Under the Sun and Under the Son

Under the sun....

Charging across the horizon, blanketing hills,
the glorious sun in radiant perfection shining forth its glories
projecting its rays, beautifully content, it soars.

The sun bounces off polished car hoods. It spreads rays over manicured green lawns. It greets the early riser drinking his coffee before running out the door with his smartphone and laptop, kissing his 2.5 kids, stepping down the little concrete pathway. The sun is out bright in the midafternoon, hovering over the soccer games and ballet practices. It sets on the teen chatting on the phone, still up with her homework set before her.

Day in, day out, same sun circles
Never resting, always circling in burning gas,
driven in its rivet orbit.
Does weariness dog its golden heels,
chasing in the grey dusk above the hills? 

Driven.

Performance. Praise. CEUs. One more note on the resume. One more thing on the bucket list. To-do lists that never let up. Just get a little further today. Must get another A. Another gold star from the boss.

The crushing weight of gravity as
billions of miles of space-darkness press in, against.
Bearing up its heaving gas,
choking down gaseous sighs.

Expectations. Wonders if I can--be enough, do enough, am enough. Mom wants me, teacher wants me, boss wants me, church wants me, social organization wants me, finances want me.... What if? One checked off, one another, and another after that and yet another. Must be here and must be there.

The gaseous surface, burning hot, searing
no one can touch, and burns
all that tries to approach in intimacy,
alone.

Must keep up performance. Veneer. Can't know me. Deep down, not enough. Keep at arm's length. Alone.

Clashing solar flares, as energy
with no touch and no outlet of grace
flares out in fiery fierce.

And collapse. Lash out. Bitter words over coffee. Anger simmers as the sun sets and broods still in the morning dawn as the sun continues its relentless cycle. Too tired to release. Too scared to let go. Tear down so I don't bear the blame. Tear down so I am okay. Scapegoat someone else.

*       *       *

And outside the golden city, with the sun flashing off the beautiful golden temple of Herod’s, the sun rising and setting on a staunch contentment, Jesus wept. The Light of the World shed tears over the glitter and glitz of the city.

"Would that you, even you, had known on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes…. you did not know the time of your visitation” (Luke 19:41, 44). 

The Light of the World given no space in the glitter and glory of the perfect life. He speaks: “To you I give the gift of vanity, the gift of no answers, the gift of emptiness, the gift of rubbing shame. Will you let me prick your golden globe of glitter, the puff of performance? Will you let me, the bloodied wounded shamed Savior touch you? Really touch you? Really be known, in all frailty and weakness and not-togetherness? Will you let my real blood flow into your empty heart, stilled and twisted and taut by performance?

"You cry for the light of grace. So let me touch you in piercing grace and pricking compassion and you will find once again a living, pumping heart with my life, my blood. But grace is fire. Its flaming light sears through all pride, all self-performance, all self-worth, all self-glory, all self-made, all self-dream. It burns. But in the light of my grace, life can breathe. Drivenness finds rest in the one who upholds all; gravity pressure finds unconditional acceptance by the one who was rejected by the Father on the cross so you could be known; veneer shame finds being known intimately by one who bore all shame for you.”

"And in that giving and pouring, it won’t be yours. It won't be containable in your glitter facade of life, but will break down shard-driven walls of Cadillacs and careers. It won’t be your life, your glory, your performance, your perfection. Mine, the Life. Will you join me in my crucifixion in weakness? And to find not your pride but my power. Not your perfect veneer, but my perfection in your shame, in your weakness; my fullness in your emptiness; my life-blood in an empty heart.”

"I am the Christ big enough to fill the empty vacuum of success. I am the Christ whose perfection is big enough for your 'perfection.' Only in surrendering your perfection, unbearable gravity burden, will the Light of life truly shine, and true glory be yours. I am your Perfection. And made manifest in your weakness am I the man with no place to lay his head, the rejected, the scorned, the one on the throne, the risen and exalted one."

“I weep. The Light of the World over the glitz of the world, the King of the ages over the wealth of the mist. Will you weep with me? Mourn over broken lives patched in veneer? Mourn over the Light rejected for glitter? Cry out? Oh, my people! Oh, my God!"