I grew up in a rambling, pre-1860s farmhouse in rural southwestern Michigan. We had a “Michigan basement”,” “– unfinished dirt floors, walls made of fieldstone and rocks, crudely cemented together, exposed floorboards and joists from the ground floor providing a ceiling. A rickety wooden stairway ended in a small cemented landing. It was a haven for dust and cobwebs, and everything in the basement had a grimy film of dust mixed with the residue of an old oil-burning furnace. It was littered with “dead” things– a rusted-out bicycle frame from the 1940s; a long-forgotten set of rattan patio furniture with mildewed pads and broken wicker bits sticking out underneath; a broken rake; and, in one corner, what looked like the skeleton of a small rodent. There was an old cabinet, formerly with two doors, now standing with one door hanging askew, and the other one missing all but half a hinge piece. Inside were old Mason jars, rimmed with lime deposits, holding nails, screws, nuts and bolts, and other odds and ends, and more Mason jars holding home-canned tomatoes from a garden of unknown vintage. There was a single 40-watt incandescent light bulb screwed into an ancient ceramic socket and mounted on one of the overhead floorboards, which did little to diminish the general sense of gloom and decay. There were four small windows–but they had long ago succumbed to grime and dirt from inside and out. It was the stuff of childhood nightmares.
Last week, we had a tornado warning, and one of my friends from church spoke of taking her children to the basement to wait out the weather. It reminded me of my own mother, gathering my sister and I– sometimes pulling us from our beds– and taking us to shelter in the basement until a storm had passed. My father often worked the night shift, and so the job was left to Mom to herd us into the southwest corner of the basement, being sure to bring a blanket and a flashlight, and make sure we were wearing slippers or shoes. She also had an old portable AM/FM radio, so we could listen to the weather bulletins amidst the gloom and dust and damp of the basement.
And yet–
My memories of going to the basement during a storm are not memories that inspire terror or disgust. I never wanted to visit the basement any other time, but during a storm, it was our “safe” place. The winds and rain and hail might rage outside, but we were warm and snug (sometimes too warm!) in our little corner. And no matter how frightened my mom may have been, she always reassured us that we would be safe together in that place. And then, she would lead us in prayer. We prayed that Dad would be safe at work. We prayed for anyone who was in the path of the storm. We prayed that God would protect our house. We prayed for those who were on the road, and for those who would have to go out after the storm to fix electric lines or rescue others. And we thanked God for our basement!
Sometimes, God uses grubby basements to be our “safe” place. What otherwise may seem like a scary situation can become a cause for praise and celebration when we remember that God is with us!
I think of the prophet Jeremiah, who was arrested and thrown into a cistern–a place far worse than our basement– but God caused him to be rescued (https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Jeremiah%2038&version=NIV). He went from the mud-filled cistern to the palace of the King! And even though Jeremiah faced many other trials and griefs, Jeremiah was able to write: “
I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. 20 I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. 21 Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:
22 Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. 23 They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. 24 I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.” (Lamentations 3:19-24 NIV)
And I think of Paul and Silas in prison in Philippi (https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Acts%2016:16-34&version=ESV ). They sang and prayed after having been beaten and unfairly arrested. And they were trapped in the prison when an earthquake hit! But the end result was not only their vindication and freedom, but salvation for the Philippian jailor and his family!
There are seasons when we are forced to go to the basement–literally and figuratively. There are times when we must sit and wait in the dark and damp, uncertain of where the storm will hit or how long it will last. But often, in those basement moments, we find ourselves closer to God than when we climb mountains! God sits with us in the gloom. God has the power to turn our fear and uncertainty into praise and worship. And God will bring those memories of His comfort and strength back to us in other times of trouble.
As I edit this, the sun is shining and melting the last of an early spring snow. It’s been a mostly pleasant day, and I’m writing this in anticipation of a pleasant week ahead. This will post on Monday morning– a brand new week, hopefully filled with new opportunities and adventures. Of course, not every day is like this. Some days are dreary, full of stress and anxiety, and filled with challenges and even tragedies. But I have been thinking about a song I learned in childhood, one that has blessed me over the years and helped me on many a dreary day, as well as on days like today.
