Drowning Our Sorrows

Be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of the time, because the days are evil. So do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is. (Ephesians 5.15-17)

Harder to Breathe

A neighbor called the other day, wondering if she could drop by. She was stressed out and needed to talk. After she sat down and I asked what was bothering her, her tears took her by surprise. “It’s not anything specific,” she told me. “I’m just so…“ she said, searching for emotions she couldn’t find. It was my third conversation of its kind this week, including a long one with myself earlier that morning. I’d picked up the paper, glanced at the sorrows splayed across its front page and set it aside. I turned on the TV. It was tuned to a “Project Runway” rerun and contestants were snapping at one another over hemlines. My email was chock-full of political fundraisers spewing hatred for their opponents. On the Web, people were at each other’s throats.

I considered a long walk along the lake, with my iPod shuffling through a “Nature Hymns” playlist I keep handy for times when the human world seems to have jumped its tracks. But that wasn’t going to work; rehearsals for Chicago’s upcoming Air and Water Show were underway. As fighter jets roared past our windows, I couldn’t escape realizing that this weekend thousands would flock to the lakefront for “family fun,” while the very same “show” would send Syrian and Afghani families scrambling for cover. For some reason, my mind strayed to Erin Brockovich, Gasland, and other films about people trapped in environments where a few sips of tap water served up a toxic cocktail. It felt as if something inside me—everything that longed to walk uprightly, optimistically—was folding in two. I was frightened and when I’m afraid, I cry. As I told our neighbor what I’d been through not long before she called, she nodded.  “That’s it,” she said. “This meanness in the air is making it harder and harder to breathe. You can’t say anything without somebody jumping down your throat.”

Evil Days

Sunday’s New Testament reading, Ephesians 5.15-20, speaks powerfully to those of us finding it harder and harder to breathe. If you’ve followed the weekly excerpts from the epistle, you know the writer is addressing a predominately Gentile congregation striving to overcome uncertainties about its role and function in the expanding Christian world. Paul (or a disciple writing in his name) first wants his readers to know that God is alive and present in their community. Of special concern is fragmentation within the local body, as it appears that Jewish converts are distancing themselves from their Gentile sisters and brothers, and Paul summons them to quell the divisiveness so that they may be united in Christ. “Grow up,” he writes (Ephesians 4.15)—not merely in the sense of acting maturely, but also in terms of nurturing godliness to withstand the vicissitudes of differing beliefs and opinions. Last weekend, we heard a set of guidelines to eradicate behaviors that undermine unity, culminating in one of Scripture’s finest admonishments for Christian living: “Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children, and live in love, as Christ loved us and gave Himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.” (5.1-2)

In this weekend’s text we read: “Be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of the time, because the days are evil. So do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is.” (v15-17) The days are evil. Now, as then, the writer urges us to be savvy about sociopolitical dynamics that make it harder to breathe. Power lust, greed, and excesses attendant to them have created a climate of hostility, violence, and hatred that can all too easily creep into the believer’s life. If we don’t take care—if we are not wise—evils that gain acceptance as social norms can choke the life-affirming traits of discipleship. Gradually we absorb a mentality that reflects a world without Christ, one that thrives on vitriol and selfishness and idolatry of status and wealth. We are no longer making the most of the time, steadfastly bearing the fruit of God’s kingdom on earth. We are participating in a culture hell-bent on smothering itself in impenetrable darkness. We are right, I believe, to weep because we live in evil days. But when we allow their toxicity to cloud our minds, we risk failure to make the most of the abundant life Christ imparts to us.

Time to Sing

It’s not easy to live in a society where rampantly apparent evils are either ignored or invisible to the majority—including many who boast of Christian faith but refuse to bow to its demands. For faithful and faithless alike, escape becomes the immediate impulse. We’re seeing this at every turn: in impoverished cities where street drugs offer retreat, in plush suburbs where mood-altering pharmaceuticals create a false blur of inner peace and happiness, in overcrowded bars and restaurants where alcohol flows freely with the seductive promise of good times. And beyond chemicals we ingest to get away from it all, we look to other forms of drunkenness and excess to put distance between our troubles and us. We overspend on mindless distractions, engage in meaningless pleasures, and invest needless overtime on careers and projects. We are a culture on the run, too wounded and self-absorbed to realize that our neglect of righteousness only fuels our discontent and descent into ruin.

“Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery,” Paul writes, “but be filled with the Spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts, giving thanks to God the Creator at all times and for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.” (v18-20) Frankly, I don’t foresee things getting better any time soon. The corrosive issues and enormous problems we refuse to discuss in a mature, meaningful fashion won’t disappear in the hateful haze surrounding them. Yet Ephesians is adamant in telling us how to respond when we feel suffocated by evil. More than ever, we must be filled with the Spirit. It’s time to sing, drowning our sorrows with thanksgiving to God for all that Christ has given us: new life—resurrected life—that triumphs over evil and wins the day. Even when warplanes roar overhead and anger rears up at every corner, we must find the strength to reach for psalms and hymns and spiritual songs that revive the very breath of God present within us. It sounds foolish, but it is wise. “Understand what the will of the Lord is.”

When we feel suffocated by the evils around us, it’s time to sing.

Postscript: “This Is My Song”

I would be hard-pressed not to leave you with a hymn. This happens to be my all-time favorite—a song that consistently brings new life to me when I find it hard to breathe.

A Better Country

They desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; indeed, God has prepared a city for them. (Hebrews 11.16)

People of the Promise

I hadn’t counted on politics becoming a Lenten hazard. But it has. The US Republican primaries, European financial crisis, Iranian-Israeli saber rattling, Syrian tragedy, Afghani war, and ongoing human rights issues tied to industrialized Asia persistently intrude on Lent’s silence and contemplation. The world is in a bad way. We are in a bad way. Greed and power lust have poisoned the wells of compassion and empathy. Rarely do we hear officials put forth policy based on justice and righteousness. We seldom hear anyone equate political gain with moral equity and goodness. More and more, our journey across Lent’s wilderness resembles a hike through a minefield, a survey of scorched earth. Summoning the faith to find God in the midst of this is exceedingly difficult, since God adamantly resigns participation in human strife. God is there. But since this is our show, we’ve upstaged God. For me, at least, this Lenten experience could be called, “Looking for God in Hard-to-Find Places”.

