I am like a child at the Feast of Passover, squirming in my clean, pressed pants, impatiently tapping my dress shoes, wanting Dad to lift the last glass and toast Jerusalem so I can go out and play. The matzo is dry, and my nose burns after gulping horseradish. I think my plenty suffering.
Sometimes I find the ritual, the structure, the starched crispness of this community unrealistic. Christians fit a narrow typology, and I find myself squirming. "LIVE! GET REAL WITH GOD! BE THE BODY, BE THE CHURCH!" I cry, looking around. Yet the LORD was not in the whirlwind. Perhaps it is not time to call Elijah, but to dance with Miriam.
Perhaps this is this is a taste of the afikoman -why should the friends mourn while they have the bridegroom?
No comments:
Post a Comment