“I have a song that Jesus gave me, It was sent from heav’n above; There never was a sweeter melody, ‘Tis a melody of love.
I love the Christ who died on Calv’ry, For He washed my sins away; He put within my heart a melody, And I know it’s there to stay.
In my heart there rings a melody, There rings a melody with heaven’s harmony; In my heart there rings a melody, There rings a melody of love.
‘Twill be my endless theme in glory, With the angels I will sing; ‘Twill be a song with glorious harmony, When the courts of heaven ring.
On days like today, it is easy to sing a happy tune– sunlight, shimmering snow and icicles, viewed from my nice cozy perch by the window–but the joyful song that Jesus brings rings through good days and bad; sorrow and stress; triumphs and failures. It is eternal and filled with the limitless Love of God. It is a song of peace that passes all understanding, and a confidence that sees beyond circumstances.
Sometimes, when life seems devoid of light and peace, it has less to do with our actual circumstances, and more to do with our unwillingness to look up from them. Throughout the Old Testament (and even in the New Testament) people would create songs as part of their worship–some songs celebrated God’s provision and protection; others spoke of His character and His faithfulness. But these songs weren’t just for celebration and services of worship– they were used to remind us in good times and bad, that God’s love never changes. The same God who brings victory and miracles will be with us in times of despair. The same God who sees us in our most desperate hour of need is there with us when we are enjoying a beautiful sunset.
Today, I pray that we would take a few moments, find a song or a Psalm, and just sing a prayer to our maker. It doesn’t have to be a peppy song of praise– it may even be a song of yearning or anguish– but let it be a song that rises above our day and finds the ear of the One who loves us better than anyone else. It doesn’t matter if you can’t carry a tune; God listens to the heart! Sing the song that Jesus gives to you today. Your heart will be blessed. And it will bless the very heart of your Maker, as well.
Christmas is so much bigger than just us. That struck me afresh as I was listening to Christmas Carols earlier this week. It is more than just preparing our individual hearts, as crucial as that is, to accept the wonder and miracle that the God of the Universe would empty Himself of all His Royal Prerogative; all His Glory, to become, not just a human being, but a baby! To grow up among His flawed and rebellious creation; to know hunger and exhaustion; to wait in lines, to obey His “elders.”
His coming was not just a quiet birth in the night– though it was that, too. Such a paradox. His birth split the heavens, and divided all time into “before” and “after.” And yet, it went unnoticed by so many people crowded into Bethlehem that night. People living outside of Judea had no idea (other than some wise men from the East) that their King and Savior; their Creator and Redeemer, had just burst into history and humanity with a tiny mewling cry and covered in placenta.
But the Heavens knew! Angels marveled and shouted His Praise! Rocks and hills thrummed with the joy of it. The oceans may have danced, mountains skipped, trees cheered, frosty air molecules jumped up and down, and the stars– the suns of millions of galaxies– laughed in delight! For this was Their Savior, too! Jesus came to redeem all of creation–to fulfill God’s perfect plan!
How can this be? After all, we still have earthquakes and tidal waves; we still have forest fires and smog. Nature is still unpredictable and untamed. And yet, Christ’s coming was the sign that the “groaning” of all creation would certainly come to an end. The promise was true! The Hope of Heaven, the Light of the World, the Word of God, was HERE. Living ON the earth. Able to climb a tree, step into (or walk on top of) the water, breathe the scent of flowers, and look up at all the stars He Himself had placed in the reaches of space. Able to enjoy– as He meant for US to enjoy– all the bounty of the Earth.
And this same Savior has prepared another place– one that is already perfect and needs no redemption, no taming or saving or reclaiming–for those who put their Trust in Him. This tiny Babe, held in the arms of an ordinary girl in a grubby little stable in a tiny corner of the world He holds in His own arms. He is Lord of ALL Nature– that we can see on the Earth, and that which awaits us in a New Heaven and a New Earth!
