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Perhaps, after just finishing the audio book, Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen, as part of an agreed upon reading program which Will and I are endeavoring to complete, and then watching the movie tonight with Hannah, who might consider it her favorite, I’m just a little romantically overloaded, but I’m feeling a desire to be a bit vulnerable.
I experienced a few moments of authentic worship this morning in a unique setting, and honestly, upon reflection, I’m a bit surprised and refreshed by thoughts of it. Somehow, in the midst of such an experience, the incessant noise of questions and doubts and busy-minded distractions, which have haunted me, more so in the last several weeks than I would have desired, fade into nearly imperceptible mid-day shadows.
I’m not sure of the title, or the writer, or the publisher of the recently popular chorus we sang We sang a song from Hillsong, called Stronger, led by my sincerely inspiring sister-in-law, Angie, and at this late hour, I certainly won’t be so diligent and proper as to look it up for you, but and the chorus goes something like this:
You are stronger, you are stronger, sin is broken; you have saved me. It is written, Christ is risen. Jesus, you are Lord of all!
Then, the bridge simply repeats these phrases:
Let your name be lifted higher, be lifted higher, be lifted higher.
Somewhere, in the midst of the first time through the words of that bridge, standing there in the wonderfully crowded, beautiful new setting of Zoe’s coffee shop with a couple hundred acquaintances and near strangers singing along nearby, with Meghan held tightly to me in my left arm, with my right arm raised to the ceiling, and with the sun shining through the giant skylight above my head, emotion overwhelmed me.
My voice cracked, and tears began to fall from my eyes. I was forced to stop singing while I regained my composure enough to rejoin the chorus, and meanwhile was able to hear the voices of others fill the room from floor to ceiling, and beyond, I’m sure.
Even now, just in rehearsing these thoughts for the sake of this glaring, objective computer screen, the flood wells up all over again.
Why is that?
So let your name be lifted higher, be lifted higher, be lifted higher!
So let your name be lifted higher, be lifted higher, be lifted higher!
Oh let your name be lifted higher, be lifted higher, be lifted higher!
I’m not sure I can articulate the why. I’m not sure I want to translate the why into English.
I’m not even sure I like that song. I’m afraid I’m getting old and losing control of my emotions.
Here, you try it and see how you feel:
I am entirely sure of something, although it’s surety may also defy words: There’s something about that name.
I need Jesus. I’m desperate for him; driven to him; thirsty for him, disregarding all of the seeming piety such phrases might carry. And, somehow, I believe that as that name, His name, is lifted, and magnified, and exalted, and given it’s utter due . . . well, everything is different. The answer to it all is in there; in that name being lifted. Somewhere in there.
It’s like the faint cry of hope that does not disappoint from a manger, and a baby named Emmanuel. It’s like a voice in a burning bush saying, “I’ve heard the cries . . . and I’ve come down to deliver them.” It’s like . . . well, maybe it’s like what heaven ought to be and would be if only we could keep ourselves from trying to explain what it’s like.
Maybe it’s like the deepest kind of soul-satisfying, overpowering love discovered so reluctantly by Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, in spite of their pride and prejudice.
Maybe this is a just an emotionally inspired, sappy, awkward memo I’ll regret in the morning. Maybe.
After being sent to bed with a promise I’d be there to tuck him in, Ethan pops back into the kitchen in his Spiderman pajamas with a big smile on his face, a twinkle in his eye and a bounce in his step.
“Ummm, hey, Dad?”
“Ya, buddy, whaddaya need?”
His eyes shift and his forehead tightens. He is squinting and looking away as his mind works to remember what he has intended to say and to string together the correct words, then they grow again and the smile brightens as he finds the right expression.
“I stopped sucking my thumb today!”
His feet won’t stay still and he dances a little jig with one hand on the end of the counter top and the other stretched to the corner of the table.
“Wow! You did? That’s great, buddy! That’s really good.”
We’ve had this conversation before.
