I’m not repulsed by much. I don’t get offended by things that are typically offensive. I am drawn to what is real and cannot connect with what is not. I see people who are so far away from what is real that they are no longer recognizable as people. They’ve become marionettes with public approval pulling their strings.
They dip everything in liquified sugar, coating what is left of their flesh and blood heart with teeth rotting shine.
That’s what is offensive.
Don’t talk about your pain with that Disney whisper and cartoon smile. Don’t use cliches as periods.
It’s offensive because you’re not trying to convince others, you’re trying to convince yourself. People don’t try to convince themselves of something they believe. When you seal off the broken places with cheap white paint, you don’t give anyone the opportunity to graft to your heart.
When a man prunes his trees, he seals off the raw places with a solution that never allows new growth in that cut off place. He does this to protect the rest of the tree from the trauma of shaping.
When God prunes His branches, He grafts the raw places together. One branch is cut from one area and grafted into a new area. Nothing is thrown in the junk fire unless unbelief makes the graft not take. This grafting goes against nature and it doesn’t make sense. (Romans 11)
God does not ask you to cover your broken places with the saccharine of self preservation.
A tree that has been broken, when left alone, will seep sap to seal itself off. When you are broken, let your cries of pain be heard. Don’t hide behind what you think you should be, rushing the healing as though saying it will fix it. You become a sealed off stump with no growth and no new fruit. The stump will have to be cut back even more so that new life can be grafted in.
Real is drawn to real. It relaxes the inner struggle of everyone else so that they can talk about their pain and find healing. You don’t have to mask your inability, none of us have the ability.
The ripped open search everywhere for someone who has been there. They’ve been debarked and ripped apart. They are the silent scream from the ditch by the streets with blood seeping from their pores and vultures catching their scent mid-flight. They’re passed up by people who claimed to know the Rescuer. One is getting his sermon shined. The other is posing for photographs. The other is getting his humanity trimmed. The other is baking cookies of sugar salvation for tea with fellow Ladies of Good Deeds. People who claim to know the Savior carry Him in a crock-pot right past the Ditch of Starvation and into the Halls of the Filled Up.
Maybe the dish they prepared was meant for the beggar they would pass on the way to their destination. Instead of reserving their talent for those who will celebrate how great they are, they should give it away to those who may not ever understand the treasure. They may show up late and empty handed to the watering hole, but the story of poured out love is so much more satisfying than an extra dish that just adds fat to the fed.
You can’t pour out if you seal up the broken places. You just become spiritually fat with the others who wear the same mask.