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Saint's Remorse

The approach coming to the altar is the loneliest honesty that a needing soul can ever take. It is the lengthy distance from the pig pen to the porch of the father’s house. It is the trek of ultimate clarity. It is the place of holy conviction’s pull, pure revival’s igniting, and a true covenant born. Oh how we’ve neglected its potent use. We’ve made it a part of our religious ceremony; an invitation into a form instead of a function. Have our altars become a reservoir of “crocodile tears”? A stream of water leading to no river. 

Religion bolsters and celebrates routine; even those righteous repetitions that prove to encourage our dysfunctions. The weekly routines of messing up in life, showing up at church, tearing up in conviction, and walking up to the altar to get a temporary fix with no conclusive change is a cycle all too familiar. Knowing we’ll be back next week, saying the same words we didn’t mean at the start until we decide to live on the level that we are loved & take responsibility for our part in this divine relationship. There has to be a moment where we realize that we cannot live without what we often take for granted and that the Father’s heart breaks every time his consistent love is met with our inconsistent reactions and we just don’t want to hurt the one who always heals us anymore. That’s when the quest begins and the cycle breaks when we finally and intentionally say, “Lord, I wanna be better for you. Help me make you proud.”