The Cubicle Christ

O Jesus,
in the cubicles of my mind,
where work,
both good and bad,
is done,
will you be my
Temple Christ,
the Table Overturner,
the Barrier Breaker,
my angry Love-that-will-not let-me-go

Will you tear down these ugly walls,
expose the thieves who have roosted here to steal my joy,
reveal the dark places underneath the desks where they hide,
and rip the cords of distraction from the walls?

Will you set another beach fire in the center of my brain,
burn the reams of paper where they scribbled their lies,
cross the ashes on my forehead,
and ask me again if I love You?

O Lord and Master,
I confess that You have become neither to me.
I have tried to hide from You within these post-it-note-covered walls.
I have become unaccustomed to the searing pain of your Light.
I have been bent over before the screen of my agenda for so long that I have become crippled and blind.
My mind is sick.
My soul is lost.
My body is no longer your temple.

my Kick Ass Jesus,
on my knees now,
I beg You:

Start swinging.
Open up this workroom.
Throw out the wall makers.
Show me again the Holy of Holies.
Shatter the shaded windows of this place,
until all I see are the shards of my brokeness falling like lightning from on high,
glistening like my tears
in the burning
glare of Your
all consuming,


(June 2018)

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