Each photo below corresponds to the chapter-a-day post for the book of Lamentations published by Tom Vander Well in December of 2021. Click on the photo linked to each chapter to read the post.
Lamentations (Dec 2021)
Tag Archives: Despair
“Yet This I Call to Mind”
"Yet This I Call to Mind" (CaD Lam 3) – Wayfarer
Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.”
Lamentations 3:21-24 (NIV)
Jeremiah shows all the signs of being an Enneagram Type Four. The constant brooding. The wallowing in melancholy. The ability to wax eloquent and hyperbolic on his suffering and affliction. Of course, Jeremiah has far more reason than I to brood. When, in today’s poetic chapter, he states “I called on your name, Lord, from the depths of the pit” it wasn’t just hyperbole. In Jeremiah 38, his enemies literally threw the prophet into an empty well and left him to die in the muddy slime at the bottom.
And I think I’ve seen some bad days.
One of the things lost on most readers of Lamentations is the intricate way in which it is written. Each chapter is its own separate Hebrew poem. Each poem (chapter) is a Hebrew acrostic, meaning that every verse begins with a different letter in the Hebrew alphabet. Today’s chapter is the middle poem, and those who joined me for last year’s journey through the book of Psalms might remember that in Hebrew poetry, the very middle verse or stanza or poem tends to contain the central theme. The way that Jeremiah structured this cycle of poems, the first verse of today’s chapter is the central verse of the book:
I am the man who has seen affliction
by the rod of the Lord’s wrath.
[cue: I Am a Man of Constant Sorrows by the Soggy Bottom Boys]
Yesterday, I wrote about the very human need to grieve, and the permission that God gives throughout the Great Story to do so. I believe it is healthy on all levels to process and express sorrow and grief, and God gives consistent permission to do so. Jesus even sweat blood as He expressed His despair at the suffering He was about to face on the final day of his earthly journey. Singing the blues is good for the soul.
Along the journey, however, I’ve also learned that there’s a point at which the healthy expression of my sorrow becomes an unhealthy victim status. Jeremiah didn’t die in the pit. Jesus didn’t stay in the grave. Choosing to mire myself in despair and refuse hope is to deny the very core of my faith.
Jeremiah quite obviously was a student of David’s lyrics in the Psalms. He follows David’s example both in shamelessly singing the blues, but also in finding the inflection point at which a ray of light shines in the darkness. There’s always that moment when the free-fall ends and the road begins to ascend. It’s the moment of eucatastrophe when the winds shift, the lighthouse appears on the horizon, and the seeds of hope bear fruit in the midst of despair. Jeremiah, writing from the depths of death, starvation, and devastation more extreme than David ever faces, makes the turn to hope more eloquently than David ever did:
Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.”
That’s the moment I seek in every dark valley of my journey. The moment that comes after I’ve cried a river of tears, screamed like King Lear and his fool into the winds of misfortune, written endless pages of guttural lament, and feasted on every angry growl of my blues collection. The moment when I lay spent from the rage and my soul can finally hear the whisper:
“Yet this I call to mind…”
Wait for it.
If you know anyone who might be encouraged by today’s post, please share.
How I Should Grieve!
How I Should Grieve! (CaD Lam 2) – Wayfarer
The hearts of the people
cry out to the Lord.
You walls of Daughter Zion,
let your tears flow like a river
day and night;
give yourself no relief,
your eyes no rest.
Lamentations 2:18 (NIV)
I have a friend who is experiencing pain in life that I can’t imagine. Every day is a torment. My friend has actually compared daily life to Sisyphus, who perpetually struggled to roll a boulder up the hill only to have the law of physics win every time. He would watch as the boulder rolled back down requiring him to start again, and again, and again.
My friend steadfastly refuses to talk much about it.
“I remember you telling me thirty years ago about these old farmers in the church where you interned that one summer,” my friend said to me. “How these old guys were so stoic they would refuse to go to the doctor or the hospital even though they were suffering and dying. I’ve always admired that.”
I don’t begrudge the sentiment. I’ve observed that human nature often leads one to do almost anything to avoid pain. This is especially true when that pain is perpetual. I might find ways to numb out and avoid it. I might distract my mind and soul with any number of things. I might, like the old farmers my friend admired, stoically stuff my pain and suffering down deep and stoically steel myself to silently endure. In each case, I’m still just avoiding what the Great Story states, quite directly multiple times in multiple ways: the path of spiritual progress in this life is in pain, trouble, trials, and suffering. Jeremiah’s amazing five poems of Lamentation might easily be presented as Exhibit A.
