A Cold and a Broken Hallelujah

Click link to hear Hallelujah

I can’t really stand to listen to “Christian” music right now. It’s too hopeful and joyful and faithful. Like shards of twinkling glass flying at my face.  

Because, see, I had this little boy. He was the sweetest, most joyful, funniest little guy who ever lived. He had been through hell, was beating the odds, was growing and amazing all the doctors and nurses. He brought joy to every person around him, just by being alive. We were inseparable, and we shared everything and caring for him was the calling and the joy of my life.

And then one day, I went away for a vacation. And I never saw that boy again. When I returned he was a shell of himself. He is not far from brain dead. You can only tell he’s in there if you look very carefully closely. And he is dying very, very, very slowly.

I was OK, until then. But I will never see that boy again in this world, and I miss his smile so much . . . . And all I can do is to love him desperately and watch him fade away.

So my only song these days is Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” And I turn it up in the kitchen and I shout it to God at the top of my lungs, and I show Him my ripped up heart and I scream,

“I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch, and love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken HALLELUJAH!”

And my face twists up and tears stream down and I scream,

“And it’s not a cry you hear at night, and it’s not somebody who's seen the light, it’s a cold and it’s a broken HALLELUJAH!”

And it’s not pretty.

And I know I am “supposed” to have this amazingly faithful and trusting response, and shine a light for Jesus. And I am afraid if everyone knew, I would be a disappointment. But I’m angry, and I sleep too much, and I’m depressed. And it’s all I can do to take care of my kids. And I ask people for help to clean my house and bring us dinner.

And I see a woman in a hijab, and everything is changed. Because she is lost in the cold and the broken hallelujah, too. And I feel a part of the people of this world in a way I never did before because I don’t care what you believe, and I don’t care what you do, and I don’t care if it is fair to me or I lose my rights. I can’t care about those things anymore. All I hear are the screams of the mother whose child was crushed as they gathered at a mosque. And all I can do is stand next to her and add my screams to hers, because I know just a piece of what she feels. And the only thing that seems worthwhile in this world right now is for me to hug someone and cry with them, and say “I love you.”

Because this is a dark world, and I am grasping in the darkness like everyone else. I believe in God, and I believe in Jesus, just like I did before. But pain distills. It strips. It makes you real, and realness is messy, and it is not abhorrent to God. And I think there is something about a cold and a broken hallelujah, when it is raw and real, that pleases Him as much as the praise I could try to conjure up as a faithful Christian. I never was good a Christian, and I never was good at pretending.  

Because what I mean to say is, I don’t understand the pain and I can’t see the good of it. I don’t understand what could possibly be worth all of this. I can’t think of a single thing I would not trade to see my Cody smile again. And the little sparks of light don’t seem to make a dent in the darkness. And the only good I can see in this is that I can understand the cries of pain that are sent up from the helpless desperation of a parent who has lost a child to an arbitrary fate that can’t be explained.

I can never tell you why it happened to you. And you can never tell me why it happened to me. And they will never know how much it hurts. And we are all at the mercy of this God who tells us that, in the end, the universe is a friendly place and He is made of pure Love.

I believe Him. And I cry out, “though He slay me, yet shall I praise Him.” And I love you, Muslim. And I love you, LGBTQ(and whatever other letters) person. And I love you, single mother who is addicted to drugs. Because whatever else we are, we are all crying out in the darkness to understand and find some light. And I love you, all the ones who think your country and identity are being taken away. And I love you, all the others. And I want you here.

Because when you are stripped down to nothing but raw pain, you don’t care what another person is about, or what they have done. You just want nothing more than to embrace them and say, “I know. It hurts too much.”

“And Baby, I’ve been here before

I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor

I used to live alone before I knew ya.

And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch

And love is not a victory march

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah!

And maybe there’s a God above

But all I’ve ever learned from love

Is how to shoot somebody who out-drew ya.

And it’s not a cry that you hear at night,

And it’s not somebody who’s seen the light

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah!

Hallelujah.

Hallelujah.

Hallelujah.

Hallelujah.