The one who touched God
There was one speaker at the Festival of Faith and Writing that I didn’t see listed in the program. To be honest, I might have stayed home if I’d been aware.
And that darn speaker isn’t one to be celebrated. But he was there. I listened to readings, thinking to myself, do I even have one page that is good enough to stand alone, even if anyone ever wanted to hear it read out loud? I listened to talks that were so intelligent and literary that I thought, well, none of these people will ever be interested in what I have to say. There’s a small part of me that clings — stubborn as can be — to the hope that maybe, just maybe, people will see past my own words and my own failings to the One I write about. But that part was quashed down underneath lots of ugly feelings.
Anne Lamott talked about the fact that we have two speakers. We can choose which one to listen to. I had the wrong one turned up to top volume.
So as Easter approaches, during this week when the world remembers to focus on Christ, I will allow God to roll away that monstrous boulder that stands in my way. I will invite Him to inhabit my words. I will look for the folded cloth, a quiet reminder that He is coming back. I will pray for the resurrection in my heart, for new life in my soul, for a transformation of my words into something eternal.
And I will rejoice in my doubts, knowing that only one disciple got to put his hands on the Holy One. The one who refused to turn away until he was able to see for himself. The one who had the nerve to insist on experiencing Jesus personally.
Because he is the one who got to touch God.
And that, sweet Lord, is my prayer. Amen.