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.

Our Place in This World

I am not asking You to take them out of the world, but I ask You to protect them from the evil one. They do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. Sanctify them in the truth; Your word is truth. (John 17.15-17)

Where Does This Leave Us?

Sunday marks one of those strange partings, when liturgical congregations split according to which lectionary they follow—standard or revised. Some of us will focus on the Ascension (Acts 1.1-11; Luke 24.44-53), while others contemplate Jesus’s parting prayer for His disciples (John 17.6-19). And while each passage’s nuances will invite varying observations, I believe both lead to one question that the disciples surely wrestle with: “Where does this leave us?” For all practical purposes, Jesus has become their world and with Him gone, they have no idea where and how they fit. Once they absorb the blow of this sudden—though not unanticipated—goodbye, they must recalibrate their place in this world. It will be no easy task.

Approximating how the disciples feel is key to navigating these passages. Since none of us has experienced anything remotely like either event, we might compare them to the end of a concert. We’ve just spent an extended period of time in the presence of an artist whose words and music found us where we were, spoke to us in very real and meaningful ways, and challenged us to see ourselves differently. From the first note, the concert has steadily built to its climax—the most beloved song in the artist’s repertoire—followed by an encore that extends her/his stay. We’re grateful beyond measure for these extra few minutes, even though they’re filled with poignant awareness that all of this will end soon. The artist says goodnight, exits the stage, and the house lights come up. Our eyes remind us the outside world awaits us. It’s a hard thing, accepting it’s time to move on. But the artist is gone. Our time with him/her is passed. High-flown emotions are dissipating, replaced by implacable, workaday realities.

More than “Goodbye—we’ll meet again” is going on here. The disciples who overhear Jesus pray on their behalf and see Him ascend into Heaven have internalized His teachings. Every word He said is stamped in memory, not as text, but as spoken. As they relive their time with Jesus, they hear His voice—the tone, phrasing, and cadence of His actual speech. They associate certain statements with events that bring back all the emotions and personal significance. It’s every bit like the way that we tie songs and conversations to major moments in our lives. The disciples have relied on Jesus’s voice to enlighten, comfort, and guide them. His physical presence and the music of His speech have rooted their beings. Now Jesus is being taken from them. The silence must be crushing. More than that, their sudden sense of disconnectedness surely terrifies them. Where does this leave us?

Not Easy

Turning to Jesus’s prayer  in John 17, it’s all too evident that the Lord recognizes how jarring His departure will be. “Now I am no longer in the world,” He prays to God. “But they are in the world, and I am coming to You. Holy Father, protect them in Your name that You have given Me, so that they may be one, as We are one. While I was with them, I protected them... I guarded them, and not one of them was lost except the one destined to be lost [i.e., Judas Iscariot].” (v11-12) The concern that Jesus expresses is overwhelming. He’s keenly aware of how dependent the disciples are on Him. As He prays, He’s mindful of all the instances when their faithfulness to Him placed them in jeopardy—times when standing with Jesus exposed them to hostility and ridicule. “I protected them… I guarded them,” He reminds God. Yet, at the same time, Jesus is no fool. He knows that He’s leaving the disciples in a dicey spot and they’ll need God’s protection once He’s gone.

As David Lose points out in “The Other Lord’s Prayer,” Jesus knows that things haven’t been easy for the disciples. “The world has hated them because they do not belong to the world,” He says. His acknowledgment primes us to expect He’ll beseech God to fix things in their favor, to lighten their load—especially in the coming days, when dealing with His absence will be plenty to handle, let alone coping with His (and now their) enemies. But Jesus doesn’t ask God to lighten the disciples’ load. “What does He pray for?” Lose writes. “Not that it will be easy. He knows it won’t. This world is captive to a spirit alien to God’s spirit. It is animated by a sense of scarcity instead of abundance, fear instead of courage, and selfishness instead of sacrificial love…. So Jesus doesn’t pray that it will be easy, but rather that God will support the disciples amid their challenges and that they will be one in fellowship with each other and with Jesus and [God] through the Spirit.” Returning to our concert analogy, Jesus is all too aware He’s filled the disciples’ hearts and minds with unpopular music that puts them at odds with the world’s same old gimme-gimme song. Before He leaves, He’s going to charge them with singing His new song with all they’ve got. It’s a song the world most definitely does not want to hear.

One

Sunday’s reading stops short of the truly revelatory moment in all of this. In verses 20-21, Jesus expands His prayer, saying, “I ask not only on behalf of these, but also on behalf of those who will believe in Me through their word, that they may all be one.” Here Jesus confesses two amazing articles of faith. As He looks ahead, He sees you and me. He recognizes us as people who will sing His new song. He trusts we will be there. Furthermore, He believes that the disciples will withstand the hardships of their world to teach His new song to those of us who’ve not heard it first-hand. Finally, He prays that we “may all be one.”

Thus we find our place in this world—not as lonely outcasts sentenced to the fringes of society, or as dissonant voices in a culture that doesn’t like our music. We are called to be a harmonious, united band of believers whose song of love and hope magnifies Christ’s presence beyond our borders. After the Ascension, two angels appear beside Jesus’s followers and ask, “Why do you stand looking up toward heaven? This Jesus, Who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw Him go into heaven.” (Acts 1.11) Jesus may have left the stage. The house lights may have come up. But the concert is not over. While we await Christ’s reappearance, our place in this world is out in the world—not hanging around, staring up at the stage, and wondering when Jesus will return. Christ has given us a new song to give the world. It’s not “Won’t You Stay Just a Little Bit Longer”. Not “Just You and I”. It’s “Takin’ It to the Streets”.

