9.03.2003
Continuing through Speaker we come upon this passage strangely reminiscent of James 5:
"I should have gone to him," Ela said again.
"Yes," the Spearker said. "You should have."
A strange thing happened then. The Speaker agreed with her that she had made a mistake that night, and she knew when he said the words that it was true, that his judgment was correct. And yet she felt strangely healed, as if simply saying her mistake were enough to purge some of the pain of it. For the first time, then, she caught a glimpse of what the power of Speaking might be. It wasn't a matter of confession, penance, and absolution, like the priests offered. it was soemthing else entirely. Telling the story of who she was and then realizing that she was no longer the same person. That she had made a mistake, and the mistake had changed her, and now she would not make the mistake again because she had become someone else, someone less afraid, someone more compassionate.
If I'm not that frightened girl who heard her brother in desparate pain and dared not go to him, who am I? But the water flowing through the grillwork under the fence held no answers. Maybe she couldn't know who she was today. Maybe it was enough to know that she was no longer who she was before.
I long for the purity and beauty of Genesis 2 where the man and the woman are naked and not ashamed. If only we could bare ourselves to one another without shame, what beauty that would be.
But in a fallen world, that cannot be. We are too ugly, too malformed, too bent, too broken and hideous to look upon in all our nakedness for who we really are. Why? What do we fear? We fear the loss of our associations if everyone knew who we really are.
On the other hand, telling the truth about ourself is so liberating. Blackmail has force because we do not want the truth out. But if we put the truth out about ourselves a number of things happen:
We no longer fear the truth because it is there for everyone to see.
We no longer fear others finding that we are not what we seem for now we are.
We no longer hide behind our fig leaves hoping to escape notice but admit to our condition.
We no longer want to continue in that condition but as Ela discovers, we find that we are no longer that person. We have grown. We have changed. We may not know what we are, even in Christ. But we certainly know what we were and we also certainly know we are not that person any longer.
And somehow that is enough.
"I should have gone to him," Ela said again.
"Yes," the Spearker said. "You should have."
A strange thing happened then. The Speaker agreed with her that she had made a mistake that night, and she knew when he said the words that it was true, that his judgment was correct. And yet she felt strangely healed, as if simply saying her mistake were enough to purge some of the pain of it. For the first time, then, she caught a glimpse of what the power of Speaking might be. It wasn't a matter of confession, penance, and absolution, like the priests offered. it was soemthing else entirely. Telling the story of who she was and then realizing that she was no longer the same person. That she had made a mistake, and the mistake had changed her, and now she would not make the mistake again because she had become someone else, someone less afraid, someone more compassionate.
If I'm not that frightened girl who heard her brother in desparate pain and dared not go to him, who am I? But the water flowing through the grillwork under the fence held no answers. Maybe she couldn't know who she was today. Maybe it was enough to know that she was no longer who she was before.
I long for the purity and beauty of Genesis 2 where the man and the woman are naked and not ashamed. If only we could bare ourselves to one another without shame, what beauty that would be.
But in a fallen world, that cannot be. We are too ugly, too malformed, too bent, too broken and hideous to look upon in all our nakedness for who we really are. Why? What do we fear? We fear the loss of our associations if everyone knew who we really are.
On the other hand, telling the truth about ourself is so liberating. Blackmail has force because we do not want the truth out. But if we put the truth out about ourselves a number of things happen:
We no longer fear the truth because it is there for everyone to see.
We no longer fear others finding that we are not what we seem for now we are.
We no longer hide behind our fig leaves hoping to escape notice but admit to our condition.
We no longer want to continue in that condition but as Ela discovers, we find that we are no longer that person. We have grown. We have changed. We may not know what we are, even in Christ. But we certainly know what we were and we also certainly know we are not that person any longer.
And somehow that is enough.
