In an angry letter to God, I’ll accuse him of forsaking me. I’ll claim that he’s only around when he wants me to do something for him. Like shine a light of truth in a sticky, very messy and rather dark situation. Or let my laughter be contagious and my thoughts uplifting. My words an echo of a heartbeat, yours and mine. In an angry letter to God, I’ll call him selfish as he continues to call me to do all these things.
I’d send him a letter because he’s busy and doesn’t have a cell phone to answer. But a pen, he’s always got one in his hand. Scratching out and crossing over, editing our lives one decision at a time. But it isn’t a red pen. No, it’s not something you can see. There are no quick fixes for what we had for breakfast or dinner. That’s trivial, like grammar and punctuation. Instead, God uses invisible ink. It’s like electricity. An undiscovered current we try so hard to tap into. Of course when we do, everything in our world lights up. And when we’re way off, missing the mark completely, we can’t even see his hands in front of our face. Stop! You can’t go this way. But we do anyway because we can’t see. It’s all dark.
That’s why I’d accuse him of forsaking me. Abandoning me as I travel a path I know not of, but one I have continued to journey for quite some time now, alone. All the praying in this world has failed to cross over into that current the makes everything alive. It could be that I’m expecting a red pen response. Or it could be that he’s expecting me to feel the pull of his energy, like gravity dressed in an invisibility cloak. What a terrible Halloween costume, by the way. How could he expect to come in when I answer the door and don’t see anybody standing there?
In an angry letter to God, I’d tell him to quit messing around and stop playing games. That’s not faith and this isn’t funny anymore. In an angry letter to God, I’d call him a heartbreaker. I’d tell him to figure out what he wants before showing up on my doorstep again; silent and without a word as he watches me cry; standing there in the door frame of my life. I’ll know he’s there by the crickets that fill the void. All the more saddening.
Even this moment has its own musical score to undertone how awkward a stalemate with God could be. I’m angry. And I’d write a letter had I not heard my phone ring.