Fortuitously, this year’s lectionary leads us back to our roots—to heroic Old Testament men and women whose faith hoisted them above human indifference. Their wildernesses were very real and the impact of social, economic, and political realities intruded on every aspect of their lives. Hebrews 11, one of the most glorious chapters in all of Scripture, collects their stories into an epic narrative of faith that speaks to us today in no uncertain terms. We might title it “People of the Promise”. It gives us a virtual roll call of individuals who believed God and transformed their belief into a way of seeing the world by seeing through it. As real as their hardships and dismay were, they focused on a higher reality—a new world of justice, righteousness, and peace that can, and will, result from pursuing lives of faith.

Looking Forward

The Hebrews writer refers to this new reality as a city, saying our hope in God’s promise of a better world goes back to Abraham, the founder of our faith. Verses 8-10 read, “By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to set out for a place that he was to receive as an inheritance; and he set out, not knowing where he was going. By faith he stayed for a time in the land he had been promised, as in a foreign land, living in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise. For he looked forward to the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God.” The author resounds this note in verse 16: “They desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; indeed, God has prepared a city for them.”

When we revisit the sagas of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and the other legends Hebrews celebrates, we’re struck by the tumultuousness of their times and yet how they seem to exist out of time. They deal with crises of conscience, family tragedies, natural and economic catastrophes, political oppression, regime change, devastating wars, enormous social shifts, and every kind of moral chaos. Through all of it, they keep looking forward, pressing their way with unyielding faith in God’s promises, desiring a better country—a heavenly one, Hebrews says, meaning a world reconciled to God’s principles and intentions. Their promised land was one of peace, justice, and equity where God could find a proper home. And their unshakable belief that this world could exist propelled them ahead. More than that, however, their faith compelled them live in the wicked world as though the promised one already existed. How did that work out for them? Verses 32-38 tell us they made tremendous strides at times; at others, they suffered great setbacks and many of them paid severely for their faith. They made “their way as best they could on the cruel edges of the world,” the writer says. Yet through all of it, they held fast to God’s promises, even though, as Hebrews takes care to point out, every one of them died without seeing God’s promises come to fruition.

Will Easter Find Us Resurrected?

Lent’s call to repentance and self-examination turns our thoughts inward. We avail ourselves to its solitude and silence as a nurturing environment for inner peace and direction. But surely God brings us into the desert for more than a spiritual retuning. Surely what comes out of our experience should surpass what we gain from it personally. And it’s incumbent on us to ask, “What are we doing out here in the wilderness? What are these wilderness-wrought changes we undergo really for? Is there not a greater purpose at work here?” If we embrace the Old Testament titans’ wanderings and Jesus’s wilderness temptation as precedents, we can’t possibly accept the notion that Lent is all about us. Indeed, what happens to us during our season of consecration is meant to reshape us so that we can reshape our world. Relearning how to survive on God’s promises should, and must, rekindle our desire for a better country, a city founded on its Architect and Maker’s principles—a promised land fit for God’s presence, a new world. And thus, while we’re in Lent’s desert, we must keep looking forward, gauging our personal progress in context with how it equips us to usher in a new reality. How will we transfer the love, peace, and harmony we find to other lives and hateful, contentious, and distraught situations we enter? Will Easter find us resurrected as people of promise, even though it’s probable we won’t see the promise fulfilled in our lifetimes?

On further reflection, perhaps it’s a godsend that this Lent asks us to grapple with tensions created by pursuing faithful lives in the midst of sociopolitical strife and moral decay. Perhaps seeing a world gone wrong at every turn will return our sights to God’s promise of a righteous world, a better country—a heavenly one. Perhaps the extreme wickedness and loss of direction that surround us will galvanize our commitment to disarm minefields and replenish scorched earth. We pray this will be so, just as we pray that what the Hebrews writer says of our heroic ancestors will be said of us: God is not ashamed to be called their God; indeed, God has prepared a city for them. Amen.

Traveling Lent’s desert makes vivid our awareness that our world has become a minefield of strife, a wasteland of scorched earth. And that begs us to ask how spiritual transformation we experience during this time will bring about a better world.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/03/08/a-better-country/.

Postscript: Questions 12 & 13

When does Lent stop being about us and become something greater than us that leads to a better world?

How do we transpose our renewed faith in God’s love, peace, and acceptance into promises we bring to daily life and its struggle?

Up-Enders

These people who have been turning the world upside down have come here also. (Acts 17.6)

Response to Real Change

“The more things change the more they stay the same,” 19^th-century critic Jean Baptiste Alphonse Karr mused. We take him to mean progress is illusory; though advances look like breakthroughs, they’re no more than fresh approaches to age-old challenges. To be sure, reading the epigram from this angle gives us plenty to mull over, since we live in what’s often described as a rapidly changing world. Communication is a prime example proving we’re awash in fast and furious transition. In roughly 600 years—a finger-snap in the human saga—written text evolved from tedious, time-consuming manual transcription to instant messaging (no less tedious or time-consuming, for different reasons). The methods changed, but the endgame is the same: packaging information to travel across time and space. In this sense, the saying suggests at its best, change is improvement, not innovation, refinement rather than revolution.

If this is what Karr meant, the adage proves his point, as it’s merely a fresh spin on an old idea. Ecclesiastes, a volume of proverbs traditionally attributed to Solomon, says, “What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun.” (1.9) But I have a hard time agreeing, simply because what’s old indisputably began as something new. Though perhaps not as frequently as we imagine, revolutionary ideas can and will emerge, changing the world on such a profound level nothing stays the same. And what’s interesting about this is Ecclesiastes and Karr’s observations most assuredly apply to our response to real change. That has always been, and no doubt will always be, exactly what it is in Acts 17.1-15, where Christ’s revolutionary Gospel provokes emphatically opposite reactions from two remarkably different sets of people. It’s the classic faith-meets-fear conflict played to the hilt with everything but pitchforks and torches.

