At the request of our pastor, the Reverend Rebecca, I, Annette, am posting a confessional prayer spoken to our community back a couple of months ago. Please know that the first stanza in English is borrowed from Saul Williams. Having just heard him speak his verse I was inspired to dig into some of my own and share from that depth, using some of his as a complement to my own. Art inspires art, the touch of creation reverberates:
Me siento como si estoy perdiendo mi sentido de oír
aunque sirve mis orejas y escucho todo lo que tienes que decir
pero de oír, de oír los susurros de mi amor,
mi señor quien habla en voces tan misteriosos
que para oírlos pienso que oigo voces locuras
pero trato de oír, sigo buscando a mi querido
Most beloved,
I am certain of nothing more than your existence
a thousand ants crawling under a log may find themselves exposed
in my childlike search for you
I have spent lifetimes in monasteries and drum stretched villages
in expectation of this: our ecstatic dance
my friends laugh at me behind my back
they say that you have changed me and I am
I am like a survivor of the flood walking through the streets
drenched with God
surprised that all of the drowned victims are still walking and talking
maybe there’s hope
I rush to each victim’s side sucking what I can of you out of your various incarnations
pumping their stomachs and filling them
to touch them is to touch you
to kiss them is to kiss you
se que el reflejo que veo no es tuyo sino su creación
For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror;
then we shall see face to face.
Now I know in part;
then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
Faint. A shadow of an echo of your voice,
the briefest flicker of a glimpse,
is enough to keep me looking
even though I feel I’ve forgotten;
maintaining my fear of loss of listening
because
I have followed no prayer discipline. I end up feeling discontent, quilt, peace, hypocrisy, ache, grace; emotional experiences. I experience God’s presence when I pray and it breaks my heart for wanting. Wanting our world to be humane, wanting his glory to be OBVIOUS, wanting to love and be loved, wanting to never have to leave his presence. and so I find it easier not to pray because then I can be numb—at least for awhile. But then the cold lumpy bed of apathy threatens to strangle me in its covers and I cry out as if from a nightmare only to reawaken the depth of feeling that can never be broken through. This amazing man hangs beside me and says “Today you will be with me in paradise” as we die together. He passes before me and the skies weep, the earth trembles. My body cannot cry. All I can do is pray. I have followed no prayer discipline because I don’t want to feel this pain.
I have followed no prayer discipline. I do not want hear the Spirit tell me to shut up. I want to scream out loud and throw a fit. I want to make it known that I’m disgusted; angry for wanting to be touched. I want to close my eyes and open my body for pleasure consumption. I don’t want the responsibility of love. I don’t want to feel badgered to step up. I move for no one but me when I want to because I can. I speak encouragement and smile mischief on those who support me in my evil scheme to dominate my own being. I am who I am. Created as such, how can I be expected to be any different? I have followed no prayer discipline because I will not do what you expect; nothing to please you. I do not want the responsibility of serving you, especially when I feel such indefinable revulsion; annoyance, impending pain like an aura before a migraine.
My throat burns from screaming; eyes itchy, dry, cakey
hair sprung like Medusa; breath offensive even in its wheezy shallowness.
This amazing man is hanging beside me, dead.
I spat on him with my dying breath, rank words of mockery.
He promised paradise to the evil bastard opposite.
I wish it were me.
I stopped listening and thus I fear the loss.
But aloud I’ll tell you: I am that you are.
Your blood has long since seeped into my pores penetrating to the marrow of my core.
Where can I go that you aren’t?
No height or depth, no angels or demons, no strength or weakness,
no maliciousness or passivity or passion can separate me.
I am drenched with your grace, can’t hide from your face,
dim though it may be.
I am not my own.
I resent having to care. I confess that.
and I love you. I confess that.
Faint. A shadow of an echo of your voice,
the briefest flicker of a glimpse is enough.
It has to be
o señor, abre mis labios para que mi voz proclamara tu alabanza
para que en su nombre, en la proclamación del Todopoderoso
yo puedo oír su voz cantando conmigo;
a tus pies bailando con los míos
May I please use this in a youth group setting? I'll give proper attribution. Thank you for sharing it. I'm going to have to read it again tomorrow; it just needs to sink in for a bit today.
Posted by: Rob Brink | December 21, 2006 at 12:26 PM