Post details: Jeremiah 36 He burned my scroll
Jeremiah 36 He burned my scroll
He came again, love, compassion, forgiveness; give them another opportunity. I needed to be reminded that these were yhwh’s people; he committed himself to them, he would not give them up without trying one more time to get them to listen.
I called Baruch, I spoke , he wrote. Together we composed what had been passionate speeches, vivid experiences, personal dialogues into mere words. I feel betrayed, repetition turns ownership into acting. Then I read what Baruch had written—I was moved. G-d’s or mine, together our words read powerfully. Perhaps this scroll is what they need, something they could mull over.
Under house arrest, I could not attend the festival to read to the pilgrims from my scroll, so I sent Baruch. he had quite an audience, several of whom relayed the essence of my scroll to the elders. They in turn sent for Baruch who gave them a private reading. Hearing it all at once intimidates so much gloom and doom, repeated yet unheeded calls fro repentance. They feared—I believe for themselves—on account of the words, for Baruch and myself—on account of what the king would do to us. We were told to hide.
The scroll was delivered by one of these, Jehudi, to the king for his hearing. What represented years of my work, what I now feel share yhwh’s authorship Jehoiakim, page by page, carelessly but deliberately cut and threw into the heater for warmth. This reckless arrogance will cost min a decent funeral. All that I warned that might be, shall be—a picture, I fear will be a self portrait. A judgment that knows no selection, the righteous die as the wicked. Jehoiakim professes a relationship his behavior belies—we his people will pay as G-d’s patience with this path of obedience ends.
Then the silent voice returns; write again.
Words spoken end with memory.
That written last as long as reading
I write to be heard
I write so shoes who remain
would understand why
I write to imagine what could be
on the other side
Comments:
Your scribe hears you sobbing in pain for a people who cannot understand that G-d and pain are not a contradiction, or are they? We wander, I wonder… and look at lives that endure the love and punishment of G-d with wonder and unsurity; I tell Yhwh often He should give up and abandon, that is what the people ask for anyways. Words are no longer alive to people, even when living them out… how could G-d be so ignored when He stood before them as I read those words aloud. How immodest we have become in desperation to draw back before Yhwh must undo all. Giving up self, the soul bare and naked before the probing curiosity, something like desire arising, then falling back into the clutches of fear, fear more than of Yhwh.
Must Yhwh’s people always be running and hiding? The Apostles could not stand before the Lord as He was abused and dragged away… neither could I stand beside Yhwh’s word as the guards flooded. Such necessary compromise crushes the young idealist’s soul. Surrendering the scroll, Dorian Grey plunged the knife into the painting, after all the torment of obedience had wrought to it, returning the words to those who defiled them, destroyed them, and sealed in the doom of Israel.
Another side? Could there be? One contemplates death, and it will come soon enough. Yhwh is alive, must there be another side? Perhaps not of Yhwh… one wonders how He lives such a contradiction… remembering again when scotch and cigars were an option for earnest friends to pour out their souls, now they are debased by themselves to serve the Invisible Yhwh whom I can only imagine to be, manifested in those who lose themselves daily, finding their words consumed in life’s overwhelming fires. Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison.
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