When I became the center of my gospel, I was tongue deep, rudder dead center, worshipping between one leg out in front of me – expository, annotating, complimentarian masturbating, tradition praising. Traditionalistically berating traditionalists who failed to exists beneath the solas - and another leg that simply felt like power against my jawbone.

(keep forgiving)

We were a byproduct of the benefit of the doubt – compliments of the congregation consistently consenting itself to sit beneath the smallest, syncretistic decisions (rebranded as resurgence, sold as ecumenicism). Call it rapture. Call it reconciliation. Call it the second coming, call it consummation. Call it whatever your spiritual gift of communication can call it to quantifiably convert converts into consumers – call it replication. Call it a calloused conscience that condescends your vocation. Call it condemnable. Call it a misappropriation of their calling: calling command into consideration. Call it clearly, exegetically rooted in creation. Call it an unconscionably reasonable explanation.

Call it covenant and constantly call their commitment into question. Call it community and constantly second-guess them.

Call it the body.
Call it the body.
Call it the bride and make sure she gives you headship. Call it the first among equals and crown out the diadem and if you love her slow enough you'll start to swallow your own press so somehow

the
neck
is still to
blame.