“Yep! ‘Cause, I have to stop. ‘Cause, when I get bigger, my teeth will get messed up, if I don’t stop.” He dances a little more and nods, then his chin juts forward and the smile returns.
“That’s right. That’s what the dentist says, huh?”
He nods.
“That’s really good, Ethan, I’m proud of you!”
Mission completed, he skips from the room and heads back to his bed.
A few minutes later, when I finally make room to keep my tucking-in promise, Ethan is there, turning his head toward me in response to the sound of my footsteps, lying under his Spiderman blanket on the bottom bunk of the crib-size bunk beds I built when William was a baby.
The other kids in the room have already drifted off.
I kneel down beside Ethan’s bed, bending to kiss him on the forehead, and whisper in his ear, “say your prayer.”
He pulls his thumb from his mouth, and begins to mumble the words quickly and quietly:
“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Thy love be [or, I love you] with me through the night and keep me ’til the morning light.”
I add the ending, “Amen,” then follow his prayer with my own, whispered into his hair. “Dear Jesus, thank you for keeping this boy safe and healthy. Please, Lord, fill his heart with courage and strength; stir a passion in his heart for your kingdom. Watch over him and keep him. Please, Lord, watch over him. We trust in you. Amen.”
Another kiss to his forehead, then, “Good night, Ethan. I love you.”
As I stand and turn to walk out of the room, he pulls his thumb out of his mouth again to say, “Good night, Dad. Love you!”
Let’s not mince words:
God is not coin-operated.
Yes, I know, this is obvious. We all of us readily admit we know this.
Then why, I must ask, do we stand in front of the imagined vending machine from heaven, banging our fists on the glass, punching the coin return button, incessantly pushing on the trap door and groping around for the item we thought we’d purchased, venting our frustration and demanding justice, or at least an acceptable explanation?
Do we believe God is true?
Do we believe he is sovereign?
Do we believe he alone has the words of life?
Do we believe he knows our circumstances and understands our days?
Yes, I believe, we all of us, again, readily admit we know this.
Yet, as we find in the well-intended, but misguided words of Elihu, Job’s most eloquent comforter, a subtle yet significant flaw in our reasoning about the implications of such knowledge. Elihu says, in Job 37:23-24 (MSG):
“Mighty God! Far beyond our reach! Unsurpassable in power and justice! It’s unthinkable that he’d treat anyone unfairly. So bow to him in deep reverence, one and all! If you’re wise, you’ll most certainly worship him!”
So much rides on that word “unfairly”. Imagine Job, whom God, himself, describes as “honest and true to his word – totally devoted to God and hating evil.”
Doesn’t seem fair, does it, the things which have befallen such a man? Elihu is trying to convince Job to confess all that he’s done wrong to deserve God’s harsh judgment.
Our view of God’s fairness is far too often centered on us – our self-centered interpretation of his actions.
So, am I saying it’s possible God could act unfairly? Honestly, my perspective would frequently label his actions as such. Yet, to believe what I truly believe, I must admit my perspective is not accurate, or at least not complete.
In light of his view, of which I have only occasional, fleeting glimpses, I trust there is nothing unfair about his actions, though my view stands in contrast, admittedly corrupted by my weak, self-anchored vision.
I trust, at least I try to trust, that he does all things well.
As Jesus says himself in Matthew 11:16-19 (NIV):
“To what can I compare this generation? They are like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling out to others: ‘We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we sang a dirge and you did not mourn.’ For John came neither eating or drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon.’ 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.”
Yes, wisdom is proved right by her actions. Of course. Yet, we wonder, how wise can it be for Jesus to befriend such as these? Are these actions wise?
Seems awfully unfair. Especially since he hasn’t danced to my tune. This is not what I ordered. Can I get my money back?
Please, Lord, save me from the folly of presuming to know what you ought to do.
