Step 6, Repent
“So flee youthful passions and pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace, along with those who call on the Lord from a pure heart,” (2 Timothy 2:22).
The whole world lies in wickedness. Make no mistake about that. All that is in the world: the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life. The whore, her body, and my conquest of it. Need of relief, the bottle, then false and fleeting joy. Hunger for acceptance, your gaze, my performance. It’s all there, always, every day. It’s all over the billboards as I drive down the highway, noise. Every sign screaming in bold letters a promise it can’t keep, especially not now that the shrinkflation is settling in. So, they promise more that they can’t keep and give less, while increasing the marketing budget. You know, customer acquisition costs. Every YouTube ad, a half-naked woman climbing into bed, or stretching in spandex with a lusty grin on her face, selling therapy. Every celebrity distilling his own spirit. Why not more affordable car insurance? Or effective and affordable termite treatment? Or a set of stainless-steel pans? Or Brillo pads that don’t crumble into a mass of foody twine?
But what do I know? I’m just a consumer. Sheeple, is what they call us. Well, what they call you. They know better than to call me that, now. Truly, there’s only two types of people in this world: Those who know, and those who don’t. I know. And it matters who knows that you know. And if nobody who knows knows that you know, then you don’t know. You’re just guessing, lusting for the pride of being one who knows. Lust of the flesh: Certainty. Lust of the eyes: True Perspective. Pride of Life: Significance. See? Everywhere.
And yet, that’s pride, too. Trust me, you don’t really wanna know, unless you are truly a lover of the truth. Because it’ll kill you. And if you survive it, they’ll kill you. And who is they, you ask? IYKYK.
That’s how I direct my heart towards Jesus, by mustering the courage to pursue the truth. Not your truth. Not my truth. The truth. It exists. And everything outside of it is a lie. You don’t have a truth and neither do I. You have a lie, and so do I, until one of us stumbles upon the truth. Then, if the one who found it truly loves the one who hasn’t, she will risk life and limb trying to convert him unto it. You’ll hate her for it, of course, because you are the main character in your story and won’t have it any other way. That is where your truth originates, in the pride of your life. See? Everywhere. But the truth is that the truth has little to do with you, though you have a part to play in it. All the world’s a stage; the men and women merely players. The question is, then, whose stage is it? Who did the casting? Who bought the props? Who pulled the curtain? Who wrote the script? Aren’t the theatre and movies men simply trying to duplicate what they find themselves trapped within? From gold to silver screen. Always a step down.
The counterfeit is never quite so bold and intricate as the original. I don’t care how realistic the animation, if you’d rather watch Pixar than a real human being walking down the street, studying the uniqueness of their gait, you’ve lost the plot. If you’d rather spend hours entertained by Oculus’ version of reality than watch a bird soar and settle within a thorn bush, then flit from branch to branch within it without grazing a wing, you’ve lost the plot. If you’re so afraid of the break-up that you’ll sabotage the love, you’ve lost the plot. If you’d rather skate the surface of the lie than dig until your nails bleed for the truth, then you’ve lost the plot. And therein lies my secret, the secret to protecting my heart and keeping my way: I steep it in suffering. Like the tongue incessantly pressing on a canker sore, to aggravate it, I practice transmuting the pain into strength. It’s the hoisting of the cross that will keep men sane. I do all I can to carry everything in life that is unfair. My fatherlessness. My blackness. My poverty. My talent. All of this undeserved shame that I did not heap upon myself, I carry. And I carry it knowing the One who carried it before me and carried it righteously, and who did nothing to earn it, and in fact did everything not to earn it, and when pleading in blood to have the cup pass from Him, He committed Himself in obedience to the One who judges righteously and who vindicates the blameless with His everlasting glory. You know His name. Say it. Jesus. His steps are the ones I take. It’s His stage. It’s His play. It’s His script. I’m just a player. And His direction for my role is, “Follow me.”
I follow Him through vanity’s fair, eyes downcast to the evil, forsaking the diamonds strewn along the side of the road to entice me to the left or right. I ignore the heraldry and the boastful singing and the music of the spinning carousel and the smell of fried sugar. I forsake the short skirts and coquettish glares and heaving bosoms and flattering lips. I don’t dare peer up at the tents, or the elephants arrayed in gilded masks meant to terrify, or the bear tottering on a beach ball filled with fluid, or the contortionist bending himself to trap music, or the soloist belting the praise of her broken heart, or the hoards dirty children begging a bill for more tokens, or the flashing lights reflecting on the grass beneath my feet, like police sirens, or the curses hurled at my ears, or the rocks hurled at my head, or the blood draining from my eyes, or the contempt poured upon my bowed back like boiling water. I keep my eyes to the ground, or to the hills. Because I know what they do here, under the big top. I know what happens to the children, in the end. I know whose bankrolling it and the secrets they’ve hidden below in damp chambers at the end of narrow tunnels. I know where the yellow brick road leads. I know the implements. I know the sounds. I know both sides of the coin. So, I keep to the narrow path. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake . . . Lord, please, let it be for righteousness’ sake.
theblackdostoyevsky 
Leave a comment