Christ on the cross: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
That was exile far greater than any Hell-bound soul will ever experience. The Son, one God with the Father, experiencing divorce, separation from grace, left only with the filth, with incest and murder, malice and genocide. Left with pride and envy, left with every self-righteous glance and resentful thought. Left with the rags and rot that every soul uses to fill that God-shaped hole.
Someone had to carry it all to Hell.
I know little, but I know this: When you have died and your leaves have been raked, when you have looked on the face of God and had your final conversation, exchanging words others may never know, you will be where you want to be. If you cannot let go of yourself, if you cling to the filth that you’ve loved for so long, stroking the cherished scabs that line your soul—hates and bitternesses that you cannot lay down, an imagined mirror picturing a glorious self—then He will push you away. You will be sent out into the darkness, far from His presence. You will not like the darkness, but the other option seems worse. You couldn’t bear to be without those scabs.
Wilson, N.D. Notes from the Tilt-a-whirl. Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, 2009. 163.