Hot Spot

The drama starts with Paul and Silas arriving in Thessalonica, Greece’s thriving deep-water port on the Aegean coast. Given what happens, the setting couldn’t be more perfect or ironic. Commercial advantages as the hub where West Asian, European, and Middle Eastern trade routes intersect grace it with a sound economy that stabilizes its multicultural population. Yet due to its location it’s equally well known as one of the least stable and sound places to live. The Romans call the region Thermaicus, or “Hot Spot,” alluding to thermal springs surrounding the city. Geologists connect prevalence of naturally hot water with seismic activity, and Thessalonica lives up to expectations. Earthquakes and tremors are common, as are landslides and avalanches in looming mountains that squeeze the city to the coast. So, despite their economic and cultural stability, the restive landscape makes Thessalonians easily excitable and stubbornly rigid. (Living on shaky ground that spews scalding water, staring at mountains that could dissolve into rock piles at any moment, will do that.) Which is why things get real hot real fast when any threat to the status quo comes to Thessalonica. And that’s what Paul and Silas bring to town.

Paul marches into the Thessalonian synagogue and draws its teachers into a heated discussion about Messianic prophecies that Jesus fulfilled by His suffering and resurrection. This goes on for three weeks, creating buzz that attracts bigger crowds at each Sabbath’s performance. Thessalonian Jews pack the front of the house, while Greeks who observe Jewish traditions fill the Gentile gallery and many of the city’s prominent women look on. Paul’s eloquent mastery of Scripture persuades many to embrace Christianity. Envious of his success and enraged that he preaches a faith that includes all ethnicities and genders, traditionalist Jews team up with local thugs and wreak chaos. They tear through the town looking for Paul and Silas. When they can’t find them, they attack Paul’s host, Jason, dragging him and other believers before the city authorities. “These people who have been turning the world upside down have come here also,” they complain. (Acts 17.6) Framing their indictment as a global shift is a cunning ploy; the slightest mention of terrestrial upheaval puts any Thessalonian on edge. Then they come in for the kill, misrepresenting the Gospel as a subversive plot. “They are all acting contrary to the decrees of the emperor, saying that there is another king named Jesus.” (v7) The city finds this disturbing. Becoming a reputed haven for up-enders puts its socioeconomic stability at risk.

Wisely, the city leaders release Jason and the others. While this is going on, Paul and Silas head south, to Berea. Although the city is also situated on rocky terrain, its ground is surer than Thessalonica’s and its people more reasonable. Paul does the very same thing he did in Thessalonica: without hesitation, he goes to the local synagogue. (Will he never learn?) The Bereans aren’t threatened by his message. “Many of them therefore believed, including not a few Greek women and men of high standing,” verse 12 reports. Similar changes to those that occurred in Thessalonica take place. But they’re welcomed. And they’re big news. Word of them reaches the disgruntled Thessalonians, and what do they do? They hurry down to Berea “to stir up and incite the crowds.” (v13) This time, their ploys don’t work. Paul leaves Silas and Timothy behind to establish the Berean church and travels on to Athens. That’s what up-enders do: they boldly declare their revolutionary message everywhere they go, turning the world upside down one step at a time. Someone recently framed this strategy as “Think globally, act locally.”

The Same New Ending

Christian theologians and historians cite Paul’s Thessalonian and Berean adventures as the moment the Church comes into its own. Prior to this, the doctrine of inclusion is realized on a case-by-case basis. The influx of Gentiles and other unorthodox believers has raised many concerns among Early Church leaders, which they resolve at the Jerusalem Council (Acts 15). And now we discover what real change looks like, as everyone—Jews and Greeks, men and women, the lowly and the prominent, poor and rich, ignored and respected—come together under Christ’s banner of love. There is no status in the Early Church—no barriers preventing total acceptance. Everyone plays a role; everyone is equally valued as an essential member of Christ’s Body. This is revolutionary—completely new and unheard of, not only in Judaism, but also in pagan religions and ancient society at large. While many welcome this change with enthusiasm, just as many find it so fearful they rally to prevent it from taking hold.

As seen in Paul's era and our own, when the Spirit calls the Church back to Its original doctrine of full inclusion, response to real change is always the same. Those resisting it will resort to every available tactic to see it’s defeated. They’ve heard about up-enders like us, who’ve courageously taken Christ’s revolutionary Gospel to heart. When real change reaches their shores, they’re alarmed, primarily because they live where stability and soundness aren’t guaranteed. These people who have been turning the world upside down have come here also! Figuratively and literally, they take to the streets, starting trouble and vilifying those who don’t agree with them. They attack inclusion’s allies and prevail on leaders to do something. They travel wherever inclusion is welcomed and make ruckuses there, too. That will not change. Neither will the final outcome, because real change cannot be thwarted.

John’s Gospel sums up real change’s invincibility beautifully: “What has come into being in Him [Christ] was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1.3-5) Yes, it’s the same old story. But with it comes the same new ending. We who are convinced Christ’s Gospel insists on total inclusion are up-enders. We’re turning the world upside down with the message we’ve been given. Adversarial responses are predictable to a fault. They’re nothing new and therefore nothing to worry about. We don’t stop because backward-thinking people disapprove. We don’t hang around to hear their allegations. We move ahead, turning the world upside down one step at a time. The more things change the more they stay the same: light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

God of endless change and perpetual motion, set our compasses to Your Spirit. Endow us with boldness to speak Your Word to fearful ears in unstable places. Open our eyes to the futility of those who oppose real change. And fire our passion to turn the world upside down one step at a time. Amen.

It’s the same old story: real change the Spirit calls us to lead frightens and angers many. But the same old story always comes with the same new ending.