Christmas is bigger than you and I. It is bigger than our lights and traditions. It is bigger than all of history. Bigger than the night sky; bigger than all we can imagine or dream. Because Christmas is the Advent of Christ– the one who encompasses everything. Let ALL Heaven and Nature Sing! Let the Angels announce His Glory! And let us Repeat the sounding JOY!
Father, I marvel at your Creation. I marvel at your desire to enter into it; to teach us how to have Joy in our journey through it. And I bow in Awe that You would include me in the bigger picture of eternity. Help me to carry this marvel into each moment, as I seek to Honor You and Enjoy the Wonder of Your Nature– both Your Creation, and Your Character! Amen!
Christmas is a time of joy and light. But the time of Advent is often a time of somber reflection. We remember a time we have never known– a time before the coming of Christ the Messiah– a time before the mysteries of Heaven were revealed and before the victory of Salvation was accomplished. Advent reminds us of the spiritual darkness that existed before God, in human form, in humble obedience, and in sacrificial love, became the Light of the World, and the Hope of All Nations.
Before the bells rang, and the angels sang; before the kings brought gold and the shepherds ran to tell the news; before there were Christmas Carols, Christmas decorations, or Christmas pageants– there was solemn silence, fear, dread, and waiting. God had been silent. The prophets had been silent. The world had grown hard and cold.
Jesus stepped out of the unfathomable glory of the Highest Heaven– surrounded by armies of angels all worshiping Him and ready to do His bidding. In an instant, He became a helpless fetus inside a helpless young woman, a subject of the Roman Empire, and at the mercy of her culture. Her fiance could have repudiated her; her parents could have disowned her; her community could have had her stoned to death, along with her unborn child. No one, even those who were anticipating the arrival of a Christ, was expecting this tiny baby growing inside the womb to change the course of history.
He was born in obscurity, in ignominious squalor. He was the Lord of All Creation, wrapped in rags and laid in a feeding trough in an overcrowded city at tax time. There were no bells or carolers, no glittering trees or festivals of lights, no sounds of joy and celebration– not in that manger in Bethlehem. Instead, there were strangers pushing and shoving, shouting, and snoring in the inns and houses and streets, being watched by soldiers and pickpockets alike, as they made their way through narrow, unfamiliar streets and tried to lock out the worry and danger and dread. There may have been silence in the fields and valleys outside of town, but not near the stable where Jesus was born. No. The “silence” we sing about during Advent is the silence inside our own hearts– a call to “be still,” and know that this baby we celebrate is God Incarnate. He is the One to whom every knee will one day bow, and every tongue confess that He is LORD.
In the stillness and silence of Advent, in the darkness lit only by candles and faint hope, we being to understand the contrast. We re-imagine what came before the joy and hope and eternal clouds of witnesses shouting, “Holy, Holy, Holy!” We remember the days and years before the angels sang, and the star danced across the night sky– before the shocking crucifixion and the glorious resurrection of this still unborn Savior.
Let us spend these days of Advent preparing our hearts for the true wonder of Christmas. It doesn’t come in the wrapped packages under a festive tree, or in the feasting with friends or family. It doesn’t come with sirens and parades, or speakers at the mall blaring out favorite tunes. It doesn’t come in the majesty of a Cathedral ringing with the voices of a choir and organ. It comes when the silence and darkness of our sin and dread are pierced with the overwhelming glory of God With Us– Emmanuel is coming! But for now, for these moments, Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence.
Our family had a funeral this week. One of my mom’s cousins passed away. We are a close family– distance-wise, as well as emotionally close. So the funeral was huge…hundreds of people coming to pay their last respects. And most of us spouting the same old phrases and platitudes: “So sorry for your loss.” “She will be greatly missed.” “At least she’s not in pain anymore.” “It’s so hard to lose a loved one.”
Except– she’s not lost! She hasn’t gone missing. She died. And, because she is a believer, she is HOME! Yes, WE experience a sense of loss. We grieve and mourn her absence from us. And the pain and grief is very real. I still find myself grieving the “loss” of my dad after 25 years, and the more recent death of my mom earlier this year. But sorrow and grieving for us as Christians is tempered with hope, comfort, peace, and even joy and amazement. Linda, Mom, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa, and so many other precious believers are not Lost. They are not the victims of Death. In fact, as part of the funeral service, we were reminded of the words of the Apostle Paul in 1 Corinthians:
54 When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: “Death has been swallowed up in victory.” 55 “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” 56 The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. 57 But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. 58 Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.
