He is good

Tonight a friend mentioned the Chronicles of Narnia; particularly Aslan and the great metaphor he provides of the hard gentleness of our God.  That immediately made me think of one of my favorite songs.  (A word of gratitude is due to that friend for reminding me of it tonight; I needed to remember.)  A different friend introduced me to it last fall, and I loved it immediately.  These are the sorts of truths that are hard enough to be undamaged no matter how often you beat your head against them, and soft enough that you can curl up upon them and sleep like a tiny child.   So here are the lyrics:

Don’t stop your crying, on my account,
A frightening lion, no doubt.
He’s not safe, no he’s not safe;
Are you tempted now to run away?
The King above all kings is coming down.

But he won’t say the words you wish that he would;
Oh, he won’t do the deeds you know that he could;
He won’t think the thoughts you think that he should,
But he is good, he is good.

I know you’re thirsty; the water is free.
But I should warn you, it costs everything.
He’s not fair, no, he’s not fair,
When he fixes what’s beyond repair,
And graces everyone that don’t deserve.

He won’t say the words you wish that he would;
Oh, he won’t do the deeds you know that he could;
He won’t think the thoughts you think that he should,
But he is good, he is good.

No one knows him whom eyes never seen;
No, I don’t know him, but he knows me.

Lay down your layers; shed off your skin.
But without his incision, you can’t enter in.
He cuts deep, yeah, he cuts deep,
When the risk is great and the talk is cheap,
But never leaves a wounded one behind.

He won’t say the words you wish that he would;
Oh, he won’t do the deeds you know that he could;
He won’t think the thoughts you think that he should,
But he is good, he is good.
-”Aslan,” Kendall Payne on Grown 

impressions

*Bubbles, dozens of them, blown all over the yard.  We blew them, danced through them, and caught them on fingers tips, lips, bubble wands.  They drifted up above the house, and down among the snapdragons in the garden.   They were pink, blue, yellow; large as grapefruits, small as grapes.  They held our reflections, spun in the air, and were gone.

*Fresh blueberry pie, with a lattice-top crust, and real whipped cream.  The berries were tangy, the crust crunched, and the cream was white against the berries and smooth against my tongue.  

*The sound and feeling of an old, empty church building.  I had to run in to return a pew Bible I’d accidentally carried outside this evening.  The inner doors were all closed, the lights out.  It was full of wonderful creakings, a musty, old-woodwork smell, and a secretive feeling, because I was the only one there.  I should have liked to stay a while, wander the dim halls and aisles, finger the books, touch notes on the piano.   But my family waited to bring me home.

*A walk through dim trees to a twi-lit pond in the cool of the day.  (8:30 in central Mississippi in June.)   Crickets and frogs chorusing bravely, dust on the path, and the water very still.

*And some grand number of people, of whom to think is to smile.  I’ve thought of several today …

How great is Thy goodness,
Which Thou hast stored up for those who fear Thee,
Which Thou hast wrought for those who take refuge in Thee,
Before the sons of men!
-Psalm 31:19

today …

*Brushing a black cat in the sun-warmed yard: she rolled blissfully in the dust, and her fur flew about like seeds from a blown dandelion.

*Wading in among broad leaves and creeping bugs to fill a red-plastic collander with furry green okra, and slender green beans, and smooth red tomatoes. 

*Sprawling on my bedroom carpet to work math problems, an activity I’ve largely ignored for the past five years.   I felt my brain-cells multiplying.

*Laughing with my brothers in a lamp-lit living room.

*Taking a small dog out into the dark yard.  She was dejected, for she finds walking on the grass distasteful.

*Having the aforementioned cat scratching at my door. 

*And being glad.

 

O, how great Thy lovingkindess,
Vaster, broader than the sea!
O, how marvelous Thy goodness,
Lavished all on me!
Yes, I rest in Thee, Beloved,
Know what wealth of grace is Thine,
Know Thy certainty of promise,
And have made it mine.
-”Jesus, I am Resting, Resting,” Jean S. Pigott, 1876

I sifted through shells on a Florida beach one afternoon last week.   It was just like that beach has been on many other occasions: wind, waves foaming up around me, salt in the air, grit mixing with sunshine on my face.   And shells in all colors: tiny, smooth coquinas, with purple shadings or orange stripes, and larger scallop shells, rose and white.  I made a sand castle and tiled its top with scallops, but a wave came under it, and it caved in, so then I smoothed a place and paved it with scallops.  Doing such things makes me feel very alive — it might be the joy of manipulating raw materials that we discussed in my college aesthetics course – but it could also be because I did the same sorts of things when I was five years old.  Or perhaps the two are related. 