Glow

See, darkness covers the earth and thick darkness is over the peoples, but the LORD rises upon you. Nations will come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn… Then you will look and be radiant, your heart will throb and swell with joy. (Isaiah 60.2-3,5)

Arise and Shine Now

Yesterday I spent a priceless half-hour on the phone with a young hip-hop artist diagnosed with a debilitating condition. I entered the conversation in my capacity as a healthcare writer inquiring about his progress on a treatment my client manufactures. But our talk soon surpassed his resurgence after starting medication. Despite setbacks and sorrows—his crowd rapidly thinned once it became apparent getting his health restored would delay his success—he kept returning to a theme: “It taught me a lot about my circle, my family and friends, and me.” With his career back on-track, I asked if he had a message for younger fans with similar illnesses. “I want to tell them this is the first of many challenges they’ll face,” he answered. “But if they learn from it, they’ll wake up grateful for each day, just like me. It will keep them glowing.” Not “going." Glowing.

After the call, I closed my notes to find my browser open to Isaiah 60. I’d had the passage up for some time without getting to it. The first few verses took my breath. “Arise, shine, for your light has come,” verse one reads, “and the glory of the LORD rises upon you.” That’s the verse we know—the one we sing and recite at this time of year—God’s glistening promise to restore Jerusalem’s glory after decades of debilitation. Yet revisiting the text in the wake my conversation startled me. Its message is not a forecast. It’s an invitation to arise and shine now. Its promise hinges on courage to defy circumstances—to keep glowing: “See, darkness covers the earth and thick darkness is over the peoples, but LORD rises upon you. Nations will come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn,” verses 2 and 3 say. Verse 5 declares, “Then you will look and be radiant, your heart will throb and swell with joy; the wealth on the seas will be brought to you, to you the riches of the nations will come.” Just as the musician’s attitude chastens us for nursing self-pity and pessimism when life takes a cruel turn, Isaiah challenges our belief that light and joy are contingent on God’s blessings and goodness. Both insist we’ve got it backwards. Blessings, healing, and deliverance don’t make us shine. We don’t wait for brighter days before stirring from our stupor. First we glow, and then we grow.

Taking Back the Night

We jump on Advent’s juggernaut, hurtling through darkness with eyes trained ahead. Salvation is coming. We long to be there when it appears. We ache once more to see nascent glimmers of redemption in Christ’s newborn eyes. Finding our hope cradled in Bethlehem’s manger, we instinctively raise our sights to Calvary’s cross. The moment hums with excitement about the future: this changes everything. In our forward-focused enthusiasm, however, we can’t forget there’s more to Christmas than a new dawning. It’s also about taking back the night. Fears and dangers that left us scrambling for shadowy corners or trembling behind bolted doors can torment us no more. Injuries and injustices that haunted us shrivel under our radiance. That’s right, our radiance—the glory of God that rises upon us in darkness. The Christ-Child is our light. John 1.4 tells us in Jesus “was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.” Christ’s gift of redemption pivots on enabling us to perfect God’s reflection in our lives and world. We are created to glow. The glory rising over us gives us power to destroy darkness in our present, future, and our past.

Now we have a choice. Either we treat this metaphorically, which puts it with other prophetic poetry we unpack at Advent. Or we embrace it as a real thing—a phenomenon we experience and practice all year. What does that mean? As far as we run from our pasts, our pasts are never far from us. I suspect most of us seldom finish a day without bumping into a reminder of fears and losses that vexed our nights before Christ illuminated our lives. Holidays and homecomings are notorious for plunging those of us who’ve escaped unhealthy pasts into dizzying darkness. We timidly enter these scenes, needlessly availing ourselves to prejudices and pressures by dimming our lights. But we weren’t created for low light. God made us to glow. We shine because light has come to restore what we lost. Whether darkness invades our minds with a passing memory or surrounds us in settings we’ve outgrown, we keep glowing, never faltering in our quest to take back the night.

No Posturing Needed

But, realistically, how do we manage this? Should we act like memories and night haunts don’t menace us? We’re talking about incredibly mean stuff here. We’ve got scars that brushes with the past repeatedly rip open, wounds that never completely heal. All it takes sometimes is a word, a look, a voice—even a room or smell—to hurl us into the blackest of nights. Are we supposed to adopt an impervious posture to keep glowing? Can we even do that? Here’s where faith in God’s promises becomes critical. Remember Isaiah 60.5? “You will look and be radiant.” Who we were when we lived in darkness is not who we are now. God’s glory has risen on us, shattering our night. Our light has come. We found it in a manger. It changed us forever, enabling us reroute our future and empowering us to reclaim our past. No posturing is needed. We simply have to be. We look radiant when we reencounter darkness because we are radiant. It's that simple. Darkness holds us no longer. And we have only one lesson to retain from its meanness: when we glow its power fails. Through this season and always, be radiant. Glow.

God’s glory rises on us and we glow. Our radiance defeats our darkness. It’s not a posture or pretense. It’s who we are.

Postscript: “Walk in the Light”

I mentioned in an earlier post how this Advent keeps sending me down well-trod musical paths from my youth. As I worked on today’s reflection, I couldn’t shake this glorious rendition of the classic hymn, “Walk in the Light,” by a treasured late friend and musical genius, Thomas Whitfield. I slapped together a quick video, but the beauty—the triumph—is in the song!

WALK IN THE LIGHT

Walk in the light, beautiful light

Come where the dewdrops of mercy shine bright

Oh, shine all around us by day and by night

Jesus is, Jesus is

The Light of the world.

No need to worry, no need to fret

All of my needs Jesus has met

His love protects me from hurt and from harm

Jesus is, Jesus is

The Light of the world.

If the Gospel be hid, It's hid from the lost

Jesus is waiting to look past your faults

Arise and shine, your light has come

Jesus is, Jesus is

The Light of the world.

Jesus is the Light of the world

Jesus is the Light of the world

Jesus is the Light of the world

He's ever shining in my soul

Nothing to Drink

I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink. (Matthew 25.42)

(With a grateful hat-tip to Jan, of Yearning for God, who brought the date to my attention.)

Bubblers

Years ago, Chicago parks were outfitted with bubblers—six-sided cement water fountains that flowed non-stop. They were just tall enough for a six-year-old to tiptoe against and lean into for a quick gulp before returning to play. The water was, without question, the sweetest, coldest, and most refreshing I’ve ever tasted. Bubblers were also exciting to us because we were expressly forbidden to drink from them, due to high frequencies of communicable diseases like mononucleosis, strep throat, and rheumatic fever. Although we’d been vaccinated against many of these illnesses, the risk of contracting a crippling infection was too great. So we were repeatedly warned, “Stay away from the bubblers or you’ll get sick.” But how can a child who’s worked up a tremendous thirst look at a bubbler—or any other freshwater source—and see potential danger?

