God of horror stories

God of the dark places
the hollows     
	the caverns    
		the pits
where the blind things lie buried
barbs and tentacles thirst and writhe  
scuttling into the soft nest of our nailbeds
waiting in the walls of our safest places
until the doomsday clock strikes
and hell slithers to the surface

God of the dark places
the nightmares
	the secrets
		the unforgivable sins
where the old lies brand our flesh
raised ridges replaying our defeats
scars we shrink from forever
smashing every mirror in the house
as we hunch around the swollen 
stomachs of our shame 

God of the dark places
the garden
	the cross
		the grave
will you meet us 
where we fear most to go?

my photo

It’s Holy Saturday, and all I can think of is this wrenching series of flash fiction posts about Maundy Thursday-Easter. Here are some for today:

When I read this poem at an open mic night this winter, I said that the Bible is in a lot of ways a horror story. It’s not only a horror story, of course. But I don’t think I’d believe if there weren’t so many tales of tragedy in it. How could I trust the honey of hope it offers if I didn’t also taste in it the same potent bitterness I and so many I love have experienced?

The disciples huddle in the dark, feeling a bewilderment and abandonment I can’t imagine. And we huddle, too, sometimes spending years of our lives in the shock and agony of Holy Saturday. We wait in the dark and wonder if all we have hoped in is a lie. John the Baptist’s question to Jesus gets me every time: Are you the One who is to come or should we wait for someone else?

In my study abroad trip to Israel, our Christian group asks the orthodox Jews we meet why they don’t believe Jesus is the Messiah. (We don’t ask it that overtly but they know what we’re thinking. We’re ignorant but earnest.) Look around, they say. Read the prophets and then read the headlines. Does this world look like the Messiah has come?

My stomach clenches in recognition when I hear that response. I get it. I get it. I ask myself the same question probably daily.

On Maundy Thursday, my church ends our service like they do every year: they slowly shut off the lights, one by one, as they remove the Communion table and other decorations and finally the cross itself. We stand in utter darkness as a voice behind us reads out the entirety of Psalm 22:

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me,
so far from my cries of anguish?
My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer,
by night, but I find no rest.

We leave in darkness and silence, stumble out onto the West Village street lined with cherry trees bright-blossomed against the dusky sky. Some of us chat, some of us slip away to wipe away tears.

I love that my faith is determined to make us sit in this every year. We haven’t gotten past the questions the disciples were asking all those years ago. Are you really the Messiah? When will your kingdom come? Show us a sign.

I know the theological answers of the now-and-not-yet kingdom. I know Easter looms. But it’s these days of aching darkness that somehow are the answer I really need.

My God is the God of the dark places. I believe; help my unbelief.

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Small housekeeping note: I still have some author copies of my book left (!!). DM or comment if you want one—it comes with a free poem print. $20 and free shipping. It’s been overwhelming and awesome and pretty surreal to be mailing copies to so many of you. Thank you!!

to staying awake, even in the dark places—

Aberdeen