"Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God." Colossians 3:16
When I was a little girl, few things were more boring to me than lifting a heavy hymnal and joining a tired-sounding congregation and melancholy organ in muddling through five or six wordy verses of some archaic tune. Having experienced the emotional, spirit-filled contemporary worship at InterVarsity gatherings with my dad, I was convinced there was a better way to worship - a way that certainly did not include these dry old hymns.
I have come to realize in the past couple of years that I was terribly wrong. Rather than being dry and old, I have discovered that those hymns are alive and well; their lyrics have stood the test of time, and articulate the longings of my soul far better than any contemporary chorus could. Though some hymns are certainly lengthy, they could still say even more; while the words are rarely repetitive or quickly memorized, they beg to be sung over and over so that they may be fully understood and internalized. The lyrics of these songs are deep, challenging, honest, and rightly rooted in Scripture and focused on God. Paul encourages Christians to sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs together - and I have found that the word of Christ never dwells in me more richly than when it is set to music.
I am so thankful that many in my generation were ahead of me in making this discovery - indeed, were part of helping me come to this realization, this deep love and appreciation for the hymns of old. There has been an incredible movement to take these beautiful words and set them to new music, reviving them, proving that guitars and (gasp!) drums can accompany hymns just as well as an organ (and for my musical taste, even better than an organ). I have added a couple of hymn-related links to the side of my blog - one is for Indelible Grace, a group out of Nashville that has really led the way in this movement. Their site has lyrics, chords, and resources for hundreds of hymns. The other is for Red Mountain Music, a group from a church here in Birmingham that is doing beautiful things with old hymns.
I went to Red Mountain Church last Sunday night, and a couple of hymns we sang that night could not have been more timely. They have stayed on my mind all week, spilling onto the pages of my journal and directing many of my prayers. I hope that you, too, might find yourself captivated by a line, a stanza, a song.
O Love That Will Not
Words by George Matheson, 1882
O Love that will not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in Thee;
I give Thee back the life I owe,
that in Thine ocean depths its flow,
may richer, fuller be.
O Light that follow'st all my way,
I yield my flick'ring torch to Thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
that in Thy sunshine's blaze its day,
may brighter, fairer be.
O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to Thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
and feel the promise is not in vain,
that morn shall tearless be.
O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from Thee;
I lay in dust life's glory dead,
and from the ground there blossoms red,
life that shall endless be.
The pastor's sermon that night was about the times in life when Jesus pierces our souls. He pointed at the third verse of this song and said, "Did you sing that tonight? Did you realize what you were singing? Look at those words again." Indeed, look at those words - again and again; let them sink in.
While "O Love That Will Not" was the song that echoed most loudly in my mind and heart that night, another hymn we sang resounded with me later this week as I looked through the bulletin once again. It was a moment when I was nearly overcome with worry and stress, overwhelmed by uncertainty and frustration. These words were simultaneously comforting and challenging:
Jesus I Am Resting
Words by Jean Sophia Pigott, 1876
Jesus I am resting, resting
in the joy of what Thou art;
I am finding out the greatness
of Thy loving heart
Thou hast bid me gaze upon Thee,
as Thy beauty fills my soul,
For by Thy transforming power,
Thou hast made me whole.
Jesus I am resting, resting
in the joy of what Thou art;
I am finding out the greatness
of Thy loving heart.
O how great Thy loving kindness,
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.
Simply trusting Thee, Lord Jesus,
I behold Thee as Thou art,
And thy love, so pure, so changeless,
satisfies my heart;
Satisfies its deepest longings,
meets, supplies its ev'ry need,
Compasseth me round with blessings;
Thine is love indeed.
Ever lift Thy face upon me
as I work and wait for Thee;
Resting 'neath Thy smile, Lord Jesus,
earth's dark shadows flee.
Brightness of my Father's glory,
sunshine of my Father's face,
Keep me ever trusting, resting,
fill me with Thy grace.
