I like to keep my God knowable, or at least, explainable. In the midst of some of my greatest holy moments, my grief has always been that I feel the limitations of my own words. There's nothing I could say, no words I could use to adequately describe a moment like this one.
It's like trying to explain a rainbow to a blind man, who has no concept of light or darkness, no understanding of color. I couldn't even get past, "Well, at the top, it's red," because he doesn't know what "red" means, and how could I explain something so simple, yet profound? These moments that I share with God, they are seen through the eyes of my own heart. I'd have to give you my heart for them to even begin to make sense and I can't give you my heart.
I can only share it.
And it is here that I feel the inadequacy of my own words. Or perhaps they are doing precisely what God intended them to do.
God's Word is powerful; we know this much. Through His Word, He created the universe. Out of the emptiness, He formed everything by His very breath. And in one of the greatest moments of history, the very turning point of humanity's story, His Word become flesh and dwelt among us.
My word does not become flesh; my word struggles to grasp what flesh even means.
It struggles to understand the tension between the now and the not yet, between woundedness and healing, between truth and grace, between confidence and insecurity. My word is never perfect; my word is always torn. It does not speak in boundless imagination, but recognizes its own infirmities, its own weaknesses. My word does not create the world; it struggles to make sense of it.
Yet whatever insecurity there is in my word, it comes only from speaking in two tongues at once. My word, though it is not the creative word that speaks the universe into existence, is God's word, for it is the word of my own story, which is also His story. It is a word of love and grace and truth and mercy and redemption and forgiveness and peace. In the very same breath, my word is the word of men, for it is the word of our stories. It is a word of hardship and trial and questions and longings and hopes and dreams and fears. So when you hear the crack in my voice, this is why. This is the tension that my word carries, and my word knows the waters it must tread.
But I think this is how God must have intended it. He couldn't have us all recreating the universe with our words, could He? He couldn't have us all making something out of the formless and void. That's His job. That's His Word. It's not mine.
My word doesn't create universes, but it does create one thing. One very special thing. My word creates sacred space.
My word creates the space where you and I come together on this holy journey. It creates the space where two broken spirits meet. It creates the space where my story and your story merge onto the freeway of God's story, together, because we both maybe know a little bit about what it's like to live here, about what it's like to be these creatures, these creations, these...human beings. And my word doesn't really do this by creating, but by sharing.
It's all my word can do.
Which is why I struggle when something incredible happens. I want my God to be knowable, or at least to lend Himself to my words, because I know that I have this amazing responsibility of sharing. Of being able to give whatever little piece of this story that I have to draw us both into the bigger story. To create the sacred space.
So forgive me if my voice cracks. Forgive me if I don't know all the words. Forgive me if it doesn't make complete sense. I'm trying. I'm trying to do what my meager words can do. I'm trying to do justice to the breath that God has given me. I'm trying...not to make a rainbow but to share a moment. I'm trying to make a sacred space in a place that still so often feels formless and void.
Because that's all I can do. It's all I was meant to do.