theblackdostoyevsky

Master,

I cast this bread upon the waters over three thousand moons ago. Yet, here it is, returned after many days, according to your Word. Blessed be the name of the Lord. That I may know you, and the power of your resurrection, and fellowship with you in your sufferings, being conformed to your death because, most certainly, I hate my life. The whole world lies in wickedness, and my heart is aflame with both wrath and pity at the rebellious ignorance of men. Most pernicious of them all is myself, as Paul claimed and I contend against him for the title, the “chief of all sinners.” I have a great tendency towards dissimulation, and still, I gnash my teeth and flail my tongue in wicked profanities over the blind hedonism and insolent conceit of those who consider themselves saints. I rail against your church. Not the building, but its people. All the day long I’m nursing offenses for and against them, and in the night I’m tossing and turning, half awake and murmuring, dreading the sunrise when I will have to deal with them again. Revenge bedtime procrastination has become the shrine of my religiosity; I remain awake, exhausted in despair when I should be at rest, to increase the distance between being with them and being with them again. I understand the sentiments of Charles Bukowski, as I used to be in agreement with his alcoholism. “Dumb me from this generation! Lobotomize my affections and numb my joys. What’s the use? This endless toil and silent warfare with the duplicity of men!” Surely, all the world’s a stage . . . we are all actors, first by occupation, if not by profession.

So, what say you, Elder Brother? Him who stands amidst the seven candlesticks with the seven stars in His hand? Wilt thou remove my candlestick from its place for these confessions? They shall be many. I will cast these jars into your Holy river. Like the burning carcasses of bulls and goats and sheep, mingled with flour and salt, I will send these notes of my discordant heart to you. I am in a jam. And when they arrive, all sealed and floating like Moses bulrush on the Nile, hidden amongst the reeds, I pray you lift them up and twist their lids and lift their tops and whiff them as worship and not complaint.

“As for me, is my complaint to a mortal? Or why should I not be impatient? . . . His hand is heavy despite my groaning.”

Hear this, my prayer, O Lord! And let my cry for help come to you. “Search me, God, and know my heart; put me to the test and know my anxious thoughts; and see if there is any hurtful way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” The way of Alexey, and not the way of Ivan. For my heart bleeds as Dmitri, and the pain of this bodily crucifixion makes my thoughts as foolishly cruel as Smerdyakov. Everyone does not survive their own spiritual awakening. I, even, sought a coward’s end within my own. Alas, I balked and blanched from the slow grind of its suffering. So if I am to suffer, whether in death or life, I’d rather suffer in life for You than in death for him.

Herefore, I am. Please, Lord, locate me now. I have great need of Thee, to know Thee. “Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and sustain me with a willing spirit. Then I will teach wrongdoers your ways, and sinners will be converted to you.” But first, please, get these logs out of my eyes.

Selah.