Manna in the Wilderness

It's been half a year since the last time I went to church. That's six months in the wilderness. But I'm not hungry or thirsty. There's enough manna and water in my own home to feed a hungry nation of people. I'm somewhere between Egypt and Canaan and oftentimes I forget which direction I'm supposed to walk in.

There are lions here. They pace around my pillow on nights when fear is a heavy blanket and spirits crawl in my bed and curl up next to my spine like anxious lovers. But I respect them at least for not being too cowardly to bear their teeth at me. The last thought I had at church was: "Was I invited here to pray or be prey?"

My spirit is not a playground. Too many demons have played hop scotch on the scars in my spirit and twisted my spine into monkey bars. I'm too old for guessing games about love. Don't speak to me about love or light. My eyes have become as selective as your heart. The only light I see is the red glow of the exit sign hanging above the back door.

So I'm leaving.
And I'm taking my apology with me.

And just when the empty spot I left behind on the pew has been filled with another body
I'll send it to you snail mail and hope it gets lost en route.

Your smiles are false prophecies carved into stony hearts. These gas chamber churches will poison your sanity. Leave you coughing, sputtering, spilling your faith over sin-stained altars. Leave you gasping for air, clutching your rib cage with your right hand, while they snatch your last tithes and offerings from your left.

And I know, Lord, you ask for my heart still
But my chest has become a bomb shelter
The bags under my eyes carry explosives set off by detonator tears

Crying is too dangerous for me
Almost as dangerous as trusting
Because trusting is like ghostwriting a suicide note for your heart
It's playing the trust game in a field of land mines with no one to catch you but a God
Whose hands are preoccupied writing down your sins
Or a demon too familiar with your back, pushing you forward so that when you land
You'll die with your face and your heart opposite heaven

I'm wounded and weary.
I'm a tired and battle-scarred soldier suffering with PTSD: Post Trusting Saints Disorder
My life is a test drill for Armageddon
And there's hardly any land left uncharred by this war
A war I never asked for
I've been betrayed by more people than Gethsemane could hold
My rejections fit snugly in Jesus' scars

I know you want to live in my heart, Lord.
But how can you live in a place that's been exploded to rubble?