Here’s a little Jeopardy! trivia: The Hebrew title of the book of Lamentations is “How” (Hebrew: ‘êkâ), after the first word of the first line of chapters 1, 2, and 4. Here are the three lines in succession:
How deserted lies the city,
once so full of people!
How the Lord has covered Daughter Zion
with the cloud of his anger!
How the gold has lost its luster,
the fine gold become dull!
There’s something I really love about that. It recognizes what I find to be exactly what I need when I’m suffering struggles on this life journey: to honestly, emotionally, and unashamedly express my thoughts and emotions in a healthy way. That’s exactly what Jeremiah’s five-poem volume, How, is all about.
How I should grieve!
Along my spiritual journey, I’ve found it interesting to observe so many people who have a base assumption that life should be free of trouble, and that when experiencing trouble one should deny it, avoid it, and pretend that everything is okay. On the contrary, my perpetual journey through the Great Story reminds me constantly to experience trouble head-on, to fully express sorrow, and to allow life’s troubles to do their spiritual work in me as I cling to hope in God’s promises and have faith that there are good things on the other side of the pain.
The Sage of Ecclesiastes said that there is a time and season to mourn and grieve on this journey just as there is a time and season to dance. I love the juxtaposition of those realities in one verse. It gives me permission (I might even say it commands me) to fully feel and express my grief, but it doesn’t allow me to sit in and wallow in victim status forever. Rather, it is in fully working through my grief that I make my way out of the valley and to the next mountain vista where I can just as fully dance on the summit. They are part of one another. My grieving gives fullness to the dancing. My dancing gives perspective to the grieving. I find that treating them as either-or experiences in life is spiritually anorexic. Experiencing their both-and interconnectedness is spiritually empowering.
In the quiet this morning, I’m reminded that there are times in this life when God gives me permission, even commands me to:
Cry out! Wail! Moan! Sing the blues!
Let my tears torrentially flow like a raging river.
Let it out around the clock.
Don’t stop until it’s done.
It’s through the free flow of my grief that God spiritually transports me to where He’s leading me.
If you know anyone who might be encouraged by today’s post, please share.
Namaste God
Namaste God (CaD Gen 16) – Wayfarer
[Hagar] gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: “You are the God who sees me,” for she said, “I have now seen the One who sees me.”
Genesis 16:13 (NIV)
Our dear friend has a yoga studio in town. Wendy has actively been assisting our friend with her business. And so, I even attend a class now and then. Given the increased stiffening of the muscles and joints one experiences with age, I really should go more often. It is really good for my body.
One of the traditions of yoga is that of ending a class with the word “namaste.” The literal translation is “I bow to you” and it is a traditional, humble salutation used in greeting and parting. Many people speak of the word’s broader definition as “I see you,” or “The divine in me sees the divine in you” and I find the concept quite lovely.
Today’s chapter is downright Shakespearean when bookended with yesterday’s chapter. Yesterday’s chapter was about Abram’s simple belief of God’s promises being “credited to him as righteousness.” Of course, the promise God has made Abram from the very beginning was that His descendants would be as numerous as stars in the sky and the sand on the beach. Today’s chapter begins with the harsh reality of his wife Sara being old and childless. Sara, who is tired of waiting, tired of believing, and tired of trusting, takes matters into her own hands. She tells Abram to do what was very common in the culture of that day. She tells her husband to sleep with her servant, Hagar, and have a child by her so that he would have an heir. Abram goes along with it.
Sara and Abram’s act intersect with me and my own story on multiple levels. Along my journey I have had my own experiences with God’s promises given and the long-suffering required to see the promise fulfilled. The questions of “How long do I wait?” and “Should I be doing something to make this thing happen?” are very real. Abram and Sara’s impatience and exasperation resonate deeply with me.
And then, of course, there is the journey of infertility that Wendy and I walked together for many years (though much shorter than Abram and Sara). There are emotions, questions, and struggles that one experiences on the journey of infertility (for both a woman and a man) that are unlike anything else I’ve experienced in life. I’ve observed that those who have not experienced it are largely unaware of the intensity of the ordeal, and most are reluctant to even engage in an empathetic conversation about it. I get Sara and Abram’s desperation, and their desire to make this thing happen once and for all.
