Tell me your story of a world born from chaos and disorder; a cosmos shaped from a tangle worse than a snarl. Do your best to convince me that this beauty that I find in the middle of the ache was born from nothing,
Point to all this pain, ache, and death as evidence against a loving Creator. Hold those torn, tangled threads of human evils and offenses in my face. Knot together your broken bits and shards of a tale and serve your narrative with a slice of persuasive reasoning.
I will listen...I won’t argue, but I will tell a better story.
I shall spin a story of a galaxy woven from words dropped from the tongue of a Storyteller, a brilliant Artist who uses stroke of human strife and pain as an opportunity to redeem and restore, a Composer who is not discouraged by our mortal cacophany but who instead swallows up every single note of discord into a resplendent refrain.
I will take all those thin, torn, frayed threads of pain and ache that you’re holding, and I will tell of a Rabbi who is making all things new, reconciling all of the pain, and who is even now, working together all things for good.
For there is a Love who picks every shard of your broken heart, who looks at every mixed motive, every ugly wish and crippled passion, crooked good deed and lavishes grace on all of the whole mess of who you are.
So go ahead. Hand me your derisive laughter.
Polish those disenchanted, jaded, bored eyes and scoff at my childish belief in life after death.
Roll your eyes at my infantile reasoning as you zip up tight around your neck that skeptical, practical, and pragmatic skin you’ve worked so hard on to create, as if it will protect you from ache that comes from the inside, inside the center of your chest. Discount and and reject all of my foolish and naive stories. You’re going to have to work hard though, because there’s something in you that really wants to believe I’m right, because just for a moment…all of those old stories....seemed too good not to be true.