If I could hear just one word from you. Just one clear word and everything would change. To hear the church people talk, your words are a dime a dozen and fall like rain upon the just and the unjust. Broken souls who stumble in the church’s back door leave singing their own magnificat and I’m not hearing a thing.
Not in the book. Not during my prayers. Not from your Church.
Having heard that you speak in manifold and divers ways, I’ve accordingly turned my attention to your worldly sons and daughters, in whom I confess I often see a righteousness exceeding that of the children who bear your name. And they have changed me. I have begun to see the world with their eyes. And the world they have shown me fills me with wonder but provides precious little direction. And so I wait. And wonder. And wander. And mourn. I’m mourning something I remember once having but
honestly
maybe
I
never
really
had.
So I’m waiting for a fresh word. An unexpected word. Maybe a word coming from some new direction. And one word is all I need.
While I wait, I remain your doubting and uncertain child, your small boy from Texas. He who grew up in the deserts of El Paso, came of age in the humidity of Houston, was educated in the middle earth of Waco, was ordained into the sacred mysteries in Fort Worth, and served you in small and humble ways for quite some years in San Antonio.
Speak Lord, your servant is listening.