Then there is Hagar, who is the oft ignored victim of this desperate act. In all my years studying the Great Story, I regularly find Hagar to be regarded with either ignorance (e.g. she’s not considered at all) or subtle contempt (e.g. she’s viewed contemptuously as “the other woman”). In the quiet this morning, I couldn’t ignore her. Hagar was a slave. She had no choice in the matter. She suffered a gross injustice that was compounded by Sara’s antipathy and mistreatment, along with Abram’s indifference (e.g. “Do with her whatever you think best.”). Hagar flees the abusive situation. She’s homeless, penniless, defenseless, directionless, and pregnant.
Then God shows up.
God blesses Hagar. He gives Hagar a carbon-copy promise that He gave to Abram and Sara: “I will increase your descendants so much that they will be too numerous to count.” God comforts Hagar in her misery. God directs Hagar to return to Sara because sometimes in the Great Story one must face injustice rather than flee it in order for the larger Story to unfold.
Then Hagar says something amazing: “You are the God who sees me. I have seen the One who sees me.”
As I read these words this morning my soul whispered “Namaste.”
In the quiet this morning, I stand humbled and amazed at the lengths to which God regarded Hagar and the injustice done to her. God appears to this poor, pregnant slave girl in a way that He rarely appears to anyone. It echoes of Jesus’ regard for a poor, publicly shamed and naked woman caught in the act of adultery, and His regard for a half-breed, divorced and segregated Samaritan woman at the well.
“I see you.”
The God who sees Abram and Sara in the intense struggles of their infertility journey. The God who sees Hagar in the suffering of the injustices done to her. The God who sees me in both my joys and my long-sufferings. God sees me. Do I, like Hagar, see the God who sees me, or, like Sara and Abram, am I blinded by my doubts, fears, and frustrations?
And the Shakespearean story is about to unfold.
Two sons by different women.
Two numerous peoples, the countless descendants of Hagar and Sara.
Arabs and Hebrews.
Both peoples honoring Abraham as their father.
Read the headlines. The story continues to unfold to this day.
If you know anyone who might be encouraged by today’s post, please share.
Holy Moment
Holy Moment (CaD Psalm 145.2) – Wayfarer
[Note: I know I did Psalm 145 yesterday, but it became obvious to me this morning that I needed to spend some more time in it. So, consider this a blogging BOGO from me to you! :-)]
The eyes of all look to you,
and you give them their food at the proper time.
Psalm 145:15 (NIV)
He was weeping over the phone. Across the miles, on the other end of the connection, I knew that this moment was qadosh, a holy moment. It was holy, not because of any kind of religious piety or righteous achievement, but because of the depth of its suffering.
Along my life journey I’ve observed that religion has done a number on our concept of holiness. The institutional church has, as it always does, warped holiness into some kind of religious merit badge, a litmus test of morality, a trophy for those religious over-achievers at the top of the Sunday School class. In doing so, religion profanes the fullness of holiness.
Holiness is woven into creation unbound by church membership or religious ritual. Holiness is an encounter with the divine in the human experience. Holiness is not limited to the transcendental, spiritual glory of Jesus’ transfiguration. The emotional, physical, mental, and spiritual agony of his unjust, illegal, blood-drenched execution was a holy moment, as well.
That’s how I recognized the holy moment as my friend wept from the darkness of his own personal pit. He was joining the ranks of many who have gone before him. He was the woman kneeling naked and ashamed in front of the Son of God as her adultery lay publicly exposed. He was the prodigal covered in pig shit and eating the slop of his own choices. He was the wanton woman knelt down before Jesus as her tears wash the feet of the One she fully expects to condemn him like everyone else is in his life seems to be doing. He was me, 20 years ago, as I wept alone in the darkness of a warehouse apartment crying out over the shattered pieces of my life.
I knew this was a holy moment because I had been there myself. This was a holy moment because every human and religious pretense had been stripped away. He was, in that moment, spiritually naked and empty. He had reached a point when he could no longer play the game. This was his breaking point before the One who redeems, recreates, and uses broken things; The Potter who takes the lump of collapsed clay spinning on His wheel and begins to make something new. Whether my friend recognized it, or not, this was the waypoint on his journey that is the inflection point when old things begin to recede in the rearview mirror, and he will find a light on the horizon leading him in a new direction.
