like biblical masculinity that i crushed my wife beneath. like i helped pull the trigger and then deferred all of the blame to you. like a constant reminder that i held a weapon, too. I keep filing out confusion from underneath my fingernails like gunshot residue. The disillusionment manifests in stagnant melancholy and she keeps thinking there’s got to be a reason as clean as the teaching’s always been.īut even though patty hearst defended her offense as duress affecting intent, it didn’t stand to deflect the judgement that found her compliant and guilty of theft.
Into infinite obscurity tab skin#
there are stages to the scales that slide off of our eyes like serpents shedding skin and letting the death molt. They say that "rage is what happens inside when our soul finally awakens from living a lie" and it doesn’t help to deny it.
“i refused to use words like ‘stockholm’ or ‘syndrome’ or ‘hostage’ but it was a robbery and it was violent and it was 15 years of my life and i’m still trying to figure out who the thief is and whether or not he broke down the door or if i left it unlocked and invited him in.”Īt first you feel nothing, and then the anger seeps in.
She said that the hardest thing she had to do was admit that she was abused. and all of the sudden the movement is exposed as illusion. It appears as though there is such a thing as a victim, though she could never admit it until the pastor propositioned its existence (and specifically as it stood in relationship to him).
his tears from the pulpit were a comfort at first but they pooled in shapes like convenience constantly redistributing its weight back and forth along the planks of a seesaw, and you can only feign trustworthy for so long before being cut off after someone with a golden ear hears the script. In 1976, she was too terrified to resist, and “authority” had already become a position synonymous with “God,” so apologies issued from proponents of the covering couldn’t keep the fear out of her. Her knees went weak for confidence so even though her friends said that she should "call it what it is,” she simply fell deeper in love and when he’d raise his fists and ask her just who in the hell she thinks that she is, she’d tell him it was all about Jesus, and submit. Call it the first among equals and crown out the diadem and if you love her slow enough you'll start to swallow your own press so somehow the neck is still to blame. Call it community and constantly second-guess them.Ĭall it the bride and make sure she gives you headship. Call it an unconscionably reasonable explanation.Ĭall it covenant and constantly call their commitment into question. Call it clearly, exegetically rooted in creation. Call it a misappropriation of their calling: calling command into consideration. Call it a calloused conscience that condescends your vocation. Call it whatever your spiritual gift of communication can call it to quantifiably convert converts into consumers – call it replication. Call it the second coming, call it consummation. We were a byproduct of the benefit of the doubt – compliments of the congregation consistently consenting itself to sit beneath the smallest, syncretistic decisions (rebranded as resurgence, sold as ecumenicism). Traditionalistically berating traditionalists who failed to exists beneath the solas - and another leg that simply felt like power against my jawbone. When I became the center of my gospel, I was tongue deep, rudder dead center, worshipping between one leg out in front of me – expository, annotating, complimentarian masturbating, tradition praising.
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