Finding Friday

I hate certainty.

There, I finally said it.

 I hate it because of how easily it so easily ceases to exist, no matter how many hopes you pin upon it.  No more could you sew your shadow to your feet can you keep your certainty.  None the less it must exist.  Something is there.  You certainty is what you think it is.

What you think and what is, creates the divide.  Don't worry, I hate all kinds of certainty.  The person in my class who asserts that homeschooling ill prepares people for college--tell it to my GPA lady!--to the Christian who finds it necessary to testify and D-clare on facebook that, "I know where I am going because my Jesus lives," (hallelujahs removed for ease of reading.)  I have a problem with it.  I have a problem with certainty because of the times that it isn't true.  The times that I ace a paper in college, and "your Jesus," doesn't quite add up.  I really have no problem with Jesus, just "your-Jesus,"  the guy who 'causes' tornadoes because of sin (Piper-Jesus), which doesn't even make sense if you think of His lost investment in killing people He died for in an attempt to save.  I mean, if you went through all that agony for a person, wouldn't you want them to live as long as possible to maximize the chance of salvation?

A pastor once told me, that if anyone I knew was still going to hell, I was a bad Christian.  But honestly, if I don't love someone who is going to hell, I probably have my head in my ass the sand.

I'm sitting in a coffee shop on a rainy Portland summer day, bluegrass playing.  Its the song of air from a man's deep within his lungs.  Sorrow.  Sorrow is the warm rug of certainty pulled from your feet.  The breath to laugh torn from your chest leaving that song of your gut and agony.  But Sorrow knows faith.  Sorrow's eyes are faith, the sight without certainty. Its a song of the dust and the people who come from it.  The song of the farmer who can only wait for rain.  The song of droughts and storms without reasons, the morning after battle, the words spoken after death.  Bluegrass, Sorrow, laughs at certainty.