I am a lousy God.
But here in the terrifying confines of my mind, I pretend I am He.
It’s pathetic really. In my defense, I am very creative. I paint pictures on my frontal lobe that depict whimsy, romance, death, and destruction.
Sunshine and rain. Joy and pain. Bert and Ernie.
The shows that play are rated G for naivety, rated R for language, and PG-13 for incidents of sing-alongs with shirtless boybands… which I adore.
I want to give the credit He is due, I want Him to just be God. I want to let Jesus be Jesus… alas, my brain is continually in the way.
The scope of my brain tries to figure Him out, compartmentalize and “fix” Him – so I can make sense of cancer, miscarriages, and wasps.
The ever-wandering parameters of my brain want to believe, with childlike faith that He is the warm and fuzzy delight that invented platypuses, raspberries, and babies. Still, my brain tries to shove Him into my heart where I believe He must be – so that I might gain eternity. Once inside there I rationalize and dissect Him.
I afford the God of my heart and head the tiniest of credit. I equate His abilities to mine. I attach His faith to my weak back and folly. Because I cannot fathom, I barely believe. Because I barely believe, He is shackled tightly to my skepticism. I make a limp and brittle sculpture out of orange and purple playdough, it is of a puny God, who behaves an awful lot like… me.
Still, He waits.
He is not angry or irritated, He is perfect and patient. However, I am quite busy with hypotheticals and hyper ridiculous scenarios with lottery winnings and tangible make sense answers, that I can comprehend.
He can’t out think me or surprise me because I am in charge.
If He is as small minded as me, let Him not really be.
If His powers are as weak as my belief, let Him wither from my memory. For I am better off collecting fantasies and providential amulets than counting on a God as lousy as me.
I mock religion and superstition as I sacrifice another chicken. I guffaw at the Pharisees and I pay homage to a golden calf, listing all its powers, kneeling 7 times… on each side, twice as many times, every other Thursday.
I love the law that I hate. I obey it until I nearly break, well this part and that, but not number 67 because of course, that one is just senseless.
My checklist is a mile long, any shorter and I’d be a hyper-grace fool fueled by freedom… drunk on idiocy.
The crucifixion is altogether too much and simultaneously not enough.
I add scraps of Westernized sacrifice to the completed work, contributing nothing but my feeble works, watering down, the message, the method, and the blood of Jesus Christ.
Certainly, that last bite of my cheesecake afforded me something. I dedicate it to my guardian angel and wink, “aren’t I easy to maintain?”
Bravo, sister…. Bravo – O, I pat myself on the back and update my social media statuses, unsure why I would want a reward in Heaven when I could cash in on it now?
I plop my red lipstick into my Prada bag and proudly walk past the homeless, abused and neglected to get my $6.00 cup of coffee that the Lord #blessed me with and flippantly remark how lucky we are to live in a town that cares.
I am stunned by my compassion and slain by my inability to save.
I am altogether forgiven and kept, but barely… and as confusing as that seems, I understand it perfectly, and can back it up with Psalms.
Yes, I am a lousy god.
The weakest of the weak.
The poorest of the poor.
Please if there is one greater than I, let Him be all instead of part.
If He who saves can allow me to be spared, shut off my mind and keep me inside. If nothing else, prove me mortal and help my unbelief. Knock me over the head with something pretty, that I might be fully aware of my humanness. Let me never fix, handle, or maintain another ridiculous malady and call it a miracle.
Let madness be and let me be completely mad.
Help my unbelief.
Give me eyes to see.
Ears to hear.
A voice to sing.
And a mind… completely in tune…. With a perfected God.
I have run and grown weary, I have tried and failed… Dear Jesus, I surrender, you be Jesus – please.
May your floors be sticky and your calling ordained, Love, Jami
2 Timothy 2:12-13 (MSG) “If we stick it out with him, we’ll rule with him; If we turn our backs on him, he’ll turn his back on us; If we give up on him, he does not give up- for there’s no way he can be false to himself.”
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