In any case, there I was, and, being me, I started thinking about poetry.  Ted Hughes’ poem “Relic,” to be exact.  Dr. McAllister’s interpretation of the poem’s first stanza was “When you walk on the beach, you’re walking on dead things.”  The poem talks about a washed-up jawbone, and the continual eating that takes place in the natural world.  The end of the second stanza says:
                                                                              ” … Jaws
       Eat and are finished and the jawbone comes to the beach:
       This is the sea’s achievement; with shells,
       Vertebrae, claws, carapaces, skulls.”
So, there in the midst of my youthful joy in sea shells, I suddenly realized they were all simply the dead castings of a devouring sea.   With sand under my fingernails and salt in my hair, I prepared to fall into poetic gloom.   Then I thought a bit further, and fell not.  

Digging amongst all those dead shells, I had found live shells also.  Live coquinas, that, once unburied, immediately began digging down and down.   (If you hold them in a handful of damp sand you can feel them trying to bury themselves in your palm.)   The live shells, though very beautiful, are not readily visible.  They do not adorn the water-line with colors; to stick them to sand castles or carry them home in your pockets would kill them.  When they are dead, though, they come to the top, and can be sifted and piled; they can pave a tiny sand-path, adorn a damp sand-hill, get lost in the bottom of the beach-bag. 

Is it a stretch to tie the beautiful death of sea-shells to the death to which Christ has called us?   We have been called to lose our lives; indeed, we “have died, and [our] life is hidden with Christ in God.  When Christ who is [our] life appears, then [we] will also appear with Him in glory” (Colossians 3:3,4).   Hidden with Christ … to appear with Him in glory.   Beautiful?  Yes, because He makes us so. 

In any case, there upon the beach, this is what I thought.  Perhaps, Ted Hughes, the sea is never satisfied, perhaps it is full of death.  But I am promised satisfaction; I am promised life.   I need not be gloomy upon the beach.

Like a river glorious, is God’s perfect peace,
Over all victorious, in its bright increase;
Perfect, yet it floweth, fuller every day;
Perfect, yet it groweth, deeper all the way.

Hidden in the hollow of His blessed hand,
Never foe can follow, never traitor stand;
Not a surge of worry, not a shade of care,
Not a blast of hurry touch the spirit there.

Every joy or trial falleth from above,
Traced upon our dial by the Sun of love.
We may trust Him fully all for us to do;
They who trust Him wholly find Him wholly true.

Stayed upon Jehovah, hearts are fully blest;
Finding, as He promised, perfect peace and rest.
-Frances R. Havergal, 1876

observations from behind things at a wedding

Perhaps the pianist has not the best perspective on a wedding.  Although, if the prospect of nine dark-suited backs is your preference when attending weddings, her seat is best of all.   The wall of groomsmen notwithstanding, the pianist very much enjoyed the wedding yesterday.    Lovely it was, and celebratory, and worshipful.   And, whatever she may say about the view from the piano bench, do not be fooled.   The pianist was extremely glad to have had a part to – quite literally – play, in the occasion. 

Also, I have discovered this: the back of the punch table is the ideal position from which to take in a wedding reception.   In that stronghold, all of the awkwardness of milling about, balancing plate and  cup, and selecting individuals with whom to admire the table decorations is bypassed.  Everyone comes to you, and, far from being anti-social and hiding in some corner, you are obviously participating in a necessary way and can serve out smiles as freely as you serve out the punch.   When you are behind the punch table, you may exchange pleasantries with strangers without fear, you may talk to friends betweenwhiles, and you may observe what is happening in the whole room without being merely an observer.   Splendid, and perfectly suited to my style of socialization.   (That style being the style which, rather than going directly to find people, goes instead to places where people are likely to pass and find her.)

