Catching Idle Butterflies

Into the shadows, and out again.

I stepped into the blackened sanctuary. Only the backlit cross above the alter and the lowering sun diffused from the stained glass windows illuminated my way to a back pew. I recognized few faces, all were silent silhouettes.

I found a spot where I could see both the crowd and the stage.

I sat alone, the entire pew to myself.

I waited, hands sweaty, heart pounding. Would my words be well-received? I wondered. Did Pastor Pete decide to use any of my monologues, all three of them? Did he make any changes, or as I wrote them?

Pastor Ernie played the piano, the soft notes reverberated through the sanctuary encouraging silent thoughtfulness.

The play began, the stage dark except one spotlight illuminating the narrator, Pastor Pete. He spoke a few words, and introduced each character.

I sat on the edge of my seat as I listened and watched.

Six actors, six monologues, three of which were mine.

This is what I learned.

First, I need practice writing drama. As one reviewer said about one of them, I write poetically. That doesn’t always translate well on stage. I thought Pete’s exceeded mine, but that’s okay. He’s studied and written hundreds of skits. I can learn a lot from him should he want me to participate in more.

But over all, judging by the crowds silence, either my words or Pastor Pete (who wrote the other three) made the intended impact. At the end, they had an alter call. None stepped forward and people began filing out. Half stayed, including me. Ernie, back at the piano, asked us to stand. Good thing, because that encouraged people to come forward and pray or be prayed over.

I saw two people I knew and went to talk to them. But they had nothing to say besides hello. Knowing their minds and hearts were elsewhere, I retreated from the sanctuary. I tried talking to another couple, but again, their thoughts were elsewhere.

I left, feeling more alone than I had in a long time, as though I was invisible to those around me.

And that’s not a bad thing. The darkness of the place encouraged introspection, and I missed it.

At first.

I drove home, facing a lovely sunset. I didn’t feel so alone anymore, as though God was right there, watching me.

I began to cry, not a clue as to why. I came up with several possibilities, but none seemed right.

Dave wasn’t home yet from taking the dog out to play, so I checked my email. I received several reviews on “My Forever Stained Hands” and I cried even more, still uncertain as to why. All were positive, with recommendations on how to make it better.

I hid my tears from Dave when he came home. He asked me how the play went and if I had a good time.

I said, “I don’t know yet. It was weird seeing my words come to life on stage.” I was neither pleased or disappointed with the play. Something more important kept niggling at my psyche, but it refused to make itself clear to me.

I cried myself to sleep, more confused at my sudden grief than anything.

Only today after discussing the monologue with a reviewer did I discover the reason behind my tears, and why the play and the reviews I received hit me so hard.

The premise of the play was to bring our sins and our guilt out of the shadows. Hiding them only increases their power over us.

I have sinned, and I have been hiding those sins for a long time.

What are these sins?

I went to that play for a singular purpose. To see how my words were received. I wanted to talk to others so I may know if I did well. That’s why I felt so sad when no one noticed me.

I place my items in my blog, I write the things I do to be noticed, to be given praise, that pat on the back.

Which is why I hate praise, and why I hate getting pats on the back.

Those only prove my ulterior motive: What I do is all about me, not about God.

Every time I do something I know is good, I ask myself, “Why do you do that? Is it so people will notice you, so they may say, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant?’”

I’m always questioning my motives. Everything I do is tainted, impure and therefore I can’t allow the things I do to have a positive impact on people. When it does, I want to shrink away.

One reviewer didn’t like my ending because the Centurion held on to his guilt for all eternity, rejecting the victorious message of Easter and the forgiveness of all sins.

All the reviewers stated I described the feelings of the Centurion quite well. That was the easy part. I am that Centurion, staring at my sin-stained hands, unwilling to allow Jesus’ blood to cleanse them.

I am rejecting Jesus’ sacrifice by holding on to my guilt and my shame, feeling undeserved.

But we are all undeserved. That’s the definition of a gift. It’s given freely out of love, and for no other reason.

To reject that gift is at the very least an insult.

The play and the monologue was God’s way of telling me to accept that gift. Though my motives may not always be pure, He can still use me. After all, He used my desire to see my words on stage to open my heart to Him. He used my monologue and wanting people to read it so those who reviewed it could tell me what I needed to hear.

I must trust His purpose is greater than my own, and He will use me in anyway He can, even if it’s in spite of me.