Pit Grace

I am mad.

I’d like to will myself out of it but the blood is pounding loud in my ears and the sons slash at each other with the dagger eyes. Why? Can I just go back to the moon and the brazen glory? But there’s always the descent from the mount. The meeting of the crowd, the complaining, the cursing.

How to be a contemplative here, seeing the fullness of God …?

Why throw toast in your brother’s face?

“Why would you throw that at him?” I’m too shrill, too gaped, too blind-white angry.

How do I fix this? Them? Me? In the messy, Jesus whispers, “What do you want?” and in the ugly, I cry, “I want to see — see You in these faces.” He speaks soft, “Seek My face.” I want to answer with David, “My heart says to you, ‘Your face, Lord, do I seek’ “ (Psalm 27:8 ESV)

but I’m desperate to grab someone, anyone, and shake hard, “How do I have the holy vision in this mess? How do I see grace, give thanks, find joy in this sin-stinking place?”

The moon and the geese fly high, unsullied and wide-eyed, and I’m too twisted.

A boy drives a plate hard back down the table at his brother. And God tries to gently drive timeworn words from another wrestler — from the knowing of my head to the bleeding of the heart:

A blasphemer.

I pull out a chair from the table, sink down. The sunflower heads have turned low. What compels me to name these moments upheavals and annoyances instead of grace and gift? Why deprive myself of joy’s oxygen? The swiftness and starkness of the answer startle. Because you believe in the power of the pit.

Really? I lay my head on the table. Do I really smother my own joy because I believe that anger achieves more than love? That Satan’s way is more powerful, more practical, more fulfilling in my daily life than Jesus’ way? Why else get angry? Isn’t it because I think complaining, exasperation, resentment will pound me up into the full life I really want? When I choose — and it is a choice — to crush joy with bitterness, am I not purposefully choosing to take the way of the Prince of Darkness? Choosing the angry way of Lucifer because I think it is more effective — more expedient—than giving thanks?

Blasphemer. Blasphemer.

I rake my fingers through my hair. Who’s the real sinner at breakfast on Tuesday, the one with the stinking pig in the temple?

Senses are impaired if they don’t sense the Spirit and somebody, tell me, how do I tear open tear-swollen eyelids to see through this for what it really is?

Can I be so audacious? To expect to see God in these faces when I am the blasphemer who complains, who doesn’t acknowledge this moment for Who it is?

How did Jesus do it again? He turned His eyes. “And looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke the loaves. Then he gave …” (Matthew 14:19). He looked up to heaven, to see where this moment comes from. Always first the eyes, the focus. I can’t leave crowds for mountaintop, daily blur for Walden Pond — but there’s always the possibility of the singular vision. I remember: Contemplative simplicity isn’t a matter of circumstances; it’s a matter of focus.

I take a deep breath, say nothing to them, but I look up to heaven and I give thanks aloud, in a whisper: “Father, thank You for these two sons. Thank You for here and now. Thank You that You don’t leave us in our mess.”

My heart rate slows. Something hard inside softens, opens, and this thanks aloud feels mechanical. But I can feel the heart gears working. “Thank You for toast. Thank You for Cross-grace for this anger, for the hope of forgiveness and brothers and new mercies.”

I look for the ugly-beautiful, count it as grace, transfigure the mess into joy with thanks and eucharisteo leaves the paper, finds way to the eyes, the lips. This, this is what Annie Dillard meant: “Seeing is of course very much a matter of verbalization. Unless I call my attention to what passes before my eyes, I simply won’t see it. It is, as Ruskin says, ‘not merely unnoticed, but in the full, clear sense of the word, unseen.’ “^b

I speak the unseen into seeing and I can feel it, this steady breathing in the rhythm of grace — give thanks (in), give thanks (out). The eyes focus, apertures capturing Beauty in ugliness. There’s a doxology of praise that splits the domestic dark.

I look over at my son tearing away at toast. Why am I a habitual reductionist? Why do I reduce God in this moment to mere annoying frustration? Why do I reduce The Greatest to the lesser instead of seeing the lesser, this mess, as reflecting The Greatest? I have to learn how to see, to look through to the Largeness behind all the smallness.

Isn’t He here?

God, today, when I fall into a pit of anger — bring me face-to-face with the reality of my choice: I am choosing the way of the Prince of Darkness as more beneficial than the way of Christ. Keep my gaze on You so You can redeem even the pit moments — especially the pit moments. Let me not crush joy with bitterness or choose anger over giving You thanks.