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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By the Hem of His Garments

This poem draws from the Biblical account in Matthew 9, centering on the woman who was healed by touching Jesus’ garment. | By Taylor O’Lynn

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Twelve years long,
her body a bucket full of holes.
Pain emptied her daily.
She knew.

His garment
hung loose at His side
as the crowd pressed in.
Noise. Elbows. Sandals.
Still, she moved toward
the One who heals.

Would He be angry?
Would they condemn her?
Would she die for this?

Twelve years of blood.
She reached,
                       fell
                              landed at His feet.

She knew.
He could restore.

 
With a fingertip graze.
A pinky-nail snag.
On the hem of His robe -
Risk became reward,
His power became her peace.

He knew.
Who touched me?
Turned.
Looked.

Heat bathed the nape of her neck
Shame and stares.
Snares and pointed fingers

He knew.
Who touched me?

Her words stumbled out,
folding beneath the weight of fear.

He answered,
Take heart, daughter.
Your faith has healed you.

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