Phil Wickham When My Heart is Torn Asunder

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Self-Description

I read my book while at the hospital…it is a sanitized version, maybe passably written, but it precludes all real, raw emotion, and it stifles and hides any hint of my “true genius”….haha…By that I mean that I’ve parboiled my creative spirit right into oblivion and in order to rescue it, would have to go the role of “enrichment”…
(and just ask Dr. Oz what he thinks of enriched products!)

Is there any niche for me?? A book of profane faith?? A book of uncensored creative spirit and one in which “anything goes?” A book to shock the tidiest Christians, appall yo mommas, and maybe just maybe ring true to God’s ears? I don’t know if I want a “niche” anyway…Those are reserved for dusty saints. Dead statues. I am a real, living breathing (sort of anyway) saint…one like Peter who frequently had to switch feet in his mouth…An arrogant upstart like Paul, A questioner and worshiper like David….I am passionate like Ruth; need to be put in my place like Jonah; a sufferer like Job; an angry SOB like Moses…one equally full of insecurities and excuses. I obey, but usually on the long-term plan of obedience….Not so good at leaping up and “yes-Lord”-saluting my way into compliance.

I find myself now in an odd quandary…One comprised of the necessities of medical need; the functional demands of my daily life; caught in the cracks of social injustice and financial needs…Relationally, all is in the air. My family, my friends, all at losses to know just what to make of me and how to keep my needs and passions under the grip of control…Me struggling with the demands of creative juice and motivation that get lost and consumed in the mill of actuality…lost in the dubious strength of an uncooperative body and an undisciplined mind….or rather a mind from which memory – any reliable memory function—has abdicated and taken a long hike.
My ethics; my medical and life philosophies range from mother earth’s store house of natural pharmacology and common sense measures, to prayer and simple faith, to desperately taken “conventional medical” solutions – which I am more than half hoping will kill me if they don’t cure me.

And all of this arrogance; all of this desperation; all of this need and fear is housed in a broken, pain-scarred body and uplifted to soaring heights by a soul that still weeps in the presence of beauty and worships at the feet of Grace.
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