Can you hear it?

I watched “The Soloist” last week.  A number of aspects of the movie resonated with my experiences serving homeless individuals in Atlanta.  However, there is one scene that struck me more than the others.  

Steve Lopez gives a cello to Nathaniel Ayers, in an alcove of the L.A. overpass where he lives.  And, as Nathaniel begins to play the instrument, cars speed by the two men.

The sound of traffic fills the air, but the sound of music coming from the cello gradually overcomes it.

And it made me think about the music playing all around us.

It’s so hard for us to hear it sometimes.

The traffic is loud.  The people rush by.  Messages are thrown at us at break-neck speed.

But the music is playing.  And if we tune our ears to it, then we will find that its beauty enraptures us.  It stands in stark contrast to the barrage of noise that usually fills our ears.  It is other-worldly.  

It is a different song with different words.  They are words that promise there is life beyond this soil and purpose beyond the world’s expectations.   

And if we tune our hearts to hear this song, we will realize that all of creation has joined the chorus. 

It is the song we were created to sing.

Sing, O heavens, for the Lord has done this wondrous thing.  Shout for joy, O depths of the earth!  Break into song, O mountains and forests and every tree!  For the Lord has redeemed Jacob and is glorified in Israel.  (Isaiah 44:23, NLT)

 

On the road

I don’t drive a car very often anymore.  A commute on public transportation ensures that my time in the car is fairly limited.  My time behind the wheel is scarce.

The other night I was driving home from the grocery store, and I realized just how much I miss that solitary time.  It’s not that I’d like a really long driving commute, but I miss the solitude of thinking while driving down the road.  I don’t listen to music in the car very often anymore, but when I do, I realize how rarely I belt out a song now.  (Because singing is not my gift, I reserve the belting for when I’m driving alone.  You’re welcome.)  There have been times in my life that certain songs felt like my most vulnerable way of communicating to God what was in my heart.  Thanksgiving.   Frustration.  Love. Desperation.  Awe.  I needed an outlet where I could spill over with passion.  As silly as it may seem, I found it behind the steering wheel of my little Honda.

But, for better or worse, my life is lived much less privately during this season.  Working at a cubicle instead of inside an office.  Washing my laundry with the couple next door.  Displaying whatever I’m reading on the train to the commuter sitting next to me.

Our time at seminary has restored a communal part of our lives that was rare during our first few years out of college.  It has been incredibly meaningful for us to recapture something that was a formative part of our college days, and to do it in the context of our married life.  I don’t hesitate to say that we needed it.

But I’ve recognized recently how critical it is that I also have a place where I can get away.  I’m definitely a homebody, and I love the comfort I find within those four walls, but I’m talking about something different.  I’m talking about a place that invites authenticity, a place where I am my truest self.

Maybe you can chalk it up to my introverted nature.  Maybe I’m the only one that feels like this.  But I tend to think that I’m not the only one who needs this.

There is something inherent in our current society that has us on autopilot.  And we are so far gone that we don’t even realize what we’re missing.

We desperately need places that allow us to bring forth the deepest parts of ourselves.  But we are numb to this fact, and so we continue to consume, trying to conjure thoughts and feelings that will satisfy this longing.  We stuff ourselves full of  books, sermons, songs, and lots of time with church folk, but never realize that our souls are desensitized, imprisoned to a whirlwind pace and the endless pursuit of more.  But we find ourselves with less.  We end up isolated, and we have no idea why.

We were made for communion.  We were bought for true fellowship.

Though we have access to more knowledge than possibly any other believers on the planet, we are still confused and groping in the dark for Him.

We must find the place where we can find our voice again.

He is waiting for us there.

“Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you.  You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.  I will be found by you,” declares the Lord, “and will bring you back from captivity.”  (Jeremiah 29:12-14)

 

Why we come

The other day I read an article about the Cuban church, in which a house church was mentioned.  What struck me about this particular group of believers was the minimalism of their weekly meeting — one basic hymn printed in manila folders, prayer, and corporate reading of the promises of God “out of a small wooden box of cards.”

I recognize that this is not the norm in most American churches.  I’m not saying that it should be.

However, thinking about that small group of my Cuban brothers and sisters naturally made me compare their weekly gathering to the many I have attended throughout my life.  And I began to ponder our motivations for “going to church” in the first place. 

It was clear to me why that group of thirteen men and women gathered in a home each week.  It is not always clear to me why we do the same.

After the lights are shut off,

After the microphones are turned off,

After the music has stopped,

After the gifted preacher has given the benediction,

Did we find what we came for? 

Does it even matter?

Why did we come?

For whom did we come?

For ourselves?

For others?

For Him.

 

In Want

The Lord is my shepherd.  I shall not be in want. 

But I am “in want” all the time.  There are so many things I want, so many longings that go unfulfilled.

More than I am at peace, I am in want.

More than I am full of gratitude, I am in want.

