Vortices of Butterflies & Venerators

God sometimes you just don’t come through

God sometimes you just don’t come through

Do you need a woman to look after you

God sometimes you just don’t come through

You make pretty daisies pretty daisies

Love I gotta find what you’re doing about things

Here a few witches burning

Gets a little toasty here

I gotta find why you always go when the wind blows

Tell me you’re crazy maybe then I’ll understand

I found myself singing to this song a few days ago by Tori Amos. Ode to the Tori Amos days, where I’d lay on back and pretend to be the composer and singer of her music while pouncing and rolling on the piano keys as dreadful lyrics poured out of my mouth about the silence of all these years, the questioning of our crucifixions, and our mothers–oh the writhing of parental figures sung by her was the medium for identifying my feelings.

Now, as I was singing to this song, a strange undergoing occurred. Worship, veneration.

Yet, the words, hallelooojah, hosanna, or blessed be the name, did not roll off my heretical tongue.

Rather, the words, God sometimes you just don’t come through, fluidly flitted and fluttered around in my car as I steered the vehicle towards West Seattle, smiling. 

Although flitted and fluttered is not denoting the weightiness I felt in this movement as well. It was as though the implied butterflies were unlikely fierce and substantial beings. They were not as vulnerable to wind or as flighty to danger. To further this hackneyed metaphor, they enjoyed their Italian dishes and American potlucks, but also their Sambas and Waltzes. 

So, this was my worship happenstance with Tori Amos’ words over the refusal of nectar for my stomach, ironic indeed.

God just doesn’t come through sometimes though. I do not have to explain anything away or pervert something into goodness due to the absence of God and my anxiety over not knowing.

God is God. God is other than me, yet within me.

So, may God be wild and unexplainable sometimes. May my anxiety of needing a permanently fixed being who is unmoving and one dimensional (for the purpose of defining), giving me constant answers and peace, be rid of my life. Let the anxiety dissipate–to a certain extent, of course. 

While I am freeing God from my confines, I have experienced a newness that Annie Dillard observes in her book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, 

The point of the dragonfly’s terrible lip, the giant water bug, birdsong, or the beautiful dazzle and flash of sunlighted minnows, is not that it all fits together like clockwork- for it doesn’t particularly, not even inside the goldfish bowl- but that it all flows so freely wild, like the creek, that it surges in such a free, fringed tangle. Freedom is the world’s water and weather, the world’s nourishment freely given…

It is absurd to think that God can fit together on my Sunday school felt board, though I try my damnedest. It is inhumane, inducing madness, and erodes all creativity to require humanity to compile God into a soundly pat answer.

There are tangles, messes, asymmetrical compositions, undomestic expressions, madness, and unruliness within and emitting from our God.

There needs to be a divine prison break.

There needs to be a Deity Declaration of Independence. Yes, a DDI of sorts.

There needs to be an embracing of great mystery, in which complexity, ambiguity, and silence can exist without needing to declare war or embody detrimental despair.

But, hear me when I write, there are many faces of God–I am merely accounting for the new face that is granting my life freedom from my own constructs, from my own narrative imperatives that needed disruption.

Yet, while I know there are seaons we undergo in which one face of God is necessary to experience rather than another, I would again venture to say God meets us and then God does not. It is how we will be when God is seemingly unreachable or has questionable actions. How will be when our mental energies cannot conjure up a projection fitting to soothe our anxieties anymore? How will we be when we cannot seem to endure the exhaustive cycles of believing God, devastated by God, renewed faith in God, clinging anxiously to God (or rather dogma, idols, etc), then devastated once again?

Not to demean the process of faith, whereby the ebb and flow can be quite dramatic, however if this drama or God demands of you to be so certain that you too would “stone” a woman or exclude a man for his and her lusts or share the good news with hidden frantic force (since salvation is resting upon your shoulders) then I wonder how God is tethered to your narrative imperatives–are they screaming for something mechanical and predictable and safe?

I write this because I am beginning to understand God from a distance, where I can, in part, surrender to not knowing and find great joy and wonder, but also I can grimace and turn my face away as I feel the loss, the ache of what is. There is freedom for my humanity to doubt, question, and feel rage and confusion without indicting myself as faithless and guilty.

This is the faithful task, allowing the breadth of our humanity to spread across the scope of the earth in authenticity and with trembling belief that God is not demanding mere calculated obedience, nor mechanical trust that is flat and ridden with cheap, glossy rhetoric-absent of creation, of self, of other.

Rather, shatter that bowl with the aimless gold fish awaiting the most disappointing death, watch the intricate cocoon ever so slowly push out new, surprising  life, and peer into the lives that might not appear safe or sane and begin to unravel the unexpected faces of God, however present or absent–and feel how utterly, terribly glorious this Creator is.

For, God was once a fetus, once housed by a woman’s womb, once came through the dark canal of birth, once deemed worthy of the death penalty, a crimnal, yet surprised our imperatives, anxieties, and constructs with such beauty, grotesqueness, strangeness and liberation not one of us can fully grasp…how ok we actually are, how ok it is for us to question openly what we have or have not experienced.

Let God out.

Let me out. And you.

Let us flitt and flutter after a damn good meal and Samba or Waltz or Heep Hop the hell out of life. And worship a God who doesn’t come through sometimes, yet has quite possibly given Love that reaches to the inner and outer most parts of our humanity every time we breathe in.


Why yes, I will try.    


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Filed under Anger, beauty, mythology, ODD, seasons, throb, Uncategorized

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