I'm Sorry About the Misinformation

I am sorry for lying to you. I understand now that it hurt you. I didn't mean to you, you know. I wanted to protect you, to make you feel welcomed and okay. I just didn't know that kindness could be such a killer.

The truth is I am not sure I wanted you to hear the truth because most days I don't really want to hear it myself. But, in any case, here it is: you're gonna die. You have to, actually. It is the only way. I'd like to sugar coat that, make it seem like a pill you can swallow with a glass of water and sleep through the night unaware of its drastic effects on your body. But I can't. I'll leave that for the pharmaceutical companies who know better than I to make a disease seem like a headache and their medicine a happy dream. Not that I didn't try.

I told you all about our "New Members Class," hoping you could stomach that verbage. That seemed nice, right, as if there were some perks for your sacrifice? I was embarrassed to suggest you'd need to go through something like this in order to become a part of our church. I didn't want to seem so demanding. Gosh, you've got so much on your plate already. I'd hate to demand anything more from you.

I even considered toning down the religiosity of it all. Insted of calling it a "New Members Class," I thought about calling it "Inquirers," or "Seekers," something suggesting possibility, completely ambiguous, that way you wouldn't have to venture much, and neither would I. That way we could just meet every so often, share a meal once or twice. Then, maybe, I'd offer you an invitation in a hurried moment of uncertainty, a proposition that immediately makes me feel guilty and you fearful. Hopefully, you'd say yes. Why not. It won't take long. And, I would promise that we'll love you forever. So will God. You will know community then. It will be great. Won't it?

No, it wouldn't be. Because I cheated you, and that bothers me. What I really want to offer you is a conversion, a transformation. But, I know I can't offer that to you. Who can? That's why I come back to what is so important for me to say: you're gonna die. You have to. But, will you let yourself die?

I've got this pool, see. It's in my backyard, and most of the year we just let it lie there as a huge sunken grave, the concrete seemingly colder than steel. The only thing the pool receives from September to March is the fallen remnants of foliage and the cold of both earth and sky. In the spring, I'm going to fill it up again with water, an oval of creation's turbulent sea. And, if you want, you can come over sometime. It will be there for you. If you like, you can walk into it, let your body slip into its brutal frigidness. You'll learn then. You'll see. God wants to wash you clean. Your life can be made new. And you're not going to realize it walking into some church on a Sunday morning with your best face on into some parlour that houses social niceties and the memories of people who served their community well.

So, anyhow, here's a key to my backyard pool. When you're ready, come on over. We'll talk more then. When you're ready to die, I'll tell you about life.