Today’s chapter, Psalm 145, begins the last five songs in this 150 song anthology of ancient Hebrew song lyrics. The editors end their compilation with five songs of praise. Today’s is a beautiful description of God’s goodness and I could have picked out any number of verses to chew on, but it was the phrase “you give them their food at the proper time” that resonated deep in my soul.
Remember that God’s base language is metaphor, and metaphors are layered with meaning. Make no mistake, food is food, as in the miraculous Manna that God provided the Hebrew tribes on their wilderness wanderings and the loaves and fish Jesus turned into an all-you-can-eat, filet-o-fish-o-rama. It’s also that which is necessary for spiritual survival and sustenance, as Jesus reminded the Enemy after fasting for forty days: “You can’t just eat physical bread. You need the spiritual bread of the Word.”
From there the metaphor expands to even more layers of meaning:
“In the beginning was the Word…”
“I am the Bread of Life…”
“He took a loaf and broke it, saying, ‘This is my body, broken for you.'”
“I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats this bread will live forever. This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world.”
Along my spiritual journey, I’ve experienced God’s provision of “food” at the “proper time” on both the physical and spiritual level. I remember being married with two small children, my first mortgage, no job, and no idea what was going to happen next. There have been moments when clients unexpectedly pulled the plug on projects, and I wasn’t sure how we would pay the bills. Then there was that lonely night in the dark warehouse apartment when every religious facade I had mistaken for being an actual spiritual resource had been revealed to be impotent, and my soul was starving for a scrap of real spiritual nourishment.
I had religiously participated in the ritual of Communion countless times in my life, yet that moment was the first time I truly tasted the Bread of Life. It was a holy moment. It was qadosh.
In the quiet this morning, I’m praying for my friend who was on the other end of that call. He’s got a long, long road ahead of him. I did my best to assure him that if he relies on the Bread of Life to sustain him, and he doggedly presses on, one-day-at-a-time, towards that Light on the horizon, he will find himself in amazing places. He may find himself in a deep place, but grace is deeper still. He may despair in the moment at the waste he’d made of his life, but God may transform it into wisdom.
I’ve been there.
In the moment all he could see was the unholy ruins of his life.
Little did he know, it was the holy start of a new creation.
He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” Then he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.”
Revelation 21:5 (NIV)
As always, if you know anyone who might be encouraged with today’s post, please feel free to share.
Unseen Choices
Unseen Choices (CaD Ps 71) – Wayfarer
As for me, I will always have hope;
I will praise you more and more.
Psalm 71:14 (NIV)
I have observed on multiple occasions that 2020 has, thus far, been the most challenging year of my life journey. Over the weekend I found myself hitting the wall with it all. COVID, masks, lockdowns, racism, riots, name-calling, finger-pointing, posturing, politics, put-downs, elections, and egos. I came to the realization that I just don’t want to talk about it anymore, nor do I want to hear anybody talk about it. It seems, however, that it’s the only thing people can talk about right now. I get it. We all need to process.
In the quiet this morning, I began peeling away all of the circumstantial elements of our currently stressful times. I separated circumstance and spirit, elections and eternity, coronavirus, and Kingdom. Under the surface of all the Jesus said and did there was a conflict that broiled but remained unseen, a struggle of the spiritual.
Without conflict you don’t have a good story, and at the heart of the Great Story lies the ultimate conflict: The power of Life and that which sets itself up against it.
That which celebrates death instead of life.
That which perverts justice with power.
That which perverts appetite with lust.
That which perverts humility with pride.
That which perverts truth with deception.
That which seeks to tear down rather than build.
That which seeks to turn faith into fear.
That which seeks to turn hope into despair.
That which seeks to turn unity into division.
That which seeks to turn peace into conflict.
That which seeks to turn order into chaos.
In our chapter-a-day journey, we are coming to the end of “Book II” of the anthology of Hebrew song lyrics known as the Psalms. Thus far, almost every song in the 70 we’ve read was penned by David. We’re coming to the end of David’s journey. Today’s psalm was written near the end of his life.
If you’ve been sharing this chapter-a-day journey with me the past few months, it’s obvious that David’s life was not a cake-walk. David saw his share of death. He experienced injustice as well as the consequences of his own lust. He suffered through the pride, hatred, division, conflict, and despair of his own son who tried to steal his Kingdom away. He has faced constant fear from enemies both without and within who worked to tear him down. Now, as he feels his life slipping away there is growing chaos regarding who will ascend to throne after him.
David sang the blues a lot, and with good reason. I imagine David shaking his head at me this morning.