Ours to Correct

Thirst is an immediate, primal need. Unless readily available water is noticeably tainted, thirst will overrule reason every time. This is true for people and animals of all ages. The possibility of eventual sickness loses its import when the need to replenish depleted fluids takes over. Since the vast majority of water-borne diseases have no discernible taste, it’s very easy for long-term health concerns to evaporate on demand. In areas where clean water supplies are low or non-existent, aid workers report tremendous difficulty convincing locals that imperceptibly polluted drinking water and widespread epidemics are linked. Furthermore, in places where the only available water undeniably runs thick with deadly microbes and chemicals, residents are apt to acquire a taste for it. Dying of thirst or dying of disease amount to the same thing: dying. In these situations, a perverse logic takes hold. Remedies for water-borne sicknesses are typically easier to find and administer than solutions for untreated water sources.

In many places, quenching one’s thirst constitutes a death-dance. It’s very hard for people who drink worry-free from taps and fancy-labeled water bottles to comprehend that. Imagining such a thing is so far beyond the pale we tend to set it aside—as if letting Mother Nature worry about the crisis is the most sensible response. But she’s got no worries, because she’s not to blame. We’ve made this mess by treating her streams as our trash disposals, rerouting her rivers for our purposes, and assigning value differentials to human, plant, and animal life based on profit motives. It’s chilling that we can wrap our heads around the literally godforsaken notion it’s permissible to violate remote peoples and places if mining their minerals and befouling their deltas raise our standard of living. Rogue corporations and tycoons treat Africa, Asia, and parts of Central and South America as though they’re barren planets: get in, get the goods, and get out, all the while soaking the terrain with toxins that wash downstream, leech into freshwater aquifers, and destroy the natural balance created to safeguard against diseased and deadly water. We created the crisis. It’s ours to correct.

Data and Biology

Jan posted some powerful data on her site that’s worth sharing here:

• Every 20 seconds a child dies from a water-related disease.
• 890 million people lack access to safe water.
• 2.5 billion people don’t have a toilet, roughly 1 in 3 of us.
• $25 brings one person clean water for life.
• 200 million hours of labor are consumed daily to collect water—i.e., our “modern world” is nowhere near as modern as we think.
• Improperly disposed and untreated human and animal waste is the primary cause for global illness.
• More people on the planet have mobile phones than toilets.

Now let’s add biology into the mix:

• On average, water comprises 55-60% of the human organism.
• Virtually every bodily function relies on it for chemical reactions, purification, and waste elimination.
• Dehydration sets in with a 5% reduction in water content.
• Severe, often fatal dehydration occurs when body water is reduced by 10-15%.
• Since the largest populations without clean water are concentrated in tropical and subtropical regions, dying of thirst is hardly a metaphor or figure of speech for them. Indeed, that’s what ultimately what kills most who suffer with water-borne illnesses due to nausea, perspiration, diarrhea, and cellular decomposition.

A Life-and-Death Issue for Us All

Universal access to clean water is an urgent global imperative and moral responsibility. But believers have the added obligation to care for the thirsty in obedience to Christ. To know this need exists and ignore it condemns us with neglect. In Matthew 25, Jesus gives us a glimpse of how we’ll be judged. He compares the process to a herder dividing his sheep and goats. The herder groups sheep to his right and goats to the left. He welcomes the sheep into his fold, naming all the good things they did for those in need, never mentioning “them.” He personalizes it, saying, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.” (v37) Jesus lists caring for thirsty people among the compassionate deeds the herder rewards. The same criteria apply to the goats, who minimized others’ needs and suffer dire consequences. “I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink,” the herder tells them. The goats protest, “We always took care of you!” Here’s how the story ends: “He [the herder] will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’ Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.” (v45-46)

There we have it. Thirst is a life-and-death issue for all of us. It kills those we neglect and, as long as we ignore the clean-water crisis, exposes us to an even grimmer fate. Simply put, as long as we’re in the world, there’s no excuse for one soul perishing to thirst and water-related disease.

Accessible, clean water we take for granted is a godsend to millions. As God’s agents, we must send it to them.

Postscript: Obedience Outlets

There are hundreds of organizations working to solve this crisis, all of them needing our time and means. They’re obedience outlets—opportunities to honor Christ’s commandment to care for the thirsty among us. Here’s a very short list of organizations you can contact to learn how to support to their efforts.

The Water Project

Global Water

The Clean Water Fund (US-focused)

Charity: Water

WaterAid

Water.Org

3for5

Just a Drop

(If you’ve worked with or given to other organizations and would like them added to the list, please let me know and I’ll update the post.)

The Land of Either/Or

Who shall separate us from the love Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or nakedness or danger or sword? As it is written: “For your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.” No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. (Romans 8.35-37)

Cosmic Mash-Up

A great friend moans on Facebook that he’s got an Olivia Newton-John song stuck in his head he can’t pry loose. Everyone jumps to mention other smarmy tunes that glom onto us like gum to a shoe. I flag “The Candy Man” and “Pure Imagination” from Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and think no more of it. Then, this morning, I wake up to find Ms. Newton-John has set up shop in my head. She’s chirping before I hear myself think, a song from Xanadu, no less, one of the worst movies ever made. All she gives me is the hook: “You have to believe we are magic, and nothing can stand in our way.” It loops over and over on the far side of my ears, where I can’t get to it. I try to suppress it during a meeting, but whenever the conversation lulls, there it is: You have to believe... I can’t take it. The instant I get on the subway, I crank my iPod’s “Living in the Past” playlist of Sixties and Seventies hits. I desperately need The Who or The Kinks or The Stones to rescue me. So what shuffles up? The Little River Band’s “Help Is On Its Way”: “Hang on. Help is on its way. I’ll be there as fast I can. Hang on, a tiny voice did say, from somewhere deep inside the inner man.”

