Consumed.

Consumed.

Letting go is easier at some times than at others. Depending on the value of what you are relinquishing, whether inherent or prescribed, you wrestle with the idea of resigning control. In the best cases you hold on when you should and let go when you should. In most cases, we only hold on when we fear the soul crushing pain of what comes after. The pain of the moment when your hands are empty.

Thousands of years ago, a group of nomadic people built incredible systems of sacrifice. Systems designed by the God they served. Systems that are still in place today, carried down by their children and their children’s children and some adopted kids along the way. These systems are carefully crafted, each action having it’s own atonement; it’s own appropriate sacrifice. There were systems for praise, for first fruits, for offering, for forgiveness.

It must have been hard to teach children about these systems. A young boy sees his father work hard to raise livestock. The father chooses the most promising of the herds, raises it differently. Feeds it carefully, only the best. He uses it to train his children in the cycles of life. He prepares them for the harsh truths of their trade. When they walk in the market people ask the father about his business and he takes pride in answering. He tells of wealth of his flocks and herds and this one specific calf. The son is aware of the fate of this animal, but he feels a sense of purpose for it. He is attached to the idea that one day this calf will be killed in honor of something. It will be the center of a celebration of something not yet transpired. What kind of honor would warrant the shedding of this, most valuable blood?

It must have been difficult to explain to the son that they wouldn’t use this animal for celebration that this animal was carefully cultivated for sacrifice. It must have been difficult to explain to the son that they were going to turn it over to a priest to be laid on an altar. An impatient child would have asked the inevitable impertinent question.

“Why?” He had to ask.
“Because it is right”
“Why is it right”
“Because I am grateful”
“But this is wasteful…no one will reap the benefit. It will all be consumed in the fire.”

This is the promise of sacrifice. The promise of consumption. The promise that nothing will remain. Anyone with regret knows the power of this promise. The hope of erasure. This is the whole of atonement and redemption. We submit to the idea that If we lay something valuable down, give it away, that we can become new. We can be cleansed. Like the father, if we are truly grateful, this sacrifice will have an easy confidence.

I have a sacrifice. One that I have been putting on an altar for a long time. Putting it on and taking it off. Putting it on and taking it off. The difference between me and the boy’s father is only this:

4 years ago, I dragged my sacrifice to a rock and lit it on fire. When it was almost completely consumed, I put out the fire, took the charred pieces of something that I used to love, wrapped them carefully, and placed them in my pack. I carried them, disfigured pieces of my love, and consoled myself saying, “I have laid it on the altar.”

For years, I comforted myself with the presence of what remained after the fire. I was proud, even, when I told the story of my sacrifice. I would relay to inquiring minds how painful it was to watch it burn and how redemptive it was to know that it was the right thing. After they had gone and all their questions answered, I would go to my pack to examine the pieces I still had. The sacrifice was so precious to me that even the broken pieces brought me comfort.

The plaguing question for me is now this: If I wasn’t going to sacrifice the whole, why sacrifice at all? I am sure that father’s taught their sons and daughters the beauty of sacrificing something that cost you everything. Sacrificing something that was worth more than anything else you possessed. But the beauty of that kind of sacrifice wasn’t enough for me. At some point in the process I became so afraid of the moment when my hands would be empty that I traded the redemption of the worthy sacrifice for the comfort of what I had left.

I could tell you his name, but it wouldn’t matter. He has been gone for a long time. My feeling is the only thing that remains. It is it’s own person now. My idea of him has become altogether different from the incarnate version I pass every so often. The him that I would describe to you doesn’t exist anymore. It’s a strange thing to feel wonder or emotion at a figment that lives only in your soul’s memory. It is a kind of purgatory. Can’t go back, but terrified to move forward.

So I come to this altar again. Staring at this rock. Knowing that my task is unfinished. I am standing holding what is left of what needs to be sacrificed. The broken pieces have been with me so long that they are a part of who I am and I ask myself if I have the courage to let the memory burn. I pull the pieces from my pack and carefully unwrap them. Begging myself to give in to the promise of sacrifice. The promise of consumption. The promise that if I truly let go, nothing will remain. I am standing at the precipice of my faith. Believing that the same God from thousands of years ago will see my sacrifice and consume it all in the fire.