Let the house fall

I'm tired of constantly needing to defend
    my value,
    my worth,
    my dignity.

I'm tired of contending with my neighbor

    for the weight
        of my attention,
        of my life,
        of my spirit,
    to be
        communicated,
        reciprocated,
        incorporated.

I'm tired of asserting the goodness of our Maker
    to design and fashion a throat:
        through which to breathe,
        through which to nourish and sustain,
        through which to participate in the divine Ruach
            with the likeness of the Logos.
    My spirit is worthless to my fellow image;
        my body is not fit to cherish as a vessel,
        only to consume as fuel.

I'm tired of responding to the tension between agape and death.

I'm tired of asserting life.
    If death will not be satiated with agape...
    then let death's appetite prevail.
    What can agape do,
        but give itself completely?

"This is my body, which is given... for you."

    Let it consume completely.
    If eternal agape will not satisfy its hunger,
    let it consume eternally...

"There is no peace... for the wicked."

I give in.

"... on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it."

"... it is known what man is, and that he is not able to dispute with one stronger than he. The more words, the more vanity, and what is the advantage to man?"

Where is the rock?
    I thought you were the builder...
    but hell prevails.

If you are incapable of lies,
    then who misled me?

Where is my folly?
Where did I mistake sinking sand for solid ground?
Where is the rock you named?

"... everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it."

    ... O wretched man that I am!
    Who will liberate me from this cadaver?

"... not anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Messiah Jesus our Lord."

What about time?

    "Love is patient..."

Patient for what?
Patient for the fullness of death's time?
Please have mercy and execute the sentence swiftly.
    Let the house fall—

 

You awoke me to watch the dawn.
Why does the promised light tarry in the grave?
When will your dew appear?
When will you be satisfied with our madness,
    and move your Son to multiply his light?

What good are eyes
    that only see shadows?
What good are ears
    that only hear noise?
What good are lips
    that only taste of iron?
What good is spirit,
    if all the bellows blow empty?

If the spirit you gave
    is nothing weighed,
    is nothing valued,
    is nothing wanted:
        silenced and despised;
    then why fashion a throat?

Your images don't want your spirit.
    They only want the flesh you housed it in.
Your images don't want your agape.
    They only want
        the fruit
        that flowers
        from its death.
    They only want a life poured out.

"In all toil there is profit..."

"What gain has the worker from his toil?"

I'm not satisfied
    being a half-thing.
I'm not satisfied
    being incomplete.
I'm not satisfied
    working in the worship of a womb-less wind.

Give my throat to them as gravel,
    ground down with groaning.
Consolation in complete failure,
    that something of this broken cistern might be whole.
Consolation that completely broken is a completeness
    I am
    allowed to know,
    allowed to be.

Completely alive?
Completely free?
Completely loved?

Those are for you...
    And for those who consume your house.
Their death is precious in your sight.
What is my death?
    ... but perfect in its emptiness,
    its perfect lack the only adequate articulation
    of my worthless and weightless name.

Consolation that in death we all agree:
    To be or not to be?
    Not I. Not me.

I weigh less than this world's passing wind.
I weigh less than the waning epoch.
I weigh less than the pride and possession of this age.

My spirit weighs less than my flesh upon their palate.
    Give them what weighs upon them.

Let them consume what counts for them.
    I have no meaning.
    I am not worth savoring.
    I am only fit to burn for fuel.

Burn the corpse.
The throat is emptied.

"Where the corpse is, there the vultures will gather."