Contradiction

The closer I gather to God,
the further it seems I walk
from the church in my own direction:
walking free of the history of lies,
dead creeds, cruel wars,
and communal repetition of words: 
trite, unaffecting.
 
What is there to say,
except that I am heavy with truth,
making no excuse,
but wanting to be honest with myself.
I act, I speak
what I receive as it’s given:
what is mine alone. 

Acting, thus, in trust,
and thankful for grace received, 
I confess I do not understand, 
but am blessed with love 
that is, it appears, freely given;
so that in my head, 
I hear the words that I write.

I readily accept them as my own 
and, thus, must share 
as, perhaps, a reporter shares news.
They also become both conviction
and confession,
as if I’m talking to God: 
aware, atremble, and filled with an awesome dread.