I get myself into a lot of trouble when the momentum is going. Friday’s are particularly bad for such things, and the whole weekend presents plenty of risk (except Sunday nights, usually, when I’m lamenting the onslaught of Monday) and occasionally another random day of the week will catch me in a mood willing to make a commitment and get me into trouble.
I wonder if Isaiah had one of those “uh-oh”, second-thought moments after that big to do he had with seeing the Lord in Isaiah chapter 6. You remember that one, right?
God’s looking to and fro for someone he can send in to carry his message and save the world. Isaiah is standing there in front of him like a little kid trying to make himself visible while his father looks for someone with whom he can play a game of catch.
Even more suspicious is the way God sets him up, having just wowed poor old Isaiah with all of that heavenly glory stuff and angels singing songs that would make Superman’s steel melt like butter. Then God drives home the hook: “Hmmmm, whom shall I send? [God's looking around like Isaiah's invisible] Who will go?”
There’s good ol’ Isaiah jumping up and down and about to pee his pants with his eyes all bugged out and worried to death that God won’t see him or that God will think he’s not worthy to go. Of course, God fixes that worthiness thing real quick.
Here’s where the danger comes in – it’s when that volunteer commitment thing happens: “Oooh, ooooh, ooooh! Here! Me! Oh, please, me! Send me! Send me? Please?”
Can’t you just imagine Isaiah the next morning when the alarm went off and his brain was overflowing with crazy God messages?
Have you ever done that before? No, not the crazy part. The volunteering part.
I can’t tell you how many mornings I’ve been awakened by an ungodly (it seems at the time) alarm before God is even up (it seems) because I’ve made some ridiculous commitment, and I’m saying, “AAAuuuuuggggghhhhhh! Why did I say I would do this? I don’t want to do this! This is crazy! I’ve slept for like 5 minutes and I’ve got 47 hours of activity to squeeze into the next 12 and I’m in over my head and . . . This is crazy!”
It’s too late, though. I’m committed.
This is where, in hindsight, I find the wisdom that makes me love the power of commitment. In this case, though, I’m thinking of a bit of a different angle on commitment. I’m not talking about the power of keeping a commitment, which is a big deal in and of itself, and the other side of this gold coin.
Here, I’m thinking of the power of making a commitment, and especially the power of making a commitment that puts me in way over my head in the middle of something into which I’ve no rational business being at all.
Most everything that’s ever really been good for me and empowering for me and an everlasting testimony of the power and wonders of God and inspiring and meaningful has occurred on one of those days when I’m soft in the head from some encounter with God, especially in some sneaking subtle inspirational moment.
That’s when I’m jumping up and down going, “Oooohhh, me! Send me! Here I am! I’ll do it! I’ll get up at the ugliest crack of dawn and be out until the cows have gone home and slept for hours, and I’ll scale the highest mountain and swim across the ocean because MY GOD is the GREATEST!”
I’m committed before I realize what I’ve done. Thank God. Good things happen there. Before second thoughts and ungodly alarms can talk us out of doing things we should be doing. God sneaks up on us, flexes some glory muscles, and then looks around for someone to send. Then he reels us in, and before we know it, he’s gutting us and squeezing the goodness from us in some circumstance we never would have gotten ourselves into with foreknowledge.
I love that. I hope he does that every day of my life. If I could, I would talk myself out of everything good in this world. Making a commitment in a moment of inspiration keeps me from wasting my days.
Go ahead. Make a commitment. You’ll hate me for it. Then, you’ll love me. I dare you.
As she stepped out of the front door of her apartment building, bracing for the chilly temperatures, the wind, and the ever-assailing sounds of the city, Darcy felt a surge of purpose. Although she was confused about the source and direction of her feelings, she was sure of their presence, and it was a driving presence at that, as if the emotion of it was enough to push her out the door regardless of her desire to go.
The security system buzzed as the lock on the door of the building was reset after she exited and bounced down the old, broken concrete stairs outside the front door and turned left past the wrought iron railing in front of the building, intentionally planning to take the long way to school – an extra two blocks of walking time – so she could pass the townhome where the girls had been found.