I will try to start posting hymn lyrics here more often. If you, like me, find that lyrics resonate much better when you can hear them rather than just read them, you can find many of these hymns on the Indelible Grace site, some are even on iTunes.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Stories from New Orleans
This statement is found on the wall of the new levee in the Ninth Ward I wrote the following sometime in late December:
Almost a month ago, I made my first trip to New Orleans. My introduction to the city presented a strange dichotomy: days spent gutting a home that had been flooded after Hurricane Katrina, nights spent exploring the French Quarter. From the sunny, brisk (well, freezing, by Southern standards) Saturday morning when we divided our team up into three work crews, I was watching, thinking, analyzing, wondering how I would be able to put this experience into words.
I am still perplexed. Four days was not enough to find answers, to draw conclusions, not nearly enough to fully grasp or grieve the devastation of a city. Yet it was a time rich with so much to observe, and plenty of time for reflection. I have continued to reflect in the weeks since then, and do so with great anticipation for my next visit to New Orleans...
That greatly anticipated next visit took place this past week. This time, I was not gutting houses, but it was freezing once again, and I experienced another great dichotomy in the city. Just hours before I arrived in New Orleans, tornadoes ripped through several neighborhoods, devastating the city once again. The power was out for two days in some areas, another fleet of FEMA trailers made their way to the Big Easy, and folks who had just started getting back to normal life after Katrina were left back at square one. At the same time, the city was gearing up for Mardi Gras: store shelves were stocked with beads and King Cakes, krewes were preparing their floats, and families bundled up, pulled out their ladders, and lined the streets for parades. Once again, the people of New Orleans would prove that they couldn't be thwarted by a storm.
Though there was a party going on, that was not my purpose in traveling to New Orleans, nor was it the focal point of most local people's activities. I was there to search for housing for our YouthWorks site, and the process of searching -- knocking on doors, meeting friends of friends, networking -- afforded me an opportunity for which I am so grateful: I got to hear people's stories. As I listened, I discovered some common themes in these stories. They are the stories of people whose lives were radically changed by a massive storm; stories of people who did not have special training or qualifications, yet have given up their lives and their plans because they couldn't sit idly by; stories of individuals and groups who are, one house and one program at a time, rebuilding a city, responding with a diligence that governmental bureaucracy would not allow, and with a sense of love and hope that no secular force could bring. Above all, there is a conclusion that clearly punctuates many of these stories: life is better since the storm.
YES! You read that correctly. Life is better since the storm. Though there are still more questions than answers, though the physical and emotional damage of the hurricanes is still profound, though the road ahead looks painfully long on some days ("this is a marathon," one woman told me), life is better. Life is fuller, richer, more meaningful. Faith is stronger, because it has to be. God is bigger, because what else could they cling to?
As I heard the stories and looked around at a city that is slowly being loved back to life, there was no doubt in my mind that God is doing something good in New Orleans. It is a new thing, an unexpected thing, an incredible (by definition: "so extraordinary as to seem impossible") thing, a thing that calls to mind a declaration the Lord made to the prophet Habakkuk: "Look among the nations, and see; wonder and be astounded. For I am doing a work in your days that you would not believe if told" (1:5). God is doing something in our days, and I do indeed find myself astounded.
I still struggle to grasp all that the hurricanes left behind. There is still so much that troubles me, breaks my heart, much that can not yet be verbalized. The process will indeed be a long one. I am grateful that this spring will bring me back to New Orleans a couple more times, even more excited about the prospect of spending the entire summer on the Gulf Coast. I anxiously await the opportunity to hear more stories, and I will certainly feel compelled to share those stories. At the same time, I am even more compelled to tell you to GO. Go to New Orleans, hear these stories for yourself, see and be a part of what God is doing there. You will wonder and be astounded, and I believe that your faith, like mine, will grow stronger, and your picture of God will grow bigger.
