Tuesday 5 June 2007

Unresolved Fears of the Imagination

I have a longstanding fear of using my imagination as part of my spirituality:
Of conjuring God up,
Of making God in my own image--
As if the Spirit has no place in my imagination,
Has no hope of blowing upon the embers of those fires,
And making something new.

Where does this fear come from?
In my private life, I have long written poems about God using untraditional imagery.
Yet I used to feel that whatever we say publicly about God must be Literal, must just be copies of what the Bible says, word for word, letter for letter--
A literal kind of faith,
A fundamentalist kind of faith.
I was raised on the inerrancy of Scripture. Did that result in this dread of creativity in my soul? This dread that, when named, is the fear of heresy,
which has somehow come to mean the fear of getting things wrong.
Which I have apparently decided is all right in private--God will forgive me, will let me do this sort of unsanctioned imaging in my own house,
but heaven forbid that I throw it upon public waters and lead others astray.

As if I have that kind of power. As if I could be the Antichrist in her bright and gleaming clothing. As if dreams and visions are only things for others, and not for me. I am Only using my imagination.
I am Only making things up about God.
I am Only Pretending.
Yet these Only Pretend Things stir my soul, like that occasional angel stirring the water of the Pool of Silom. And sometimes, when I am Just Pretending, something unexpected happens, wholly beyond my control or intention, as if the Spirit has come along like a Muse and taken over the plot and sent it all wildly spinning. Who knows? Perhaps She or He has.
So why do I fear what I write about God?
Does it matter that I don’t know
if or when it’s just my imagination
or the Spirit that dwells in us?
These are unresolved fears.
I just felt the need to voice them,
as I feel the urge to voice some of these untraditional
pieces I write.
Vox.

As one in a besieged city
Who is this God? Will She save me as one in a beseiged city? Surely She beholds the armies encamped on the plain, the smoke of their cooking fires rising, ringing the walled city, keeping her inhabitants from food and water—starving me, bringing me to my knees with rib-thin hunger and a crazed soul. Will she swarm over their encampments, clear the ramparts in one long-legged leap, seize me in Her sinewy arms and bear me away to safety? Will She send an angel for me, wide of shoulder and pure of heart, with a quiver across his back, cutting a swathe through the beseigers and battling his way to my grateful side? Will She drop parachutes of food and water like the Americans flying over Berlin in World War II, precious floating bundles? Or will She burrow beneath the enemy, travel under the poisoned wells and the scorched earth and rise from below like a mole emerging from a tunnel, earth covered and mossy eyed, and draw me down into the dark and secret realms where the foundations of the world slide along each other's edges and coal becomes glowing diamond? Any way, any guise, as long as She comes, comes for me.

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