rejoice
Give me everything good I'll throw it away I wish I could quit but I can't stand the shakes Choking smoke, singing your praise But I think there's a god and he hears either way I rejoice, and complain I never know what to say
But I think there's a god and he hears either way And I rejoice, and complain Lift my voice, that I was made Somebody's listening at night The ghosts of my friends when I pray Asking why did you let them leave And then make me stay Know my name and all of my hideous mistakes I rejoice, I rejoice I rejoice, I rejoice
One thing that’s never gotten easier as I get older is letting go of the numerous ways the Catholic Church fucked me up as a kid. Sure, I got the last laugh, since I’m now a pro-choice lesbian feminist with a career that sometimes leads strangers to say She must be some kind of saint, but religion scarred me in the dark places nobody sees, and those scars still burn and pull at me when I’m not expecting it.
I’m not religious, would not describe myself that way, but I still pray. I still wind rosary beads around my fingers in the dark and whisper words into the listening ceiling when I feel something’s insurmountable. I did it in the dead of winter for my grandfather (his last winter) while snow fell outside, beads - or my hands - cold though the room itself was warm. I prayed for my gorgeous girl with her hand in mine, words rising and falling with the steady ocean waves of her ventilator. She still died. (Why did you let her leave / and then make me stay?)
But those prayers, more often than not, take the form of rage. I’ll never show it, because my greatest defense mechanism is to remain totally level when the world’s all slanted around me, but deep at my core there’s some hideous anger I can’t let go unless, apparently, I’m screaming it at an entity I only half-believe in. I wasn’t straight enough, wasn’t the “right kind” of woman enough, wasn’t sane enough, didn’t believe hard enough for the Church to want me. Why should I think my prayers matter? The things I pray for never end the way I want them to - and yet I keep trying. Over and over, beads through my fingers, words towards the ceiling, until my throat is sore. All I want is someone to listen, and if I have to scream it to get their attention, then I’ll go hoarse with the strain of needing to be heard.
If my prayers sounded like anything, they’d be the raw emotion in Julien’s voice - I rejoice - to the point where when I heard this song for the first time, I sobbed. It’s the knife edge of walking between belief and spiritual ruin, of enduring trust that gets dashed on the rocks every single day and gets back up, of how emotions are so painful whether they’re good or bad, and maybe that’s all we can do - feel so hard that both joy and sadness bite into us with clinging teeth that never let go - maybe that’s prayer.
And maybe, then, listening to this in the dark is worship.
(Who’s to say? I’m a heretic most days.)
I don’t think @dinaspapercrown knew what would happen upon introducing me to Julien... but I’m so grateful.
