H. The real deal. I know in the depths of my being he's crazy to involve himself with fickle, sinful me. But I also know that his eye can be on this sparrow, and love -- not the level -- will be his first response.
process matters...journey the point...growth celebrated...
Who up?
- Ellen
- Writer of said blog who hopes to write more! Purpose of THIS blog: kick my creativity in its respective behind. If you find it random, off-beat, slightly eccentric, then you have found ME! Welcome.
In touch with my world
Taking a good whiff of the resident conifers...yum!
1 comment:
Back in my college days, a friend of mine once lived in an aprtment like yours. When you wlked across the floor, you began to drift to the right or left, depending on where you were in the room.
When he moved in, I spent an entire day scrubbing and disinfecting his bathroom with very strong liquids that, today, are probably banned. The walls were a dingy grey-green and the facilites (tub, stool) were covered with waht looked like years of grime. Turns out he walls were actaually a reasonably pleasant shade fo gree. And I had those porcelain fixtures gleaming like new.
Over the next coupel fo weeks, he fixeed it up pretty good, but there was one spoot in the living room that we avoided. When you walked on it, the floor actually moved up and down — it had this this spongy instability that made it feel downright dangerous.
He liked to play his music load, but never had any complaints. Turns out, he had no neighbors. After he'd been there a couple of months, a guy knocked on his door and when my friend answered, showed him his building inspector's badge and demanded to know what he (my friend) was doing there. turns out the building had been condemned several years earlier. My pal had ben paying rent on a place he could not legally occupy. He had to get all his stuf out pronto, of course. And — no surprise — he couldn't find his "landlord." He'd only seen him when he'd met the guy there after answering the ad, and then once again, when h'ed knocked on the door to collect second month's rent. He had disappeared with the rent money. We were pretty sure he probably didn't even own the place.
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