You Hurt

You hurt when you imagine him saying, "I am so disappointed in you that I could cry."

You do not know what to say, so you don't. You see the hurt in his eyes. Dark brown, they tear up a little, but not enough to let you truly see how deep the agony goes. Emotions are not easy for him. You would rip off an arm if it would ease his pain, but his torment is beyond the reach of such feeble gestures. You feel his writhing sadness within you. It has no place to go. It cannot be expressed so you bury it deep. You must not let it escape or else you will hurt him even more. A hurting machine, you turn to leave. He stops you.

"Why have you done this? How can you do this to me, to our family?"

He who was your God has become mere man. Shocked by the transformation, you halt; ready to receive whatever else he delivers, willing to be tortured for your sin, longing for the punishment you deserve.

You say, "I am just trying to be honest. I never meant to hurt anyone. I never meant to hurt you."

His jaw clenches. He watches a murder of crows land in the yard. It is a large yard, big enough for a homestead in many lands. The soil smells of your ancestor's sweat. Ancient oaks rise from earth made bare by timeless mounds of leaves that have devoured every hope of grass. Acorns roll among tiny islands of moss. You long to join the crows and moss; to be free of the guilt and judgment blazing from the eyes of the one who stands before you.

He is right of course. How can you turn away from all that you have been taught to cherish? What perverseness of spirit led you to this place? Certain that you are willful, selfish and sinful beyond redemption; your shame steals your breath. You beg the dirt to cover you, to shield you from the stare that once more turns your way. The dirt ignores your plea. You stand naked as his rages rises.

"That's hard to believe," he says. "You are deliberately choosing this. You want to do this. You have a choice. We always have a choice."

Once upon a time you also believed life was a clear choice between the right and wrong of things. Certainty about good and evil was a cornerstone of the rosy Never, Never Land of childhood. Now, the true north of the good has been dulled. You have seen "the good" sew evil and confusion. You have heard "teachers" twist words of love into hate and judgment. The once certain happiness of Never, Never Land has faded. There is no Peter Pan to whisk you away from it all if you are a "good" boy. Captain Hook is alive and well. He smiles as you hear the tick tock of the alligator's clock. Not content with a hand or arm, the toothy salamander is here to take your heart. You cling to kindness not to be "good", but simply to live.

He that was God, who now is man, speaks again.

"You know the difference between good and evil. You are consciously choosing to serve evil."

There it is; the ultimate condemnation. You are excommunicated, without any hope of salvation - unless of course you repent. Repent for saying the unpardonable. Repent from being the unimaginable. Repent from contemplating the heretical love of both women and men. Return to the fold or burn in the lake of eternal flame.

He stares, waiting for a response. There is none. He walks away.

You watch him leave. Your legs long to run after him. You want to grab his shoulders, turn him around and convince him of your love. Your heart screams.

"I love you. Don't leave me. Please don't turn away from me."

The words of your heart do not pass your lips so he cannot hear. His steps are cast in the path of the prophets. He is certain he knows the immutable truth of God's heart. He can no longer see you. He can no longer hear you. Even if he turned and spoke, he would speak to a ghost, a wraith already in its grave.

His form shrinks into the distance. You sit on a rock and breathe deeply. You exhale love into the vacancy that the God man has left behind. The sun still shines. The wind yet caresses your skin. The trees have no judgment in them; they wave and sing as they have since before there was anyone like you to hear them. You stand. You sing. You dance. Mother earth meets your feet with perpetual peace. You do not hurt. Others may pick up the hurt, but it is no longer yours. It is well. It is. And you are.