Just a note as I end this: There is still a lot of darkness, ugliness, and devastation in New Orleans. I do not want to overlook that - I especially do not want to neglect the plight of the poor and marginalized folks in the city or the children who are in need. However, as I watched yet another news story about the crime in New Orleans at home in Birmingham last night, I found myself angered, because it seems like that is the only story being told throughout the country. I want people to know that there is hope, there is growth, there is LIFE in New Orleans. God is present and moving there, and His story should be getting much more coverage than it is. I hope I can play even a small part in telling that story.
Almost a month ago, I made my first trip to New Orleans. My introduction to the city presented a strange dichotomy: days spent gutting a home that had been flooded after Hurricane Katrina, nights spent exploring the French Quarter. From the sunny, brisk (well, freezing, by Southern standards) Saturday morning when we divided our team up into three work crews, I was watching, thinking, analyzing, wondering how I would be able to put this experience into words.
I am still perplexed. Four days was not enough to find answers, to draw conclusions, not nearly enough to fully grasp or grieve the devastation of a city. Yet it was a time rich with so much to observe, and plenty of time for reflection. I have continued to reflect in the weeks since then, and do so with great anticipation for my next visit to New Orleans...
That greatly anticipated next visit took place this past week. This time, I was not gutting houses, but it was freezing once again, and I experienced another great dichotomy in the city. Just hours before I arrived in New Orleans, tornadoes ripped through several neighborhoods, devastating the city once again. The power was out for two days in some areas, another fleet of FEMA trailers made their way to the Big Easy, and folks who had just started getting back to normal life after Katrina were left back at square one. At the same time, the city was gearing up for Mardi Gras: store shelves were stocked with beads and King Cakes, krewes were preparing their floats, and families bundled up, pulled out their ladders, and lined the streets for parades. Once again, the people of New Orleans would prove that they couldn't be thwarted by a storm.
Though there was a party going on, that was not my purpose in traveling to New Orleans, nor was it the focal point of most local people's activities. I was there to search for housing for our YouthWorks site, and the process of searching -- knocking on doors, meeting friends of friends, networking -- afforded me an opportunity for which I am so grateful: I got to hear people's stories. As I listened, I discovered some common themes in these stories. They are the stories of people whose lives were radically changed by a massive storm; stories of people who did not have special training or qualifications, yet have given up their lives and their plans because they couldn't sit idly by; stories of individuals and groups who are, one house and one program at a time, rebuilding a city, responding with a diligence that governmental bureaucracy would not allow, and with a sense of love and hope that no secular force could bring. Above all, there is a conclusion that clearly punctuates many of these stories: life is better since the storm.
YES! You read that correctly. Life is better since the storm. Though there are still more questions than answers, though the physical and emotional damage of the hurricanes is still profound, though the road ahead looks painfully long on some days ("this is a marathon," one woman told me), life is better. Life is fuller, richer, more meaningful. Faith is stronger, because it has to be. God is bigger, because what else could they cling to?
As I heard the stories and looked around at a city that is slowly being loved back to life, there was no doubt in my mind that God is doing something good in New Orleans. It is a new thing, an unexpected thing, an incredible (by definition: "so extraordinary as to seem impossible") thing, a thing that calls to mind a declaration the Lord made to the prophet Habakkuk: "Look among the nations, and see; wonder and be astounded. For I am doing a work in your days that you would not believe if told" (1:5). God is doing something in our days, and I do indeed find myself astounded.
I still struggle to grasp all that the hurricanes left behind. There is still so much that troubles me, breaks my heart, much that can not yet be verbalized. The process will indeed be a long one. I am grateful that this spring will bring me back to New Orleans a couple more times, even more excited about the prospect of spending the entire summer on the Gulf Coast. I anxiously await the opportunity to hear more stories, and I will certainly feel compelled to share those stories. At the same time, I am even more compelled to tell you to GO. Go to New Orleans, hear these stories for yourself, see and be a part of what God is doing there. You will wonder and be astounded, and I believe that your faith, like mine, will grow stronger, and your picture of God will grow bigger.
