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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The Glow

A poem inspired by the quiet reverence of Luci Shaw, written through the lens of a modern soul aching for God in a world of glowing screens | by Taylor O’Lynn

The sun sat in my hand
no warmth, only a blue-lit hum.
A rectangle of mirrored silence,
asking nothing but that I stay still
and forget how to feel.

In the garden, the leaves didn’t blink.
They rustled secrets like psalms
read in a wind-whispered tongue.

I didn’t hear them.
I was busy with pixels
tapping light into a world
that never quite saw me.

Then a pause.
Not silence, but a stillness
God,
somewhere in the cotton hush
of midafternoon,
spoke not with thunder
but with the turning of a leaf.

And I remembered the ache
of being fully alive.
How revival might arrive
not in sound,
but in surrender
how obedience might look
like setting down the sun
or heaven cupping a spark
until it flickers into flame.

The tree did not scroll.
The sky did not flicker.
Even the clouds moved slowly,
as if they had time
to wait for me
to look up.

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I’d Rather Be Normal

A poem for anyone wrestling with past temptations and present obedience.

I’d rather be normal.
That’s the thought that slips in
when modesty feels like a curtain,
between myself and the world,
and obedience gets no ovation.

I’d rather be effortless—
low-cut confidence,
hip-sway sermon,
a hundred eyes saying
“you belong.”

I know how to pull that off.
I used to wear it
like perfume and armor.

I’d rather scroll than sit in silence.
Smoke the stillness out of my chest.
Laugh too loud at things I don’t believe.
Be soft-spoken in conviction
but sharp-edged in style—
unbothered, unburdened,
unholy.

But You.
You ripped that taste off of my tongue.
Not by shame,
but by showing me what it cost.

You speak in whispers
when the world screams,
and somehow Your stillness
shakes me more.

Now, I see the way wide roads
cheer me on
while cliffing off.
How “normal” in this world
often comes with chains
you don’t notice
‘til you’re bleeding from the wrists.

But still—
I miss the mindless ease, sometimes.
The way seduction felt like power.
The way laziness disguised as peace.
The way my body was currency,
and I never checked the exchange rate.

Now I wear higher neck lines
and carry heavier thoughts.
I trade attention for integrity
and wonder if anyone sees.

I say no—
when every part of me
remembers how yes
felt like momentary flight.

But I’d rather follow You.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it’s lonely.
Even when it feels like
I’m the only one

Walking upstream
in a world that floats
toward
the fall

Because I’ve seen
where that stream flows
when I go
where I’d rather.

And I’d rather be Yours.

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Come and See

A dialogue-style prose poem exploring the raw questions we would ask Jesus—and the answers He gives.

-By Taylor O’Lynn

Me: Where were you? Where the hell were you when my world fell apart? Do you even care? Or are you just watching from your pedestal while people suffer? Babies die, mothers scream, men become monsters. And you? You do nothing. Tell me why I should believe in a God like that.

Jesus: Your anger is righteous. The world is cruel, and your heart knows it shouldn’t be this way. I know your pain, daughter, I feel it, too. But do you want answers, or just someone to blame?

Me: Both. If you could heal lepers with a touch, why not the whole world?

Jesus: Because healing isn’t just about flesh, it’s about hearts and minds. And most people would rather limp with what they know than walk in what they don’t understand.

Me: That’s not fair. Kids don’t ask for cancer. Women don’t ask for assault.

Jesus: No, they don’t. How much more do you think it breaks my heart for my children to suffer? This world is broken, and you feel it, don’t you? It groans under the weight of its own rebellion. The enemy brought death, but I bring life. And still, the world turns away.

Me: So you just watch? While children cry themselves to sleep? While the innocent suffer? While the wicked go free? Why don’t you fix it?

Jesus: I see it all. Every tear. Every injustice. But make no mistake. I don’t just watch. I became death, bled, and broke so that suffering would not have the final word. But people love the dark because it hides them. Would you really want me to ‘fix’ everything if it meant exposing everything? Even what’s inside you?

Me: That’s different. I’m not a murderer, I’m not—

Jesus: But you have turned away when you should have stepped in. You have cursed men made in my image and let bitterness nest in your heart. You rage against the evil you see, but what about the evil that lives quietly in you? No man is righteous.

Me: Then why even the animals? Why were they hunting, surviving, fighting to live before human sin ever entered the picture? Why must creation suffer for something it never chose?

Jesus: Because it wasn’t suffering—it was design. Before the fall, the lion hunted, the deer fled, the fish swam against the current not in fear, but in rhythm. There was no tragedy, only movement, only life. Death, as you know it, did not exist. There was no separation, no loss. But when sin entered, corruption followed. And what was once design became death. Now even the earth cries, waiting to be made whole again. One day, I will restore it all. But I wait because I am patient, and there are still many more to come home.

Me: That’s not enough. I still don’t get why suffering has to happen at all.

Jesus: Because you think this life is all there is. But I told you—in this world, you will have trouble. Yet I also said, take heart, for I have overcome the world.

Me: So we just suffer and hope it means something?

Jesus: No. You suffer with me, and it is changed. Pain without me is just pain. Pain with me is the soil where joy takes root. Without me, suffering is just suffering. With me, it becomes the doorway to something greater.

Me: And what if I can’t believe that?

Jesus: Then walk with me until you can.

Me: Why? How can I trust you? I don’t even know you.

Jesus: Then know me. Seek me. My word is with you, and it is alive.

Me: How do I know that it’s real? That you are real?

Jesus: Even now, your heart is stirring. Even now, you wonder. But you are waiting for proof when it’s proof that waits for you. Would you expect a child to grasp the mind of a scholar? Then why assume human logic could contain the reasoning of an infinite God? You do not have to understand me fully to trust me completely.

Me: But I want my life. I want control. I want to do things my way, to have what I want, when I want. I want to feel good, to be free, to not have to question everything. But… I'm so tired. Something has to change.

Jesus: You hold so tightly to what you cannot keep, afraid to lose what has already been slipping through your fingers. But what if surrender isn’t loss at all? What if it’s where life begins? If you seek me and find I am not who I say, then walk away. But if you seek me and find that I am, will you still?

Me: But what if you are who you say? What if I’ve been running from the only thing that could ever make me whole?

Jesus: Then stop waiting. Stop hesitating at the door when I’ve already opened it for you.

Me: I'm scared. What if I can't do it? What if I let go, and there's nothing there to catch me? What if I walk through that door and everything I know crumbles? What if I surrender and lose myself?

Jesus: Then you will finally find yourself. You were never meant to carry all of this alone. I will not snuff out a flickering wick. I will not break a bruised reed. I do not promise that the road will be easy. I promise that I will walk it with you. I have always been here, even when you couldn’t see me. You don’t have to understand everything to take the first step.

Me: But I don’t know the way.

Jesus: Then let me lead you.

Me: What if I’m not strong enough?

Jesus: Then lean on me.

Me: What if I still have doubts?

Jesus: Then bring them with you.

Me: …

Jesus: Come and see.

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