The God I worship

I know we’re always trying to figure out who we are, but it’s only been while I’ve been in school that I’ve let this consume my time in an intentional way.  Writing for class, for ordination candidacy, for personal reflection, it’s become more and more obvious to me that pinning down the “I” of a person is nearly impossible.  It’s only in what we value that our shimmery definitions come clear.  The patterns are important, the places we find beautiful despite horror or incredible despite simplicity.  I know that from one day to the next, someone might see me as interesting, as boring, as angry, as cheerful, as faithful, as broken, as good or bad, lovely or hateful, just or cruel.  And it’s all true.  The center of who any of us is doesn’t change because that Center is eternal.  And so I suppose it is the God we worship, our sense of the divine, that exposes our true selves, provides a frame for who we are, rather than lists of genealogies or chronologies, virtues or vices, beliefs or actions.  Let me introduce you to that God in my life, so that perhaps you can know me:  I worship the God of stairwells where children hide while parents fight.  The deity of fantasy novels, of Ecclesiastes, of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, of Rainer Maria Rilke.  I worship the Creator of neon purple and Mark Rothko and the scent of Meier lemons and cumin and gardenia.  I stand in awe of the God of sweet baby ankles… punk rock and cello …the Latin mass and relentless protesters of injustice.  It is the God who wove the many strands of my life, of the miscellaneous, wonderful, and painful people from whom I am the total concentrate, who I revere.  Who is God to you?

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