Perhaps I’m watching too much “Glee”. Without conscious intent, I’ve concocted a motivational mash-up (not a bad one, either): Hang on. You have to believe. Help is on its way. Nothing can stand in our way. I’ll be there as fast as I can… Is Someone speaking? Not being one who stores much credence in extra-scriptural phenomena, like weeping Madonnas or (wink to Gleeks) Christ’s apparition on a slice of toast, I park the question to see if more back up turns up. Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” follows. See? Just a coincidence, I sigh—until “Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me” gives me a jolt. I ease off to let the music play. Another sigh when Joni Mitchell’s “Help Me” comes on. Then she sings, “Are you gonna let me go there by myself? That’s such a lonely thing to do.” All of a sudden, I’m in the Land of Either/Or: Believe or Beelzebub; Hang On or Help Me; “I’ll be there” or, “Are you gonna let me go there by myself?” I realize I’m in the cosmic mash-up we sort through constantly. Everything we do and say, every response and expectation is shaped either by faith or fear, persistence or panic. Either we trust God for our best or we tremble to imagine our worst. We either hang on, knowing He’s on His way, or we go it alone. We dwell in the Land of Either/Or.

The Principality, Not the Path

I won’t be convinced deciding to follow Christ is tough or complicated. No one can possibly exceed the lengths He’s taken to offer us love and life. Accepting His gift is so clearly the best decision it’s hard work to rationalize rejecting it. The ease in recognizing it’s the right—the only—choice can be misleading, though. When challenges that accompany following Jesus surface, many believers lose their way. They quit without pause, saying, “I signed up to be loved and gain eternal life, not to love haters, welcome strangers, give to receive, break habits, fix attitudes, embrace the impossible, and trust the invisible. How is any of that easy?” We can’t dispute them. None of it seems easy. But the difficulty is caused by the principality, not the path. As we follow Jesus through the Land of Either/Or, each step confronts us with dangers and perplexities that demand responses completely unnatural to the atmosphere surrounding us.

We have to believe we are magic—not in the Harry Potter sense, of course, but in knowing we’re indomitable and impervious to forces that govern Either/Or. That’s why we never tire of hearing Paul’s description of our unique powers in Romans 8.35-37: “Who shall separate us from the love Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or nakedness or danger or sword? As it is written: ‘For your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.’ No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.” Just look at all those “or’s!” Every one of them is a fear-fueled, panic-ridden, completely realistic possibility. Yet when we believe, when we opt for the “either’s”—the choices that test our faith and persistence—nothing can stand in our way. We are more than conquerors through Him Who loved us, Paul insists, removing any question of where our powers lie. Our fortitude, confidence, and hope—our genius—is in the love Christ proved, and the life He promises.

We Are Magic

Paul cites Psalm 44.22 to stress how our meek appearance belies our mighty power: “For your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.” The dangers we encounter on the road come from crossing hostile territory and passing derisive personalities. Earlier in the psalm, the poet complains, “You have made us a reproach to our neighbors, the scorn and derision of those around us. You have made us a byword among the nations; the peoples shake their heads at us.” (v13-14) Why is that? Seen from the roadside, we look like sheep headed for ruin, as though we’re so oblivious to the world’s ways we’ll look up to find our Shepherd’s left us in the slaughter pen. “Never!” Paul says. “Nothing will ever separate us from His love!”

Thus, in a very real sense, we are magic, because magic tricks the eye. How we’re seen and what’s said of us is not who we are. We look like sheep on the outside. Inside, we’re more than conquerors. What appears to be mindless compliance is revealed as ingenious obedience. The terrors meant to defeat us are inexplicably transformed into tests that define us. When we should cry, “Help me!” we rejoice, “Help is on its way!” We must always remember everything we see and hear in Either/Or is backwards. Apparent weakness is true strength. Foolishness that’s mocked merits respect for its wisdom. Insults translate into praise, and logical thinking is ridiculed by unnatural faith. Knowing this, we have to believe we are magic. Nothing can stand in our way.

For all practical purposes, the world sees us as oblivious sheep. But our appearance is deceiving. We’re not sheep. Christ’s love makes us more than conquerors.

Postscript: Hang On

Saddling you with Olivia Newton-John’s “Magic” would be a cruelty beyond forgiveness. Instead, here’s a 1978 video of The Little River Band’s “Help Is On Its Way.” I find the bridge particularly powerful:

Don't you forget who'll take care of you

It don't matter what you do

Form a duet - let him sing melody

You'll provide the harmony.

Enjoy!

Dirt

So the LORD God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken. (Genesis 3.23)

What We’re Made Of

“Get out there and show ‘em what you’re made of” is one of those chewed-up pep phrases with no meat left on them. It’s what the hamstrung producer says to the terrified understudy about to face the footlights, what the pug-faced coach uses to rally his team of underdogs before the big game. It’s a movie cliché as old as the movies. Since it never fails on the silver screen, it’s laughable in real life, where no writers can engineer an improbable triumph. Still, the phrase came to mind when digging around for a Labor Day topic led me to Genesis 3.23: “So the LORD God banished him [Adam] from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken.” The connection between what we’re made of and the living we make is new to me, even though it’s always been there, explicitly spelled out. The verse puts fresh meat on the cliché, giving us plenty to sink our teeth into.

I landed on Genesis 3.23 by starting at verse 19, a Labor Day gem: “By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken.” Next comes the ominous suggestion labor we undertake to survive, i.e., “making a living,” is futile: “For dust you are and to dust you will return.” This, of course, is the curse we inherited from Adam—our compulsion to do everything we can to live well and long, all the while knowing human life is fragile and finite. Gripped by mortality’s grim irony, it’s easy to glide by verse 23 as a recap of 19, never catching the huge implication in its syntactical shift. God banishes Adam from Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken. Groundwork is what’s missing in 19. To escape life’s dust-to-dust futility, we must ask, “What’s in the dirt?” Or, better yet, “What’s in our dirt?” Once we answer that, “show ‘em what you’re made of” is no cliché. It’s a calling.

