Saturday, June 30, 2012

Worshiping the goddess of Approval


big castle doors


I find myself in her courts again.

I promised myself last time was exactly that. Yet here I am.

You'd think the strewn bodies about the room's corners would deter me. Men and women sucked dry of all vitality, bones decorated with hardened skin. Fools with mouths gaping, likely at the point they realized she wasn't playing a game with them—she wanted everything. Idols are like that.

They came to her temple with the thought she'd add something to the vapor of their lives, strutting confidently past the shrine prostitutes, some with hard eyes, judging coldly—but their fate would be worse.

These living skeletons are not dead...no...that would be too easy, idol worship is a running business. The corpses will awaken, breath sweet air again, plump up and crawl out of this death den. This time their strut past the shrine dwellers will have crippled into the limp of a scalded dog. Down the ziggurat, one foot, almost slipped, then another, a controlled, slow, stumble down the hardened stone steps. The shrieking laughter of tramps, mocking their every pathetic attempt to take a single step of pride.

I don't pity them, I feel pity for myself.

I know the place well; she has been my goddess for over two decades, though I was never told her name.

My parents once dragged me here, just an ignorant child, looking up at her golden image. I was told to make it my second home, here, at her feet. Those at the door have their own names for me.
The rotting teeth and wild hair so familiar.

“Ellow meee,” one grins, signaling the others.

Their lacerated and scarring hands push open the heavy doors of oak. I almost feel comfort. And then I see it again, the grandeur of her scarlet palace, laced with gold. Asherah, seeming to look down upon me, the goddess of my approval.

She would only require a little more of my blood this time, surely a small sacrifice for people's acceptance, and yet I can't pick up the jeweled knife on her altar. I remember this time, the pain she'd caused me, the emptiness, the cold. No, I can not do this.

“Jesus,” I barely whisper, “Jesus.”

The outside whores inquire, “Es sumwon speekin'?”

“I know God's name!”

“What?”

“Jesus!”

I forcefully throw down the knife, floor cracking upon impact, the power of His name.

Ripples of destruction spread quicker than mice frightened by lightning. Silver dishes and bowls collide into each other, crashing down from their tables. Pieces of ceiling dropping,raining marble and tile. I know all who stay here will die. A few idolaters wander inside but before my mouth can utter a warning, they scurry to uphold the statue, appearing to be on its last legs.

With their might, they thrust upon her image, attempting to bare the weight of her.

I am, for a moment, still like them, needing their acceptance, considering the alternative of joining in their pointless activity, for I see the inevitable. The golden weight of this false god inches ever closer to the ground, as they play her cushion.

“Hold her steady,” a bearded one says, “push!”

“She is not real!” I wish to scream louder, to make them understand; in my youth I worshiped her relentlessly, earning the accolades of popularity; driven to a crazed depression at an unfriendly stare, at her spite—but she was nothing.

She was not real, she never breathed, she never cared for me, she only took.

I want to cry for them, and show them how pathetic it looks when a grown man cries, but there is no time.

“We built her,” I run with hands fearfully covering my head, “she is not God!”

I aim at the door gap, tackling through, strong shoulder first, nearly frightening the prostitutes to death. Stairs are disappearing at the speed of my making. I barrel down.

“PLEASE...GET...OUT!”

If they didn't hear me, they will hear the crackling and earth-shifting—but I hear no feet behind me.

Nearly at the bottom, I place a hand on my chest.

The constant rhythm...reassures me.

He is here.

I am still alive.

God is here.

God is here.

"Am I now trying to win the approval of men, or of God? Or am I trying to please men? If I were still trying to please men, I would not be a servant of Christ."
-Galatians 1:10

In Him,

Jean-Marc

Back to home page 

No comments:

Post a Comment