Darcy was born in the city and for all of her life had been subject only to its sights and sounds, never traveling farther than a few hours from her apartment, and then only with her father. She liked it that way, the comfort of the chaos and the routine of the buses and trains and the neighborhood businesses. The city was comfortable like a well-worn jacket and in many ways made her feel secure, despite the ever-present threats.
Charlie, Darcy’s father, had always emphasized the predictable routines and the safety of a life that followed worn paths and depended only on those things that proved themselves reliable. Especially after her mother, Rachel, had been killed, Charlie had reined in everything about Darcy’s life, forcing her into time slots and pathways that he knew and felt he could safely control.
Darcy was familiar with the intricacies of her east-side neighborhood and felt confident walking alone almost anywhere within its fourteen by twelve block area because she and Charlie had spent so much time together walking these streets, but she knew he would not appreciate her altering the normal route to school. Any such impulsive behavior always made him nervous. She just had to see that townhome again, though, and the extra two blocks would give her more time to think as she walked to school.
She had purposely left a few minutes early just to be sure she wouldn’t be late to Mrs. Graham’s American Government class. She liked American Government and Mrs. Graham was one of her favorite teachers, so she always wanted to be there, but mostly she just hated being late because she was terrified of walking into a full classroom and the way it made her the center of attention as the teacher took the time to investigate the reason for the tardiness and to write a detention slip before she walked past all the other students to her fourth row desk.
Darcy was a better than average student, but she was far from a superstar. In fact, she couldn’t stand the thought of standing out in any situation. Her preferred way of life was to blend in. She liked to sit near the back of the classroom, but not in the last row. She enjoyed school and tried to do well, but intentionally avoided prominence and almost never raised her hand or made any special requests.
After Rachel died when Darcy was only eleven, the attention Darcy received – mostly sideways glances and whispers between other students as they walked by her, and visits to the school counselor’s office in the middle of classes, and days away from school so she could just stay home and cry, resulting in horrific hushed conversations between her father and the school staff about how she was causing so much inconvenience and at-risk for a miserable, horrible life without the right intervention – was more than enough to convince her that she never wanted to be in the spotlight again, for any reason.
Charlie’s love for her, and the way they clinged to each other through those days made all of the difference in getting Darcy through it, and Darcy knew that well, but that certainty had made her fearful, as well. She was afraid that, now that her world had been shattered, anything was possible, and God forbid, she might just lose her father, too. That possibility had made her cling to him all the more, and they relied upon each other with mutual fervor.
On this Thursday, though, with her seventeenth birthday forty-seven days behind her, and nearly finished with her junior year, and constant talk of future destinations circling among her classmates, and the invasive way tragedy had again become real to her, striking just two doors away from her own building on Monday, she had become emboldened to be just a little impulsive. She had to see that building again, and force herself to think more clearly about those little girls, and to try to discern some way to help – some way to convince her father that they had to help.
My kids have a blog. Prompting them to do that was entirely self-indulgent, I know, although they heartily agreed. I think they’re pretty dang cool, and I can’t imagine that anyone would not be just as fascinated as I am by everything they have to say.
So, if you enjoy being fascinated, and the random thoughts of stinking cool children, check it out:
http://prattkids.wordpress.com/
P.S. Be sure to read the “about us” page, entitled “the story we’re sticking to”, mostly because I wrote it and think it’s fun, but also because it explains the title.
she was wrong, really, and she knew it, in that subtle nagging subconcious way we all know, but the wrong felt so right, so she shrugged off the nagging and enjoyed the weight of the unreal, trying to guage the world from its perspective to see what difference it might make
once upon a time, in a land far away, she blew a wish across the little parachute seeds of the aging dandelion bloom and cast its cargo to the wind to be born where it would be taken and all appeared vain but for the words and their affect on everything that mattered
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