Then I'd get to work.
I would see what the skeleton for the monster needs to be, what bones it must have if it is to stand and take on a recognizable shape. Ribs of oppression, fibula and tibia and femur and radius and ulna and humerus of aggression, vertebrae of inertia, clavicle of vanity, skull of arrogance, and metacarpus and metatarsus and phalanges of unkindness, uncaring. It would hunch, of course. It would lumber, of course. But it would also tower and strike with surprising alacrity, a gleefulness all its terrible own, and so I'd need to think about the ribbons of stress and how they'd cover and connect the bones, dark grey enveloping a deep ink black. I'd need to think about the emotions that truly make up the monster, that will comprise its veins and organs and circulate through it, and how they can be both healthy and diseased like a liver before and after drink. I'd place them so that the monster could live and breathe and move and I'd spend hours wondering about the monster's nerves and whether I'd give it the grace of feeling and pain. Sometimes I think I could face my monsters more easily if they were numb. They are made of me and so I know that the question is moot. Then, after the husk was assembled, I'd color in the details, green and blue and a sickly striping yellow covering all eight feet of the monster's height, adding horns and claws, spindly and spikey, as needed.
And when the monster stands in front of me and I have the full measure of its power, I'd siphon into it a little of the life it took from me, coaxing the ephemeral past its fangs and into the lively bits I'd shaped as best I could for it. I'd stand back and watch as the monster woke and began to flex its digits and open its eyes. I'd wait for it to focus on me, innocent as new things are, and then I'd act.
I would take my monster by the hand and walk it down the hall and sit it down beside me, scaly knee resting against fleshy. I'd sit and wait as it acclimated itself to the world, to the stories it carries inside of it, to the being it inherited. I'd let it take as long as it needed. And then I expect, as the air rustles its lungs and the spark of thought danced along from its brain to its mouth, the first thing my dear monster would say to me, in a rasp unused to voice, would be, "Why?"
And then we'd talk, my monstrous love and I. We would sit and stand, bound and bounce, pace and ponder while the events leading up to its formation flowed between us. The horns and barbs and claws would grow as we dug deeper, talking through the day and long into the night, and I'd be scared when he stood and I could see the full strength of this being made of the pain I had been carrying. I'd like to think that at that moment, I'd remember that this was my monster, something I'd made. If I could remember that, if I could only remember the hours before, maybe then I'd be able to calm the monster down, shrink it with kind words and self-understanding. After all, it's only my monster and I care for it so. Otherwise I would have let the problem fly over my head like so many birds, never letting it nest in my heart. But we always love our demons more than we ought, never sending them back out into the world when they could curl up beside us and sleep. I am not at all sure that I know how to deal with my beloved monster as I ought.
Sometimes I wish I could take a situation in my life and make it into something. It's a wish born out of a desire to do something, anything, with my sense of powerlessness. (Never mind that the powerlessness is sometimes self-imposed.) The flesh and bone would give me something to stand in front of, to hurl accusations and abuse at as needed. I think that's maybe what I was trying to do this Lent. I could name the monster, sure, and its name would sound like Loneliness or Rejection or Uncertainty. I confessed to one of my classmates the other day that being ordained, being allowed to dedicate my life to serving the Body of Christ, that's the first thing in my life that I've wanted. I wasn't prepared for the highs and lows of this kind of journey, one that could end in devastation or elation. I'm never prepared to care about something because caring opens you up to hurt and I... I don't do hurt. I'm cheerfully apathetic and I think that on some level, I stepped away so that I could stay that way. I stepped away so that I wouldn't have to shape the monster to begin with.
But see, that's not what God does. That's not what Love does. When Love creates, Love makes something new. Love makes something and calls it good and very good. And when Love sees a situation in Life, Love, too, wishes for incarnation. It's just that Love has actual power and so when Love faces demons, Love can come down to Earth and set things to rights. Love names our monsters alongside us and shows us how to redeem them. Love shows us how to be love for others and for ourselves.
As we approach this Holy Week, moving ever closer to Friday, we would do well to remember that Love came down to Earth. Love came down to Earth and was made of flesh and bone and we stood in front of him and hurled accusations and abuse at him. We have made a monster out of Love and day by day, we crucify him anew in the myriad ways we deny love to each other, neighbors near and far. We need to sit with this, scream and shout and be with this, until Love can calm us down with kindness and understanding born out of the great love being given to us. We are called and claimed, friends. That is what Love does. When we see this, when we can believe it, then we can truly live into the Resurrection we've been waiting for, living forty days in the desert preparing for, longing for. Everything I want to put into my monster is taken from me on Friday and I am left with a void where what I thought I was used to be.
And then comes Sunday.
