It’s a blue moon tonight and my agent and I are drinking Blue Moon beer to celebrate.
Around me are Pentecostals and Unitarians and Lutherans and lesbians and heterosexuals and males and females and Richard Rohr who’s encouraging us to abandon all labels and put on the mind of Christ and to see each other as equals. And putting on the mind of Christ is prayer, he says. So I try to put it on, but I can’t.
Because, as a human, I can’t do anything divine. Only He can.
And even as Nadia Bolz-Weber is empowering women and Brian McLaren is defying denominations and pastor Yvette Flunder from San Francisco is yelling “Get your God back!”, whether it’s “through the rosary or rubbing crystals”, even as she claims to be a Cherokee Black Irish Lesbian from the pulpit, something is dying inside of me.
Something that used to get all fired up by these kinds of settings. Something that used to come alive at the grace I thought was being preached at these kinds of places, but I don’t know that it’s grace at all.
It’s praise, not grace, and all it feeds is our egos...
(won't you join me at Prodigal Magazine for the rest of this story? but before you do, please link up to imperfect prose on thursdays, in this post here. love you guys.)
(written a month ago at the Wild Goose Festival)
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