1 Corinthians 15:54-58
Yet Death does claim victims, and there are people who are “Lost,” who will be “greatly missed.” They are the ones who have died without hope, without peace, and without eternal life. In fact, many of them are still walking around– the living dead– the unsaved. I shed far more tears over those who are forever lost– those who will not accept the free gift of eternal life– than I will for those loved ones who have died in Christ. God welcomes us to be “found” in Him. He went to great lengths to defeat the power of Death, to bring true justice, and to shower us with Grace beyond our wildest imaginings. It is His gift to anyone who will trust Him. Yes, we will still taste death– and suffer pain and injustice, heartbreak and grief in this life. But these are the shadows. What comes after is the Light!
We shed some tears at the funeral this week, but we also laughed, hugged, sang, and said, “AMEN!” Linda ran the race, and she did not die (or live) in vain. She left a legacy of love and kindness that was celebrated this week. Heaven “gained” a loved one. And, while it hurts us not to be able to see her or laugh or sing with her right now, we know we will be reunited. And she is reunited with loved ones who have passed on before. But most of all, she is united with her Creator, her Redeemer, the Lover of her Soul, and her Lord. And ten thousand years from now, Linda will still be singing His praises!
During this season of the year, we hear a lot of “Christmas” music. Much of it is secular music–Santa Claus and magical snowmen, gifts and parties, and the Holiday “blues.” But much of it is related to the real reason for Christmas: the birth of Our Lord. And the number of songs, hymns, cantatas and symphonies related to Christ’s birth is staggering! Popular secular singers record “their” versions of favorite hymns; choirs and orchestras present new songs and ancient melodies. Many of the songs fall into two distinct categories, however. There are quiet lullabies–peaceful and meditative, focused on the infant in the manger; and there are Hallelujahs– joyful and majestic, focused on the wonder of God coming to earth.
I don’t know if there were actually lullabies OR Hallelujahs on that first Christmas. The Bible mentions the visit of the angels, but they were “praising God and SAYING, ‘Glory to God in the Highest..'” We often assume that their praise included singing, but the Bible isn’t specific. But it is interesting to look at the contrast of the quietness of the manger and the Glory of the angel hosts, and hear the contrast in the hymns we raise at this time of year.
Lullabies, and quiet songs, like “Silent Night,” or “Away in a Manger” call our minds and hearts to the humility of the Christ child. Babies are cute and engaging. And they are not “silent.” But they do not command authority and majesty. Babies cry out for help. They are needy in a way that God is NOT. And yet…God came in the form of a helpless baby. The God who created the galaxies needed someone to feed and change Him; to carry Him from place to place and rock Him to sleep. “O, Little Town of Bethlehem” reminds us that He came to a cattle shed in a small town, rather than to a palace in the seat of power.
Hallelujahs, like “Joy to the World” and “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” remind us that this was no ordinary child. And yet…the angels did not appear IN the manger or even in the little Town of Bethlehem. The Angels were compelled to sing their praises, not to the learned priests, or the courts of power, but to dumb-founded shepherds on a cold hillside. What an explosive visitation! Their praises (whether shouted or sung) shattered the quiet and the darkness. Like a sudden fireworks display, the Glory of God’s servants split the night.
God enters our hearts– sometimes quietly, like the cooing of an infant; sometimes dramatically, like a chorus of angels. God is at work– sometimes in humble moments and ordinary gestures; sometimes in glorious flashes of insight and inexplicable miracles. And this season, our prayers will rise up– sometimes like the humble cries of a newborn baby; sometimes like the soaring songs of angel hosts– prayers of need; prayers of thanksgiving; prayers of awe-struck worship; prayers of simple confession of our own unworthiness, and of God’s sufficiency and everlasting Love. Peace and Glory; lullabies and Hallelujahs; simplicity and majesty– all wrapped up on a manger of hay on one Holy Night.