Just a note as I end this: There is still a lot of darkness, ugliness, and devastation in New Orleans. I do not want to overlook that - I especially do not want to neglect the plight of the poor and marginalized folks in the city or the children who are in need. However, as I watched yet another news story about the crime in New Orleans at home in Birmingham last night, I found myself angered, because it seems like that is the only story being told throughout the country. I want people to know that there is hope, there is growth, there is LIFE in New Orleans. God is present and moving there, and His story should be getting much more coverage than it is. I hope I can play even a small part in telling that story.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Book Report #4 - Quality time with Mr. Wendell
Wendell Berry, a writer and farmer from Kentucky, was referenced frequently during my American Studies classes in college. While I always liked his work when we read it, it lived for too long as just "something I read in college." After seeing Berry cited in a few good books over the past year, I decided to pick up a book of his essays, The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays of Wendell Berry. Though I have not finished reading all of the essays, those I have read have helped me to take a more thoughtful look at the world around me, and have forced me to consider my role as a part of God's creation.
Berry's essays seem to touch on some of the most vital - yet too often unexamined - aspects of our lives here on earth: work, community, health, marriage, sex, even eating! He does so from an agrarian perspective, believing that we all need to be living more closely connected to the earth, working and caring for creation and each other as much as possible. Berry shies away from modern technology (he does not use a computer) and conveniences like fast food. He is a Christian (though not a Calvinist, and not an exclusivist), and challenges Christians especially to think about how we are called to care for creation.
One of the things I really value about Berry's writing is that he writes about the environment without being a radical "tree-hugger," because he addresses it holistically. He is deeply thoughtful, reflective, and draws from diverse sources - including his own experience of farming and wandering through the woods. Berry's writing has stood the test of time: the earliest essays in this compilation were written in the mid-60s, and it is striking - at times almost alarming - how much things he wrote in the 60s and 70s resonate today. For instance, in an essay entitled "The Body and the Earth," Berry writes, "... we have cut the cultural ties between sexuality and fertility, just as we have cut those between eating and farming. By 'freeing' food and sex from worry, we have also set them apart from thought, responsibility, and the issue of quality." That was written in 1977; how much more is this true thirty years later!
A few other brief excerpts, just to give you a taste (and hopefully to make you want more):
We are working well when we use ourselves as the fellow creatures of the plants, animals, materials, and other people we are working with. Such work is unifying, healing. It brings us home from pride and from despair, and places us responsibly within the human estate. It defines us as we are: not too good to work with our bodies, but too good to work poorly or joylessly or selfishly or alone. "The Body and the Earth"
What is the point of "labor saving" if by making work effortless we make it poor, and if by doing poor work we weaken our bodies and lose conviviality and health? "Health is Membership"
Whoever really has considered the lilies of the field or the birds of the air and pondered the improbability of their existence in this warm world within the cold and empty stellar distances will hardly balk at the turning of water into wine -- which was, after all, a very small miracle. We forget the greater and still continuing miracle by which water (with soil and sunlight) is turned into grapes. "Christianity and the Survival of Creation."
Berry's writes with great thought and great care - both for the reader and the world. I appreciate his depth, his voice, and his wit that makes me stop and think about things I take for granted. Case in point:
We are invited to "see seven states from atop Lookout Mountain" as if our political boundaries had been drawn in red on the third morning of Creation ("The Body and the Earth"). Thank you for that revelation, Mr. Berry.
