There is a line that separates belief and disbelief
poetry and prose
myth and historical fact.
We disagree on where the exact location of the line exists.
You say the world was created in seven days
and that man was formed from dust.
You say the blood of Jesus bought our freedom from the judgement of sin.
I’m not so sure about blood’s purchasing power.
And what is sin exactly?
I’m asking for a friend.
You say that very question is itself a sin.

But I know there is something worth reaching for on the other side of the line.
I don’t know about sin and blood
but I can see the glow of grace and love exploding beyond all these things.
I sense that the nouns are just in service to the verbs.

I don’t think people can be carved from clay.
I know I was carved from clay.
I was carved from clay.

I’m wrestling with this line
this border
this edge.
I choose my side and collide with the other
and then get stuck in the middle.
I lose the ability to see anything but the line.
I can’t make out what is on either side anymore.

I think there is a place where life is comes from breath.
I think there is blood that saves.
I think there is death that grants freedom.
But life, salvation and freedom are all swallowed by this line
this edge
this crevasse.

What if I let go of this edge?
Will I fall into the center?