Heretical Messenger

A poem for the one who fears they’re too broken to carry Heaven’s truth. | By Taylor O’Lynn

Even if I don’t inherit the Kingdom of God—
my wayward missteps and intentional mess-ups marking me unworthy
Even if the Lord meets my eyes and whispers,
“I never knew you,”

I will still open my mouth to His goodness,
declare His mercy into the wilderness,
sing His grace from the treetops,
so someone stronger in faith,
with firmer steps and steadier hands,
might stand unashamed before His throne.

Even if I am but a heretical messenger,
a heathen clutching an envelope,
I have tasted the sweetness of His fruit,
even as my own past turns bitter in my mouth.

I beg Him, “Send me,”
though my defiled heart still seeks loopholes in surrender,
still negotiates terms in the swamp.
Yet He, unshaken,
peels me from the mire,
showers me in grace,
and steadies my feet upon His path.

I wobble between cold doubt and tepid confession,
lukewarm yet desperately longing for His flame.
But my prayer is this:
that when You taste the fruit Your Spirit bears in me,
You would find an unquenchable fire—
hot enough to melt the ice of my wayward heart,
blazing beyond the stains of my sin.

Though unqualified, though stubborn,
though roots of rebellion cling beneath my skin,
You still call me to carry Your holy news.
A heathen entrusted with heaven’s truth—
I trust the Living Water to follow me,
even as I drift in murky puddles of my own making.

For anyone that comes to Christ,
He will in no wise cast out.

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