I have found a way to live in the presence of the Lord, oh Steve Winwood and Eric Clapton sing to us on YouTube this morning. I can open many doors, they croon, and the drums beat our heartbeat.
I want to live in the presence of the Lord, the Lord of Presence, ever-so-more. In this second and this second and this second.
In this second, another arising of our Lord’s Presence. Coming in the form of someone who seemingly doesn’t understand what I’m trying to communicate. My heart splinters into a thousand shards and falls on the living room carpet among crumbs of other half-experienced moments.
When the heart feels it can’t explain, can’t bear to accept the rising moment, can’t fathom the thrust of it…we retreat away from our Lord, oh we retreat, it’s our singing song, our running song, our diving beneath the warfare of guns and roses song.
We blame others, we blame ourselves, we blame the thoughts which can’t seem to corral the moment into any sense. We announce that we don’t care what others think. We announce we’re immune, that we have swift tools to repair the wreckage of our momentary plane crash. We plow ahead, our blade sharp against the rolling earth.
Our tender hearts, our well-meaning hearts, our compartmentalized hearts, our separate hearts can simply not sew the quilt of it together, or we think we can’t stitch, and we try to think our way out of this fragmented moment, this moment where nothing makes sense. How to put everything back together again? How to be understood, unconditionally loved, complete, whole, not raging, not fighting, not resisting, not separate?
I want to live in the presence of the Lord of Presence, that which tenderly allows it all, that which holds even the unspeakable in His basket of now-ness. I don’t want to spend the next hour trying to mentally build a bridge which will make it all OK. I don’t want to watch the mind jail the perceived offender or push her off a cliff. I don’t want to retreat in subtle judgment or blame or not-caring.
The Lord of Presence calls us to do the unthinkable, the unimaginable. To sit with the weeping heart, the tender heart, the confused heart and feel, feel, feel the pain rising and let it be part of His meal, his last Supper. In that intimate presence, that absolute presence, that presence without words trying to compartmentalize and make sense and explain in a tidy fashion, is an absolution where joy births alongside the sorrow and we’re there, we’re with our Lord, we’re together, it’s together, we’re not separate, we’re sipping blood-red wine and chewing bone-white bread and we’re feeling the pain and joy, intertwined, together, the cross and heaven intermingled
and oh yes, Lord, let’s walk on together into the next moment and the next. Eric and Steve, will you sing it again?