“Who can discern his errors?
Declare me innocent from hidden faults.
Keep back your servant also from presumptuous sins;
let them not have dominion over me!
Then I shall be blameless,
and innocent of great transgression.”
Yesterday afternoon I stumbled across a little church-welcoming video on the internet, one of those “welcome to our casual, laid back, grab a donut and cup of coffee on the way to the rock band worship,” videos. A thousand presumptions popped up before I could shoo them. I love the church. I suppose it’s going to take the better part of a lifetime to learn to stop judging her and her body parts.
In any event, this morning’s Psalm speaks to it all, or so I interpreted it to. I penned a little piece as a sort of altar.
We the Cynics (A Confession).
Some presume fault in the church house coffee shops and bookstores, in right-wing ideologies, in the suspended can lights or dangly twinkly ones that are used to create an otherworldly ambiance. Maybe they see pure Christ in radical activism, in selling the things that own them, or rather might own them under the worst of best circumstances. Or maybe (just maybe) they’ve never liked the assembly in the first place. Not the church house. Not the home group. Not the family living room.
Some presume fault in the wanderlust of the mission, in irresponsibility of socialist ideologies, in the risk. Really, is it any surprise? We’ve all known missionaries with a penchant for play, for vacation, for an honest month’s sleep. Jesus had a job, too, and if he was God he must have worked perfectly hard in the infinitely mundane. As in to-the-bone hard. That’s their presumption, anyway. Maybe they see the purity in doing the next menial task to the exacting standards of a virgin-born carpenter. Or maybe (just maybe) they fear the winds that blow ships across stagnant waters.
Some presume fault in both camps, in fog machines and lazy missionaries alike. In the monetary and theological false-walls that hide an ancient way of being. In skinny jeans and fresh-pressed khakis. Maybe we the cynics are seeking something more balanced, more abundant. Or maybe (just maybe) we are death-bearers of presumptuous sins.
Photo by soundman1024, used under Creative Commons license.