Replete with Goodness

Whether we view the Bible’s account of our creation literally or metaphorically, the dirt at its center proves remarkably rich. By itself it’s useless—which is not to say worthless. Dirt is replete with goodness: vitamins and minerals, substance and malleability. Pressure and heat solidify its surface, yet it never gets so hard it can’t absorb fresh water, break open, and fulfill its purpose. Because its meaning and worth derive from what’s planted and rooted in it, no medium could be more perfect for our making. That’s why—after speaking all other plants and animals into existence—God uses a different method for us. He scoops up inert soil, molds it to His pleasure, and endows it with purpose by breathing life into it. Yet if His breath of life transfixes us to the point we ignore our origins in the soil, we glimpse only half the miracle. Being taken from the ground signifies goodness is elemental to us. We’re replete with it.

Suddenly “working the ground” transcends dragging ourselves out of bed day after day to work for our survival. Our primary occupation turns into identifying the inherent goodness in us and allowing it to nurture talents and opportunities God seeds into our lives. It’s important to remember although soil serves the same purpose wherever it’s found, its composition varies greatly from place to place. So it is with us. The ground God formed into you contains a unique blend of goodness that enables your gifts to thrive where you are. My blend of goodness is unique to me so what grows out of me fits my circumstances and environment. Nonetheless, the world is full of believers who think all Christians are made of the same stuff to grow the same seed and thrive in the same environment. Not so. Just as God makes cacti grow in Arizona and redwoods rise in California, the gifts He wants to spring up and take root where we are determines what's in our soil. The ground we're taken from is the ground we work.

All We Need

Once God makes us from ground that best suits His intentions, He provides all we need to flourish. As 2 Corinthians 9.8-10 points out, what blossoms from one seed generates many more seeds. The living we make by working the goodness in us yields a harvest that sustains not only us. It also enriches the people and communities we serve. “God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work,” Paul writes before referencing Psalm 112.9: “As it is written, ‘He has scattered abroad his gifts to the poor; his righteousness endures forever.’ Now he who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will also supply and increase your store of seed and will enlarge the harvest of your righteousness.”

The goodness in our dirt comes alive in the living we make from the life God seeds into us. This weekend, wherever you are—whether in the States, celebrating Labor Day, or elsewhere—make time to recognize your unique goodness. Identify the gifts that grow out of it. Recommit to working the ground you’re taken from. Then get out there and show ‘em what you’re made of!

The dirt from which God shapes each of us contains a unique blend of goodness that enables the gifts He seeds in us to flourish where we are.

Postscript: Show Them What You’re Made Of

Here’s a song for those who might like a little accompaniment while contemplating the goodness in our dirt. Nik Kershaw sings “Show Them What You’re Made Of.”

After reading this post, Grant directed me to Steve Bell's "These Are the Ones"--a beautiful song that echoes the thoughts above in a particularly vivid way. Take a look--you'll be glad you did!

Are You Wise?

The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, “Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and ‘sinners.’” But wisdom is proved right by her actions. (Matthew 11.19)

An Unanticipated Question

During my years at a global marketing agency, it often fell my lot to interview job applicants. The majority of them involved people seeking entry-level positions—recent college grads trying to get a foot in the door. Most of them had been superbly schooled in responding to the predictable questions: why this business, what do you bring to it, where do you see yourself five years from now, etc. The answers tended to be succinct to the point of glibness, which commended the interviewees for their earnest preparation but revealed little about them or their talents. What I wanted to know, however, was how quickly they could think on their feet and how coolly they reacted to unexpected challenges, because, as any marketing or advertising vet will confirm, clients have a penchant for throwing ridiculous curves that make or break you.

So I’d let the interviews roll along, feeding prospects the usual fodder until their confidence reached full bloom. Then I’d yank the rug from beneath them with an unanticipated question: Are you wise? I admit to a tinge of sadistic glee as panic fell across their faces and they tried to gauge what the “best” answer should be. Was my question genuine, or some sort of test? It was both. I wanted to assess their maturity and assurance, as well as their deftness at handling surprises. The best answer I ever received went something like this: “Yes, I am wise, though not enough to understand your reason for asking me. That comes with experience, which is what I hope to gain here.” I stopped the interview, personally escorted the young lady to our HR officer, and said, “Hire her immediately!”

Evidenced Over Time

When Jesus dispatches the disciples to minister in His name without Him, He says, “I am sending you like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.” (Matthew 10.16) The King James Version renders His counsel as: “Be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.” (Emphasis added.) He asks much of them with this, as shrewdness and innocence—or wisdom and harmlessness—make for strange bedfellows. So do snakes and doves, for that matter. Innocence is self-evident in the moment. It avoids doing harm at all costs as a means of self-protection, eluding unfamiliar and potentially unhealthy situations much like doves refuse to light in muddy places. Wisdom, on the other hand, is evidenced over time. Like snakes, it makes its home in dangerous environments, often disguising its presence by taking on the colors, textures, and even the postures of its surroundings.

But wisdom doesn’t assume attributes of its vicinity merely to become part of it. Wisdom enters unfavorable situations cautiously in order to gain insights and experience to address them. Laying low, observing the dynamics, just as snakes do, permits wisdom to discover opportunities and challenges as they surface. Wisdom waits, knowing its time is well spent to increase understanding so its efforts will not be wasted. This is Christ’s message in Matthew 11.19, when He issues a blanket rebuttal to critics who accuse Him of licentious behavior: “The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and “sinners.”’ But wisdom is proved right by her actions.” Rather than protect His innocence by distancing Himself from social pariahs and outcasts, Jesus wisely enters their world. Judging from what’s said of Him, as well as His own admission, He appears to behave like them. Yet despite what seems so obvious, Jesus knows the true reasons for His actions. He’s joined them to understand their challenges. He’s there, waiting on opportunities to show them a better way. In the end, the strategy proves the wisdom and innocence of His actions.