In the Dr. Seuss classic, “How the Grinch Stole Christmas!,” the bitter and devious Grinch tries to “steal” Christmas from the village of Whoville. He steals all the things the Whos of the village seem to need in order to celebrate a holiday he hates. He hates their gift exchanges, their feasting, their singing, and their general happiness, all of which serve to remind him of his own loneliness and gloom.
With mounting glee, the Grinch proceeds to pile up his hoard of goodies– presents, decorations, food, anything that could serve to make the holiday cheery and bright. He loads up all his stolen loot and takes it to the top of a mountain, where he plans to dump it. But first, he stops to savor the shock and pain he expects to hear as the Whos discover that their holiday has been ruined. He waits in the cold of a clear dawn to hear wailing and lamenting, but the sound he hears instead is singing…the Whos have come together to sing a hymn of gratitude and peace. There is no lamenting; there is no distress. Instead there is a peaceful acceptance that the new day has brought joy and goodwill that has nothing to do with all the trappings of celebration.
He hadn’t stopped Christmas from coming. It came! Somehow or other it came just the same. And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, Stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled ’till his puzzler was sore. Thenthe Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.
The first Christmas came without any of the festive trappings we’ve added over the years. There were no groups of cheery carolers; no jingle bells and tinsel; no greeting cards or candy canes. Jesus came in the dead of night, in the midst of chaos and terror, as people were groaning under the oppression of an invading empire, being forced to travel long distances to be counted and taxed by their oppressors. There were no Christmas parties, no brightly decorated trees, no stockings filled with treats, no cookies and cocoa on a cold night. The gifts would come later– and they would be followed by death threats and exile! But Jesus came! He came just the same!
This year, Christmas will come– with or without ribbons or tags. Christmas will come to those who are homeless, and those who are lonely in palaces and mansions. Christmas will come in spite of efforts to erase the holiday from our culture. It will come just like the dawn of each new day– quiet in its wonder and glorious in its simplicity. Christmas doesn’t come wrapped in shiny paper or announced with blaring horns and neon lights. Christmas comes just as Christ came so many years ago–wrapped in rags, laid in a straw bed on a cold, dark night; announced to simple people going about their business, signaled by a single star ignored by most, wondered at by others. Christmas will seep into the hearts and eyes of those with child-like faith and willing to sing when things are darkest.
God chooses to come in simplicity– He creeps like the dawning day; He sighs like a gentle breeze; He comes as a harmless infant, or a wandering teacher and healer. And when our Christmas Day comes without ribbons and boxes or feasting and lights– it will come just the same. Christ will enter darkened hotel rooms and alleys, He will sit beside hospital beds and in makeshift refugee shelters. He will sneak into homes where Christians huddle in secret, and He will knock gently on the doors of the lonely and the lost. Because Christmas DOESN’T come from a store. It doesn’t come from our bounty and our glittering decorations. It comes from the heart– the heart of God, who SO loved the world, that He came! And He will come this year, just the same!
Today would have been my paternal grandmother’s 118th birthday. I have many memories of my grandmother, and I wish more of them were pleasant.
I remember dreading time spent at Grandma’s house. She wasn’t a horrible woman, but she was not peaceful or kind or warm. Her house was small and dark, with cobwebs and dust bunnies in the corners and under furniture. There were very few toys, and most of them broken. Grandma always wanted my sister and I to be still and silent, and I always had the feeling that she dreaded our visits as much as we did. I had a cousin who loved it when we came over, because she was just a bit older and an only child. If the weather was nice, Grandma would send us all outside, and my cousin would dare us to climb trees, or jump over a pit or some other physical (usually dirty and dangerous, too) activity. When we came in, Grandma would frown and comment on how dirty and sweaty and noisy and un-ladylike we all were.
Growing up, I didn’t think of Grandma as someone who had ever been young, and noisy, or happy and excitable, or awkward and easily hurt. She seemed to have been perpetually old and cranky and bitter. In hindsight, I can see how circumstances– being the middle child of seven living on a farm; starting her married life living in with a bossy sister-in-law and verbally abusive father-in-law; losing her husband when he was only 50–had been allowed to shape her character in negative ways.