In the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, several forms of the Prayers of the People (which we read as a congregation each Sunday morning) contain a prayer about creation:
For the good earth which God has given us, and for the wisdom and will to conserve it, let us pray to the Lord. (Form I)
Give us all a reverence for the earth as your own creation, that we may use its resources rightly in the service of others and to your honor and glory. (Form IV)
For the just and proper use of your creation... Lord, hear our prayer. (Form VI)
Reading Berry's essays has compelled me to take these prayers more seriously, and to consider what it really means for us to reverence creation, to use its resources rightly and justly. Indeed Lord, grant us the wisdom and the will to care for it well.
(The moral of the story: I encourage you to get your hands on some of Berry's writing and read and consider it well. You'd be wise to have pen and dictionary in hand while you do. The particular compilation of essays I'm reading, edited by Norman Wirzba, is excellent, and includes all of his best pieces.)
Berry's essays seem to touch on some of the most vital - yet too often unexamined - aspects of our lives here on earth: work, community, health, marriage, sex, even eating! He does so from an agrarian perspective, believing that we all need to be living more closely connected to the earth, working and caring for creation and each other as much as possible. Berry shies away from modern technology (he does not use a computer) and conveniences like fast food. He is a Christian (though not a Calvinist, and not an exclusivist), and challenges Christians especially to think about how we are called to care for creation.
One of the things I really value about Berry's writing is that he writes about the environment without being a radical "tree-hugger," because he addresses it holistically. He is deeply thoughtful, reflective, and draws from diverse sources - including his own experience of farming and wandering through the woods. Berry's writing has stood the test of time: the earliest essays in this compilation were written in the mid-60s, and it is striking - at times almost alarming - how much things he wrote in the 60s and 70s resonate today. For instance, in an essay entitled "The Body and the Earth," Berry writes, "... we have cut the cultural ties between sexuality and fertility, just as we have cut those between eating and farming. By 'freeing' food and sex from worry, we have also set them apart from thought, responsibility, and the issue of quality." That was written in 1977; how much more is this true thirty years later!
A few other brief excerpts, just to give you a taste (and hopefully to make you want more):
We are working well when we use ourselves as the fellow creatures of the plants, animals, materials, and other people we are working with. Such work is unifying, healing. It brings us home from pride and from despair, and places us responsibly within the human estate. It defines us as we are: not too good to work with our bodies, but too good to work poorly or joylessly or selfishly or alone. "The Body and the Earth"
What is the point of "labor saving" if by making work effortless we make it poor, and if by doing poor work we weaken our bodies and lose conviviality and health? "Health is Membership"
Whoever really has considered the lilies of the field or the birds of the air and pondered the improbability of their existence in this warm world within the cold and empty stellar distances will hardly balk at the turning of water into wine -- which was, after all, a very small miracle. We forget the greater and still continuing miracle by which water (with soil and sunlight) is turned into grapes. "Christianity and the Survival of Creation."
Berry's writes with great thought and great care - both for the reader and the world. I appreciate his depth, his voice, and his wit that makes me stop and think about things I take for granted. Case in point:
We are invited to "see seven states from atop Lookout Mountain" as if our political boundaries had been drawn in red on the third morning of Creation ("The Body and the Earth"). Thank you for that revelation, Mr. Berry.
In the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, several forms of the Prayers of the People (which we read as a congregation each Sunday morning) contain a prayer about creation:
For the good earth which God has given us, and for the wisdom and will to conserve it, let us pray to the Lord. (Form I)
Give us all a reverence for the earth as your own creation, that we may use its resources rightly in the service of others and to your honor and glory. (Form IV)
For the just and proper use of your creation... Lord, hear our prayer. (Form VI)
Reading Berry's essays has compelled me to take these prayers more seriously, and to consider what it really means for us to reverence creation, to use its resources rightly and justly. Indeed Lord, grant us the wisdom and the will to care for it well.
(The moral of the story: I encourage you to get your hands on some of Berry's writing and read and consider it well. You'd be wise to have pen and dictionary in hand while you do. The particular compilation of essays I'm reading, edited by Norman Wirzba, is excellent, and includes all of his best pieces.)
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