The Out-of-Synch Christian

Author’s Note: Unfortunately, while my senior pastor was giving an awesome teaching on Communion, my mind was wandering because something that was said took me back to Ecclesiastes (first part of chapter 3), my rebel without a clue side started to challenge each line (not in true rebellion), and this piece was born.

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To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born (yet diversity of ideas is strangled),
And a time to die (but all that is unholy is allowed to live and be fertile);
A time to plant (yet the weeds must be pulled),
And a time to pluck what is planted (I never plant at the right time of year);
A time to kill (but the anger seems to live on),
And a time to heal (but true healing is hidden);
A time to break down (I seem to be the only one trying to make something out of the broken pieces),
And a time to build up (I always seem to demolish because the edifice has faults I alone see);
A time to weep (yet I skip and dance),
And a time to laugh (yet I sigh and groan);
A time to mourn (yet I throw the best block party),
And a time to dance (yet I curl up fetally);
A time to cast away stones (somehow I’m trying to find all that have been thrown away),
And a time to gather stones (yet I cannot find the order and all I see is chaos);
A time to embrace (what happened to no touch, no talk, no eye contact),
And a time to refrain from embracing (but my love language might be touch);
A time to gain (the depth of my hole),
And a time to lose (finding time should happen more frequently);
A time to keep (this ain’t it),
And a time to throw away (I never could until now);
A time to tear (with tears I try to mend all that is unkempt to no avail),
And a time to sew (not now, because I keep pricking my heart until it bleeds);
A time to keep silence (that is deafening),
And a time to speak (and yet not be heard);
A time to love (what is good?),
And a time to hate (what is evil?);
A time of war (that is what has always been within),
And a time of peace (in the shower?).

In a crowd, yet alone, the hungry heart is deceived as it hunts what it cannot name and cannot describe. It beats and bleeds and seeks the rhythm that matches its own, and yet it leaves unsatisfied. Scarred and battle weary, it quivers and quakes when the cadence nearly matches. Then, the moment is gone. The heart breaks.

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