More than I even know what I need, I am in want.

So, if I am in want, who is my shepherd? 

Maybe the Psalm 23 that reflects my life sounds more like this:

I am my own shepherd, so I shall always be in want. 
I run myself ragged, in an attempt to prove my value to others but mostly to myself.
I wear myself out, so that what is left to offer others is bone-dry,
And sometimes I just pursue outward righteousness – for my own name’s sake.
When I face the worst that life can throw at me, I cower in fear and annoyance. 
I am quick to forget who guards my life.  I am far too precoccupied by my own inconvenience. 
I spend too much energy on preserving what could be gone in a moment.   
Yet there is still a table prepared before me in the presence of my enemies – Fear, Pride, and Self-Absorption.
My anointing has never been removed; my cup unjustly still overflows.
Surely I am among the most shamefully blessed of all.
Though I dwell under the shadow of Provision and belong to the family Undeserved Love,
I remain a woman with a short memory and misplaced desires. 

But, if I allowed the Lord to be my shepherd, I would realize that I want for nothing.

 

The sermon I heard from the pew today

“Our vision is so limited we can hardly imagine a love that does not show itself in protection from suffering.  The love of God is of a different nature altogether.  It does not hate tragedy.  It never denies reality.  It stands in the very teeth of suffering.  The love of God did not protect His own Son.  That was the proof of His love – that He gave that Son, that He let Him go to Calvary’s cross, though ‘legions of angels’ might have rescued Him.  He will not necessarily protect us – not from anything it takes to make us like His Son.  A lot of hammering and chiseling and purifying by fire will have to go into the process … Trust is the lesson.  Jesus loves me, this I know – not because He does just what I like, but because the Bible tells me so.  Calvary proves it.  He loved me and gave Himself for me.”  (Elisabeth Elliot, Passion and Purity)

This morning in church I sat two rows behind the woman who penned those words.  She is frail and has aged tremendously, but there she sat with her husband.  I knew that they attended our tiny New England church periodically, although I had never personally seen her before today.  And, as much as I tried to focus on our pastor’s sermon, I couldn’t help but fix my gaze on the back of her head.  He was speaking about sacrificial love, and, at one point, he said that we aren’t all called to die for someone else, but we are all called to live for others.

I just stared at her.  This woman, whose first husband sacrificed his life to bring the Gospel to the Auca Indians, sat in front of me, hunched over and held tightly in the arm of her husband.  She and her young daughter spent two years living with the Aucas, after they speared her first husband and four others to death.

Our pastor didn’t need to say anything else. 

Some people are called to die for someone else.  Most of us are called to live for others.

My eyes were fixed on the back of her head, and I thought about an entire tribe of people, who know Christ because of the sacrifice she and four other wives made for them.  I thought about all of the books she’s written, the people who have heard her speak, the miles she’s traveled, the wisdom she’s transferred.  And I thought about how frail she looked. 

Maybe it’s odd, but it wasn’t sad to me.  She looked smaller and more vulnerable than she has probably ever looked.  Though some in our church could recognize her, most probably didn’t even notice her.

But, as I sat there, I was simultaneously taken aback by the impact of her one life and her fragile humanity. 

I was reminded this morning of my own frailty - physically, emotionally, and spiritually – for I have nothing to offer in my human capacity. 

And I was reminded this morning that a life is made great only by the greatness of one’s God. 

Ms. Elliot, though you ceased speaking publicly years ago, your presence spoke profoundly to me today in the same way it has always done, even in your writing.  Your smallness made much of our God.  Oh, that He should use broken clay jars such as us!  May He be forever praised. 

He must become greater; I must become less.  (John 3:30)

 

Eat Mor YouTube

 

Today

Today I only ate part of my lunch, and that was at 3:00 in the afternoon.

Today I met a young mother who served in the U.S. Navy for four years and now lives below the federal poverty level. 

Every month she makes a donation to disabled veterans, while pursuing her Associates degree and surviving on less than a typical mortgage payment.

But today I didn’t return all of my voicemails.

I met a woman whose four-year-old autistic daughter just learned to speak.  She struggles to find the resources her daughter needs, but once she pays off some bills, she wants to start saving for her daughter’s college education, while pursuing her own.

There were a lot of items left unchecked on my to-do list today.

And I sat next to a single mother, who was one class shy of the minimum hourly requirement to keep her son’s childcare voucher.  She couldn’t pay for that extra summer class, but now she can’t afford childcare when her scholarship enables her to attend school full-time this fall.  If you push one domino, they all fall down.  Today I met the woman upon whom they fell.

I forgot about something I needed to do today.

But I met a young mother who will graduate with a nursing degree in May, little more than a year after losing her young daughter.  She’s behind on bills because the money she had started to set aside for her daughter’s college education didn’t cover all of her funeral expenses. 

Today I met four women I didn’t know yesterday.

And today much of my work was left undone. 

But I was reminded of why I do my work today.