Agents of Redemption

Christ’s example teaches us how best to follow His discipleship directive. He sends us into the world as sheep among wolves. He charges us to be as wise as snakes and as innocent as doves—in other words, to live wisely with those around us while maintaining our commitment to His principles. We must never be fearful of being seen or identified with “the wrong people.” We must never buckle to social pressure and religious prejudice, simply to escape criticism or questions of our innocence. At the moment, distancing ourselves from pariahs and outcasts may seem like the best option. Over time, however, the wisdom of embracing them, joining their feasts, and sharing their lives will become evident. It will bring new understanding of their needs and create opportunities for us to show them a better way.

Besides, our critics can never be satisfied. That’s the bigger point encircling Jesus’s rebuttal. He prefaces His response to His critics with this: “John [the Baptist] came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon.’” (v18) John leads with innocence—sequestering himself in the desert so as not to be identified with the wrong crowd—and still he’s blasted for his actions. Protecting our innocence will not shield us from unjust criticism. Neither will it benefit those who need our light. By teaching and example, Jesus demonstrates living in the world is how we change it. Willingness to sacrifice reputation is how we become agents of redemption. What is wisest for us to do may seem dangerously foolish now. But that shouldn’t worry us. Wisdom is proved right by her actions. Gained experience and knowledge will guide our work. Time will tell the integrity of our motives and behavior. Are you wise?

Hanging with “the wrong crowd” may not seem wise at first. But over time, the experience and knowledge we gain reveal why our presence there is essential. (Image: "RSVP" - The Journeys Project.)

The Sea

There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number—living things both large and small. (Psalm 104.25)

The Most Sacred Substance

While Creationists and Darwinists bicker over the origin of life, both agree water existed before it began. Evolutionists cite water as the medium in which life spontaneously erupted and developed. Although their opponents differ regarding what transpired in the water, they concur it was there from the start, based on Genesis 1.2: “Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.” The implicit agreement between such dogged foes startles us with water’s distinction as the only tangible substance that predates life. We accept it as the basis of life, so much so we can’t conceive life existing anywhere without it. Yet very seldom do we consider water as our tactile connection to eternity and, hence, the divine.

Pass your hand through an open tap stream. Go to the river’s edge and scoop up some water. You have touched a thing older than time, a thing possibly as old as God, since we have no Biblical or scientific explanation for its genesis. Water is as impervious to time as its Maker. It exists in a closed cycle of evaporation and condensation that enables it to permeate the landscape and atmosphere. Like God, it flows where it will, rests where it will, and inhabits infinite forms, yet in all of them it remains invulnerable. It’s impossible to manufacture, contain, or destroy. When an organism dies, its water departs and reenters the life cycle. Thus, the water we taste, see, and feel is the same water that covered our planet from the start. It’s the water that felt God’s Spirit brush its surface. It’s the water that flowed in Eden’s delta, deluged Noah, obeyed Moses, and washed over Jesus in baptism. It’s the same water. Water is, has always been, and will forever be the most sacred substance on Earth. Why don’t we get that?

Tampering with the Tabernacle

Nowhere is water’s majesty more visible than the sea. By extension, nowhere do we find a clearer reflection of God’s creativity and energy. Like the water it contains—and the God it reflects—the sea has a life of its own that the rest of Creation draws from and is drawn to. It is, in every way, the reservoir of life and everything that occurs on the planet is made possible by it. The moisture rising from its surface collects in the sky to be transported across the land, where it rains down growth, sustenance, and refreshment. Then, in a miraculous feat of divine gathering, water that escaped the sea makes its way home, carving through mountains and plains, creating climates and terrain to support the planet’s vast diversity of organisms—or, in some regions, fostering diversity of life by its absence. Regardless where we are on the planet, the sea’s journey to and from us affects our lives.

Then there’s the sea itself—a universe we glimpse into and try to understand but can never inhabit. It’s a fearsome thing of astonishing beauty and resilience. Its majesty is displayed in immense tranquility as well as overwhelming ferocity. Because it is at once so familiar and yet completely alien to us, because it’s composed of Earth’s most sacred substance and filled with life forms older than we (another detail we all can agree on), the sea becomes the preeminent place to behold our Maker’s majesty. When Psalm 104’s poet extols the magnificence of Creation, he writes, “There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number—living things both large and small.” (v25)

To be sure, all Creation reveals God’s nature and handiwork. All of it should be revered and cherished. But the sea’s prominence as giver and sustainer of life sets it apart as a tabernacle housing God’s majesty in all its mysterious wonder. And when our greed, curiosity, or convenience leads to tampering with the tabernacle on any scale, we shouldn’t expect to be rewarded. So while we can, and should, loathe BP’s recklessness, we’d do well to drop our stones, because none of us is sinless in this matter. We’ve all, at some point, in some way, put self-concern above reverence for the sea and the planet it nurtures.

The Wisdom Narrative

It’s common knowledge Genesis provides two (markedly different) Creation accounts. It’s seldom noted, however, that Proverbs 8 offers a third version we might call “The Wisdom Narrative.” As far as I know, it’s the only first-person testimony we have, other than God’s occasional mention of our origins. Here, “Wisdom” tells the story, prefacing it with, “I was appointed from eternity, from the beginning, before the world began. When there were no oceans, I was given birth.” (v23-24) The narrator goes on to describe the fashioning of the heavens, seas, and land, adding, “Then I was the craftsman at his side. I was filled with delight day after day, rejoicing always in his presence, rejoicing in his whole world and delighting in mankind.” (v30-31)

Of course, this is Solomon taking poetic license. Yet as believers striving to get our arms around our environmental responsibilities, we should incorporate his version into our awareness. Solomon tells us wisdom is older than water, which makes it key to environmentally sound behavior. Was it wise for BP to expedite deep-sea drilling without heed to warnings, precautions, and contingencies? No. Are we any wiser in ignoring warnings, precautions, and contingencies attached to goods and services we use or habits we’d rather not break? No, we are not. In light of the disasters we’ve seen of late and ongoing tragedies we’ve abetted, Wisdom’s closing remarks in verses 34-36 are chilling: “Blessed is the man who listens to me, watching daily at my doors, waiting at my doorway. For whoever finds me finds life and receives favor from the LORD. But whoever fails to find me harms himself; all who hate me love death.”

The sea is the tabernacle where God’s majesty is displayed in all its wonder. Tampering with it on any scale is not wise.