In case you have not comprehended it from the above paragraphs, let me say here quite plainly: I spent a very pleasant morning on the day before this one.  And I am glad.

I’ve been searching for the image and the words that would make my mundane day into something poetic and blog-worthy.  My images are folded and wrinkled, I lift them, shake out their folds,  spread them carefully, and my mind slides over and over them, smoothing as the iron under my hand smoothed shirts today: the collar must be folded down, the pleat in the back ironed straight.  I place my smoothed images on hangars, buttoning their topmost buttons, to hang them in a dim closet until they are ready to be worn.   But it is night, and they are not ready now.

When wading through Old Testament prophets, I find it very easy to “read” the passage, close my Bible, and have absolutely no idea what I just read.   Best method I’ve found to keep semi-engaged with the text: a pen and my open journal.   The following is the result of one such session – it was a passage I’d never noticed before:

 

       And the word of the LORD came to me saying, ‘Son of man, behold, I am about to take from you the desire of your eyes with a blow; but you shall not mourn; and you shall not weep; and your tears shall not come.’
… So I spoke to the people in the morning, and in the evening my wife died.  And in the morning I did as I was commanded.  -Ezekiel 24:15, 16, 18

       What say you now, Ezekiel, prophet of the Most High God?  Were you now allowed to go back to the river Chebar, to that day when you first heard the voice of the LORD, what would you do?  Since that day, you have uttered woe, destruction, and lamentations for all of Israel, but did you not think the LORD would withhold from you this private woe?  Did you not expect, in exchange for your devotion, you might keep your wife?
       What sort of woman was she, this wife of the man who heard God’s voice?  Wife of the man who lay on his side for days on end, who ate bread baked over dung, who was caught up to heaven by his hair, who packed his bags and dug through walls. 
       No doubt many had advised she leave him: “No one would take it amiss.  This is no sort of life for you, my dear.  He is almost mad.  He may be dangerous.  Who can say what he may do next?”  But she remained, and remained, not as a weight and a grief, but as “the delight of [his] eyes.”  He spent his days proclaiming woe; he knew the destruction of much that he held dear; but she was his comfort, his rest from wrathful revelations.

       “Behold, I am about to take from you the delight of your eyes with a blow.”

      And Ezekiel knew, too well, that the LORD does not utter lies.   Did he plead for mercy?  Did he ask also to be taken?  Did he say, “LORD, it is too hard a thing.  Will you punish my obedience?”   [He] spoke to the people in the morning, and in the evening [his] wife died.  And in the morning, [he] did as he was commanded.

       Did he warn her of the blow that was to come?  Was she angry, frightened, resigned?  Did they try to comfort one another?
       “God did not take Isaac; He provided a sacrifice.  But first He commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son.  Perhaps, if I am willing to lose you, if I obey the LORD today, He will spare you to me.”
       “But, Ezekiel, He took from Job all he had.”
       “But not his wife.”
       “But not his wife … and did not the LORD soften His commandment to you when you plead with Him about the defiled bread?  Perhaps, if you plead with Him now, He will again relent.”
       “But I fear, for He has declared His wrath.  He has said that [He] shall not relent, and [He] shall not pity, and [He] shall not be sorry.  And how, when He speaks thus to a whole nation, shall He relent toward one man?”
       “Why, Ezekiel, why must you be His spokesman?  Tell Him you are finished.  If you are not His prophet, He will get no benefit from my death.  We can go away, live quietly, be at rest.”
       “You know what sort of a God He is.  You cannot think that, when He will not spare you for my obedience, He would spare you if I disobey.  If quitting were an option, you know I could not have remained His prophet this long.  But He is the LORD.  I must obey.”
       “He is the LORD.  You must obey.”

       … and in the evening [his] wife died.  And in the morning [he] did as [he] was commanded.  And the people said to [him], “Will you not tell us what these things that you are doing mean for us?”

       “… you will know that I am the Lord GOD.”  -Ezekiel 24:18, 19, 24

“Opinions only really matter if you’re sovereign.”
-Reverend Elliott Greene

 

Incidentally, I’m not.