There are some pleasant memories, and I cherish them. Grandma was a good cook. She made wonderful chicken dinners, and a strange candy out of mashed potatoes and peanut butter. She always had cold tea on a hot day. I knew that she loved my dad, and that she could be proud of us, in her own way. I was sorry when she died. Sorry that I hadn’t made more of an effort to know her better. Sorry that she had chosen bitterness, and that I had chosen to stay distant from her.
I write all this, difficult as it is, to say that Grandma–both her good and bad qualities–lives on in my memory as someone I would not choose to be. I don’t want to grow old like her. I don’t want my family members to dread spending time with me while I live, and dig deep to remember something good about me when I’m gone, or justify my bitterness and negativity.
My grandmother claimed to be a woman of faith. And it is not my place to be her judge. But I saw very little evidence of faith in her daily life. I cannot remember ever hearing her pray. She did not attend church. She had a Bible, but I never saw her reading it. Her better qualities, and her walk with Christ were overshadowed by rancor, bitterness, anger, hurt, and pettiness. I do not want that to be my legacy. I want people to know, not just from my words, but in my actions and choices, that God’s love lives in me, brighter and stronger than memories of Grandma.
Shortly before her death, I ended up spending an afternoon with Grandma– just the two of us. She had moved into a small apartment in town, and somehow, it transpired that I had to be in town on Saturday morning for a school event, and no one could pick me up until that evening. We were forced to keep company. It began awkwardly, but as we talked, Grandma opened up about her childhood, her love of music, and more; she asked about my time at school and my love of history. It is the single most pleasant memory I have of her, and I wish there had been more afternoons like it; more afternoons to bond; more afternoons to cherish, rather than dread.
After her death, I learned a couple of things about my grandmother– things I wish I had known earlier. I found an old copy of her high school yearbook, which contained a story she had written. Grandma’s story was full of wonderful details and imaginative characters. She was a writer– and I never knew! I also found out that Grandma not only loved music, she was a singer– an alto, just like me. At some point in her life, she stopped writing, and she stopped singing. I hope that, even if I never saw it or heard it, that she never stopped praying. And I hope that when I’m gone, those who remember me will never have to wonder if I sang, or wrote, or prayed.
As I write this, it is still Sunday evening. This morning, we sang a classic hymn at church– “Nothing But the Blood of Jesus.” It’s an old hymn, and familiar; we often sing such hymns on auto-pilot and without really thinking of the wonderful words and truths coming out of our throats.
“What can wash away my sin?– Nothing but the blood of Jesus.” “What can make me whole again?–Nothing but the blood of Jesus.” When I come to God in prayer, confessing my sins, it is not my prayer that makes me clean. Nothing I can say or do will give me right standing before God. I am a sinner, and I fall short of God’s glory. I also trespass against His holiness, and even His mercy. I am guilty, and there is no “magic” prayer that will heal me or exonerate me.
Yet I come before a Holy God and make my confession. Not because He doesn’t know that I have sinned. Not because my words will save me. I come because I know that the Blood of Jesus Christ has, and will make me whole and justified. I have no need to hide the truth of my condition, or try to make my own justification or sanctification. Christ has done it all.
Prayers of confession are not for God’s benefit, but for ours. To hide our guilt, or to excuse it, is to despise God’s amazing gift of Grace. When we confess to God, it is not because He wants to humiliate us or cause us additional guilt– though this is often the lie we tell ourselves. God is eager to remove our guilt and to guide us in His righteous ways. But He will not save us against our own will or without our permission. He will not conspire with us to hide our secret sins, or pass the blame on to someone else. To do so would be to submit to OUR will. WE are NOT God, though we sometimes act as though our ways are better than His.
I’m so glad that God is God– that His ways are perfect, and that I can trust Him completely. Even when I fall short, I can trust that God has already paid the price to make things right– something I could never do, and something I find too wonderful to fully comprehend.
