Imago Dei and Apple-Eater

I sat in silence so I sit in silence, bombarded with colors: ads, pretzels, coffees, ice creams, beers, candies—the swirling colors of a purgatorial airport. Terminal D. I sat, then, untainted by the purity of a world absent of these colors. But I sit, now, living with what I have seen, heard, and witnessed. Brook Fraser says, of her visit to Africa, “Now that I have seen, I am responsible.” And that is what I found. I began the journey looking for purity, a self-cleansing, defying God’s jealous process of sanctification. I could make myself right. I could die on the cross: slit wrists ushering blood like wedding guests through my marriage to myself. But Brook is right. She is right. I ventured to the depths—the grandeur depths—of Africa, looking for purity (some escape from these wretched colors). But there was none to be found. The white man is corrupt. The black man is corrupt. Red, yellow, blue, green, I don’t care what color you are. You are messed up. And, even if you are a good person more than not, you aren’t fit to enter the presence of a holy and jealous God. Brook is right. My wrists weren’t slit—my mind was but it brought no cleansing blood—only more mud. Brook is right, though, isn’t she? I am not pure. Look what I have done: I am letting people die. By my complacency lives are lost. I don’t want to complain, and I don’t want to hear complaints: it’s my wrong—fault—the blood on my hands. Our hands. We all fell—with Adam and Eve. Do not, for one instant, think you are exempt. I bite the apple every day. And then you eat it too. You are a pig, an adulteress. You are a pig, my dear reader. And I am a murderer, a rapist, slobbering in the filth of the pit. The pit of the fall of us all. Brook is right, though. Now that I have seen, I am responsible, and I hold you, too, dear reader, responsible, but though I hold you responsible I do not condemn you, nor do I even condemn myself, for condemnation is not mine to dispense, but Another’s. Action that stems from fear or condemnation stands in the shadow of the power of action in response to love.

 

And that is where I am joyous, though weary. The dichotomy in my being: Imago Dei and apple-eater. I am torn: worship my Lord YHWH like I am built to or worship myself—I believe we only have two options. Suppose you argue: worship of family, sex, and food, whatever. I believe those are extensions of self, but no matter—what do I choose? Self or YHWH? The obvious choice is obvious, but we are corrupted deeper than we know. Slimy to the roots. Before Africa I worshipped self, and my motives for traveling to Africa were ultimately a form of self-sacrifice, me trying to be Jesus for God—but, thankfully I will never be, God is so beautiful that he used my apple-eating motives for Christ’s glory, His own glory, the Trinity’s revel. So: before: apple-eater. I was acting on behalf of myself (though, granted, not fully, my desire to go to Africa was not all corrupt, I daresay even mostly, but at the root: corruption). But now, and since then, a flame within my heart flickers, albeit in a continual wax and wane. But the flame, the Spirit of YHWH presumably, guides more of my love than ever. God is growing the flame, and He used Africa in a great way. To extend the metaphor: as lighter fluid on the flame of my heart.

 

My mind races back to June 2 daily—the beginning of an epic climaxing in confusion: I can’t die on the cross for myself, let alone anyone else. Thanks be to YHWH and His Spirit for sending His blood-dipped Son to my rescue. I stand in the continual process of sanctification.

 

Now, dear YHWH, grant me Your love and faithfulness, Your respite and Your compassion, so that I may have a burning flame. Lord YHWH grant me a love that wants to act in response to Your love: “We love, because He first loved us.”

 

Now, dear YHWH, grant my reader a knowledge of You and Your love for them. If they know You, I pray that they continue to pursue you. If they do not, I pray that You would touch them.