Jesus may have left the stage, but the concert’s not over. While we await His reappearance, we take His new song of love and hope to the world.


Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/05/19/our-place-in-this-world/. 

Singing Lesson

Clap your hands, all you peoples; shout to God with loud songs of joy. For the LORD, the Most High, is awesome, a great king over all the earth. (Psalm 47.1-2)

Still Here

It’s a quarter of seven in the morning and I’m at my desk, not altogether happy about an early conference call due to begin on the hour. I’m hoping the coffee kicks in for me to (at least) sound awake while my brain catches up. I click through the overnight emails. Only two interest me: The New York Times and the Daily Lectionary. Since I can’t guarantee the morning’s news will buoy my spirits, I open the lectionary. The morning psalm is 47, which opens with a real bang: “Clap your hands, all you peoples; shout to God with loud songs of joy. For the LORD, the Most High, is awesome, a great king over all the earth.” Clap your hands. Shout to God. Sing loud songs. I groan. Yeah, like that’s gonna happen…

The meeting host is late. While we wait for him to activate the call, we’re treated to chipper jazz—the sort of innocuous melody making whose sole purpose is confirming the line hasn’t gone dead. It’s soulless music, so intent on not offending anyone’s tastes that it has no taste at all. And I think to myself, “This is not the kind of singing the psalmists call for.” Psalm 47 is attributed to the sons of Korah, the Temple’s poets in residence, whose liturgical influence witnesses the power of redemption. The sons of Korah are descendants of a priest who led a rebellion against Moses (Numbers 16) and his name means “baldness,” denoting the empty place that remained after he and other rebel priests who sided with him were razed from Israel’s worship leadership.

So Psalm 47 is the exact opposite of the bland, on-hold Muzak that annoys me. Yet, in many ways, its purpose is the same. The sons of Korah are a noisy bunch. They like hand-clapping and shouting and loud singing because it’s a profoundly moving self-affirmation that tells Israel, “We’re still here!” And Israel follows their lead for the same reason. Its enemies watch and wait for this ungainly nation—essentially a loosely tied federation of 12 nomadic tribes—to implode and disappear, returning the land God gave them to its original tenants. Thus every time Israel unites in worship, the singing and music ring with praise for its existence and survival, its marvel at the beautiful country God has given it, and its gratitude for the land’s bounty. The same awe that brings forth raucous rejoicing is limned with defiance not unlike that of the veteran trouper in Sondheim’s Follies: “Good times and bum times, I’ve seen ‘em all, and I’m here. I’m still here!” When Israel celebrates with song, it declares to itself and its neighbors that the line hasn’t gone dead. The people and their God are actively engaged. They have a standing appointment—an ongoing call, if you will—when God and the nation discuss their lives and future together. Singing rehearses their shared history and points to what’s next. It’s not the style that makes their songs sacred; it’s what their music means and what it achieves. It’s an emotion-packed narrative device.

Necessary Soul Work

Singing and music are elemental to the believer's life, not only for specific thoughts and emotions they convey, but also as a primal, constant reminder we’re still here. When we sing or listen to song, we proclaim that our faith still holds, God remains faithful to us, and we share a common history and vision with God. As our pastor pointed out last Sunday, drawing from Psalm 98 (“Sing to the Lord a new song”), music is one of very few human activities that unite both sides of our brain—cognitive and emotional—in a singular pursuit. “But the psalmists didn’t know that,” she said. “They just knew that singing and praising God was necessary soul work.” All that we know music to be, everything it accomplishes—the feelings it mines, the truths it conveys—is God’s way of reaffirming divine presence in our lives and our existence in the world. The line between God and us isn’t dead. It’s open and alive and full of wonder and gratitude and endless possibilities for love and joy and, yes, even reckoning with God, others, and us.

We learn to sing and keep at it because singing is a perpetual life lesson. That’s why sacred songs never grow old. It’s why they creep up on us and get into our heads with feelings and messages that moor us during tumultuous times. They give voice to confessions of faith we might not articulate on our own. Notice Psalm 47’s second verse: “For the LORD, the Most High, is awesome, a great king over all the earth.” We are still here. But more than that, we are most assuredly not alone in our mortal endeavor. Our awesome God, Monarch of the universe and Captain of our souls, is with us, loving us, guiding us, and moving on our behalf. How can we not sing?

Just Sing

The Carpenters had a big 70s hit with a little ditty that housed a powerful lyric: “Don’t worry that it's not good enough for anyone else to hear. Just sing.” Performance quality doesn’t matter. From the greatest vocalist to the person who can’t carry a tune in a bucket, singing is an essential we can’t overlook. In Ephesians 5.18-20, we’re admonished to “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 Father at all times and for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.” We may not have what it takes to fill concert arenas. We may not know the difference between middle C and high F. Our songs may not be pleasing to anyone’s ears—not even or our own. But we've been given us this great gift of music. God wants us to sing. And especially for those of us who’ve been told we have no song—who’ve been lied to and all but convinced we don’t belong here—it’s our God-given duty to sing. As with the children of Israel, it is God Who brought us here and here we’ll remain, clapping our hands, shouting, and singing to the tops of our voices. That’s the real singing lesson. Don’t worry if you’re not “good enough” for anyone else to hear. Just sing.

When we sing or listen to song, we proclaim that our faith still holds, our God remains faithful to us, and we share a common history and vision with God.

Postscript: “Why We Sing”

Kirk Franklin’s elegant song captures the essence of why we sing. Take this with you as an inspiration to sing and keep at it. You’re still here. Your God wants you to sing.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/05/17/singing-lesson/