Nothing but the blood can save me. And anything other than the blood will fail to set me free. My prayers of confession– no matter how polished or pious or piteous– cannot unlock the mystery of salvation and restoration. But they acknowledge the marvelous reality that it IS FINISHED! God’s Grace is sufficient! Hallelujah!
1 I love you, Lord, my strength. 2 The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. 3 I called to the Lord, who is worthy of praise, and I have been saved from my enemies. 4 The cords of death entangled me; the torrents of destruction overwhelmed me. 5 The cords of the grave coiled around me; the snares of death confronted me. 6 In my distress I called to the Lord; I cried to my God for help. From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears. 7 The earth trembled and quaked, and the foundations of the mountains shook; they trembled because he was angry. 8 Smoke rose from his nostrils; consuming fire came from his mouth, burning coals blazed out of it. 9 He parted the heavens and came down; dark clouds were under his feet. 10 He mounted the cherubim and flew; he soared on the wings of the wind. 11 He made darkness his covering, his canopy around him— the dark rain clouds of the sky. 12 Out of the brightness of his presence clouds advanced, with hailstones and bolts of lightning. 13 The Lord thundered from heaven; the voice of the Most High resounded. 14 He shot his arrows and scattered the enemy, with great bolts of lightning he routed them. 15 The valleys of the sea were exposed and the foundations of the earth laid bare at your rebuke, Lord, at the blast of breath from your nostrils. 16He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters. 17 He rescued me from my powerful enemy, from my foes, who were too strong for me. 18 They confronted me in the day of my disaster, but the Lord was my support. 19 He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.
I grew up hearing hymns– lots of them. My mother and grandmother and aunt all played the piano or organ for church, and often practiced during the week. My father led the congregational singing sometimes, and my grandfather taught himself to play many musical instruments, and used hymns to become familiar with the chords, notes, and fingerings of the instrument du jour. The congregation at our small church sang with more gusto than musical talent, but we sang during the Sunday morning service, the Sunday evening service, the Wednesday evening service, and at any special occasion.
Two things happened as a result of this: one not-so-good, and one very good thing. The not-so-good thing was that I became somewhat inured to the songs and lyrics– I knew what the songs said, but I didn’t really understand or internalize the truths they contained. However, the very good thing was that the hymns stuck in my memory– years later they came back like the best of friends to comfort me, challenge me, and remind me of sacred realities in the midst of mundane frustrations and worldly confusions.
This old hymn, neglected, out-dated, and seldom sung in our current services, was my lullaby growing up. My mother would sing it over and over as she rocked me to sleep, often running out of verses and words and just humming or filling in with “la, la la, la,” until she reached the chorus. “Love lifted me. Love lifted me. When nothing else could help, Love lifted me.”
As a young child, I experienced the loving arms of my dear mother lifting me to her lap and rocking me for what seemed like hours until I drifted off to sleep. As a teen, I scoffed at the lyrics a bit–what need had I to be lifted and helped, when I was invincible and young and ready to conquer the world. As an adult, this old hymn came back with power and comfort when my own efforts and life’s stormy circumstances left me with little hope and lots of confusion, doubt, and regret. It reminds me that help and hope can be found even in the raging storms of grief, depression, oppression, and pain. “When nothing else could help…” God could, and did! He can and will!
“Love lifted me”–such a simple phrase, and by itself not a solid foundation for hope and victory. In fact, there are many popular songs that speak of love lifting a person up, making one feel buoyant and hopeful, joyful or young. But this song speaks of a different and everlasting, all-powerful love– the Love of Christ. And it doesn’t just lift us up from one pleasant place to another. It reaches down into the depths of sin, despair, and even death to lift us up beyond all hope, beyond any strength or effort we could generate or receive from any other source. And this great Love reaches down to lift me–even me! It does not belong only to the elite, the wealthy, the beautiful people, the gifted or the powerful. In fact, this love is especially close and available to those who have done nothing to deserve it; those who have been bypassed and ignored and left to drown in their own shame and sorrow.
Love. Lifted. Me! My prayer is that this same Love will surround you today, lifting you up, and helping you, just as it helps me and brings me life and hope, to the Glory of Christ our Savior.
Pursuing Prayer 