 

Weapons

Recently I read Horse Soldiers, which documents the real-life story of the first American soldiers on the ground in Afghanistan during the fall of 2001.  Unexpectedly and by necessity, they rode horses during the first battles of the war, as they fought side by side with Afghan soldiers.

It’s a bizarre thought in the 21st Century – soldiers riding into battle on horseback, living in primitive conditions, going without food for days, all while carrying the most sophisticated technology ever used in warfare.  From a passing glance, you would have thought they were stuck in time.

Sometimes it appears that the Church is behind the times too, as we fight the good fight of faith with weapons that seem weak in the eyes of the world.  

Don’t misunderstand me.  The battle has already been won.  It was finished on Calvary.

But as the Church, we are called to take our stand against the enemies of the kingdom of God.  We are called to fight against what is opposed to His ways and His rule, both in the world and in ourselves.  Yet, we are not called to wage war on earthly sod, fostering division with our words, attitudes, and actions.  We are called to wage war in the heavenlies through prayer and servanthood.  It is on our knees that we follow our King into battle (Rev. 19:11-16).

And though it seems counterintuitive, it is the example set for us by our God, who always fights on our behalf.

He is the one who told us to love our enemies and then let His own thrash and pierce Him for our salvation. 

He is the one who “is kind to the ungrateful and wicked” and calls us His friends (Luke 6:35, John 15:13).

He is the one who told us that our friendship with Him would mean we have enemies on this earth, but that we were not to treat them as such (John 15:20, Romans 12:20).

At times, it seems as though our culture is quickly giving up on the Church, deeply unsatisfied by the perception that we must not believe what we say or our lives would be radically different.  We often neglect to live our lives with the urgency that the Gospel is real and that God is making all things new, starting with us.  We are prone to forget that our words and actions on earth are part of an invisible war being waged in the spiritual realm.  

But our forgetfulness does not diminish the fact that it is so.    

It may seem foolish to fight an unseen war, but “the foolishness of God is wiser than man’s wisdom” (I Cor. 1:25). 

And the weapons with which we fight may seem antiquated and outmatched from an earthly viewpoint…

… but we do not fight against flesh and blood (Eph. 6:12).

 

Even if he does not

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego replied to the king, “O Nebuchadnezzar, we do not need to defend ourselves before you in this matter.  If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us from it, and he will rescue us from your hand, O king.  But even if he does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods…”  (Daniel 3:16-18 )

But even if he does not.

God is worthy to be praised when He rescues us from the fire.

But He is just as worthy to be praised when He does not.

We don’t like to think about that.  We prefer to hope for the best and squash thoughts of the worst.  Though I do not believe we are meant to consume our thoughts with anxiety and cynicism, I don’t think we should avoid the reality that life could take a hard turn for us.  We need to know what we’re going to do if the bottom falls out.

Our worst fear may be realized.  The answer to our prayer may be “no.”  The unbelievable may happen.  And it may happen to us.

But even if he does not.

Do we know now what happens if He does not?

Do we know now – without a shadow of a doubt – whom we will worship if He does not?

This is the true demonstration of trusting God.  We cannot simply trust His character because we believe that He will do what we ask.  We must trust His character because He is God.  We must trust that He is the only God worth serving, even if our earthly lives fall apart.  Even if He does not.

He did not rescue His Son from the death that we deserved. 

He is worthy of our trust.

Because He did not.

 

Familiarity that does not breed contempt

The other day I was listening to a recorded lecture by a professor at the seminary.  At one point, he began to speak about Jesus’ birth as a vastly different “sign” than the other signs to which people in Ancient Palestine ascribed significance, and he got choked up.  He began to expound on the fact that God announced His presence in the most unlovely and unlikely way, but he kept pausing in order to regain his composure.

Though he studies the New Testament daily as his profession and knows intimately the technicalities of the original text, it still brings him to tears.  The magnificence of God still slays him.  The beauty of His Word still causes him to catch his breath.  He has plumbed the depths of Scripture and has found more than mere intellectual knowledge.  He has found God.  And because he has found Him, he loves Him.  The more he studies, the greater his love is for the One who wrote the text.

How often have we left a church service, wondering how many more times we must listen to a sermon about a particular topic? 

How often do we want to skip over familiar passages of Scripture because, surely, there is no further wisdom for us to glean from them?

Dare I say, how often do we partake of communion without being undone by the magnitude of Christ’s work on the cross for us?

It has been said that familiarity breeds contempt.

But I think familiarity can also breed affection.

There are biblical scholars who fail to let the Word take root in their hearts, and there are beggars who will be first at the Kingdom feast (Luke 13:29-30). 

But there are also academics who are overcome by humility in their studies, and laypeople who assume they have heard it all before. 

Jesus commanded us to remain in Him (John 15:5).

He told us this so that our “joy may be complete” (John 15:11).

What has happened to all your joy?  (Galatians 4:15)