“Dude, you’ve had a rough year. I, like, had 2020 for a lifetime.”
It was with that perspective that I went back and read today’s chapter, Psalm 71, a second time.
Though you have made me see troubles,
many and bitter,
you will restore my life again;
from the depths of the earth
you will again bring me up.
I couldn’t help but notice that David’s faith, hope, trust, and praise are not the result of his circumstances. They don’t spring from a cushy life on Easy Street. What became clear to me is that David is choosing them despite his circumstances, the same way he always has…
When he was on the run from Saul.
When he had a price on his head.
When he found himself alone in his enemy’s fortress.
When he was living in a cave in the wilderness.
When his own son raped his own daughter.
When his other son killed his own brother.
When that same son almost took his kingdom.
When he faced scandal from his adultery.
When his conspiracy to commit murder became public.
David’s lyrics, written across his life journey and making up roughly half of the Psalms, stand as testimony that time-and-time again he chose into praise, faith, hope, and trust when he had every reason to give in to the anger, fear, despair, and hopelessness.
In today’s song, the old man nears his journey’s end. He looks back at all he’s been through and everything he’s experienced. And this is the center verse, the lynch-pin of his song:
As for me, I will always have hope;
I will praise you more and more.
I am reminded this morning that in the early chapters of the Great Story God said to His people, “Life or death. You choose.”
David teaches me that the choice is still there. Every day. Every year. A choice that, in the eternal perspective, is more consequential than my November vote for any politician.
As I enter this week of Thanksgiving, I choose Life. I choose hope.
Always.
As 2020 keeps punching, I choose to double-down on praise.
Postcard Promises
Postcard Promises (CaD Ps 61) – Wayfarer
From the ends of the earth I call to you,
I call as my heart grows faint;
Psalm 61:2a (NIV)
Wendy and I have been working on finishing the decor in our guest rooms. We’re agonizingly slow about it, but the process has been to allow a theme to emerge for each room over time. For the room right next to my home office the theme has been written words. As the unofficial family historian, I have a bunch of letters and ephemera that have come down to me through the years. We’ve been trying to find creative ways to use them.
There’s a postcard that I framed and hung up in the guest room. It’s dated July 23, 1954 and addressed to my Great-grandmother. It’s unsigned, but reads:
Couldn’t make it last nite. But I will see you tomorrow.
Don’t worry everything will be okay.
I have no idea who wrote the postcard. I have no idea what the circumstances were. Yet there was something in the cryptic message that resonated in my soul, along with the nostalgia of a time when you could mail a postcard in a small town in the morning and know that it would be delivered that afternoon. That was texting in 1954.
What was causing the anxiety? Why was the sender delayed? What was it in receiving this written assurance that motivated my Great-grandmother to tuck this postcard in a shoebox or a family Bible like an heirloom?
That postcard came to mind as I read today’s chapter, Psalm 61. It’s a short little ditty written when the songwriter, perhaps King David, was not in a good place. Like the postcard in our guest room, the circumstances are unknown, but the lyric starts out by establishing that the author is “at the ends of the earth” calling out to God in this musical prayer as his “heart grows faint.” In ancient mythology of the Near East, the world was understood to be flat, and at the “ends of the earth” you’d discover the threshold to the underworld, the netherworld, or what the Hebrews called Sheol. Metaphorically speaking, the songwriter feels as far away from God as humanly possible.
The song goes on to express the author’s longing which was to dwell in God’s tent taking refuge in the shadow of His wings. For the Hebrews, God’s presence was considered to be in the traveling tent temple that was constructed in the days of Moses, specifically the Ark of the Covenant, winged Cherubim adorning the box that contained the Ten Commandments God gave to Moses. In other words, this song is about feeling alone, isolated, and distant and longing to feel safe in God’s presence and protection. The song ends with the author’s hopeful vision of being back in that presence when everything would be okay.
In the quiet this morning I find myself thinking about the many moments on this life journey when my prayers have felt like a cry from the ends of the earth. It’s part of the experience. One of the great things about this chapter-a-day journey and spending my life reading and studying the Great Story is that Jesus words are forever stored on my mental and spiritual hard drive. Even when I feel a chasm between me and God, Jesus’ words remind me that it’s a mirage.
“I am with you always.”
“Never will I leave you. Never will I forsake you.”
“The Father and I will come to you and will make our home with you.”
No matter where this post finds you today, even at the ends of the earth, consider it a postcard.
“Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”
The Thirst and the Why
The Thirst and the Why (CaD Ps 42) – Wayfarer
Why, my soul, are you downcast?
Why so disturbed within me?
Psalm 42: 5 (NRSVCE)
I was in a mentoring session with a client. I had coached this individual for a number of years when he was a front-line agent. Now he was in his first managerial role. He’d just received his first annual performance review as a manager and was spiraling downward into full emotional meltdown. Why? Because his boss had rated him a “4” out of 5 in overall performance.
It was obvious to me that my protégé needed to vent. The review had been given a few weeks before our session and I was aware that he had been waiting for our session to get things out. In the emotional flood of anger, frustration and shame that followed I was noticed a few things. First, it was clear that my protégé knew his weaknesses, and admitted there were things he could have done better. Second, the monologue rabbit trailed into childhood memories, family system issues from adolescence, and then projected issues in the current workplace. Third, we had been here before.
The emotional monologue began to wane after about thirty minutes. I then asked if I could ask a question and make an observation. My question was: “If I was your boss, and you freely admitted to me this handful of areas you know needed improvement, then why on earth would I give your performance a five out of five? Given the things you told me you needed to work on, I think four might be a generous vote of confidence!”
There was no immediate answer.
I then proceeded with my observation. Back in the days when I first coached my protégé on the service quality of his phone calls, there were times that he would be emotionally distraught when our team had marked him down for service skills he should have demonstrated, but didn’t. At one point, I remember tears being shed out of the intensity of emotion, and the exclamation “Every call should score 100!”
My protégé laughed as led him on this trek down memory lane, and my point was obvious. There was something within him that expected, personally demanded, a perfect score on any test, assessment, or evaluation that drove him to illogical and emotional ends despite cognitively recognizing the quality of his work didn’t match.
“Why do I always do this?” he asked.
Now, we’d gotten to the question the might lead to real improvement.
The chapter-a-day journey kicks off with the second “book” or section in the anthology of ancient Hebrew song lyrics known as Psalms. The section begins with songs written for a choir called “The Sons of Korah.” They were a family choir with the Hebrew tribe of Levi whom King David had appointed to sing in the temple. Those who compiled Psalms began the second book with seven songs that were ascribed for this choir. Seven, by the way, is almost always a significant number in the Great Story. It’s a metaphor for completeness.
Today’s song is a personal lament. The writer is struggling with “Why?” they are in such a funk, and why they can’t get out of it. They are singing the blues and struggling with why their soul is in the pit of despair even as they repeatedly choose to keep singing, keep trusting, and keep seeking after God. The song begins with the proclamation, “my soul thirsts for God.”
And, that’s what struck me this morning. It was the “thirst” for God that motivated the singing, praising, trusting, and seeking after the “Why?” It was the “thirst” for God that allowed them to not fall over the edge of despair but to keep seeking the answer to “Why do I feel this way?” even as they were in the tension of feeling it so acutely.
In the quiet this morning, I thought of my protégé finally getting to his own version of “Why do I always feel this way?” As a mentor, my next question is “What are you thirsting for?” If it’s an easy stamp of approval to deceitfully appease your need for perfection then you’re never going to mature. If you’re thirsting after an understanding of who you are, why you’ve got yourself tied up into emotional knots, and what needs to happen within to stop this repetitive and unhealthy emotional pattern, then there’s hope for progress toward maturity and success.
“Based on the evidence of my own life, actions, words, and relationships am I really thirsting after God? What am I really thirsting for?”
“Am I holding the tension of choosing to praise, trust, seek even as I wrestle with my own versions of despair and my own questions of ‘Why’?”
Those are the questions I’m personally asking myself as I head into this day, and I’m going to leave it here.
If you know anyone who might be encouraged by today’s post, please share.
The “How Long?” Blues
The "How Long?" Blues (CaD Ps 13) – Wayfarer
How long, O Lord? Will you forget me for ever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
Psalm 13:1 (NRSVCE)
Along my journey, I have come to observe that there is a natural ebb and flow to life. It’s like the Sage of Ecclesiastes pointed out. Time and seasons for everything. There are times of plenty, and times of want. There are times when everything seems to be going my way, and times when every circumstance seems stacked against me.
Back in Psalm 11, David penned that “the upright behold [God’s] face” and I mentioned in my post that day that the notion of seeing a King’s face was a metaphor in the ancient Near East which meant that you had the king’s attention and favor. David used the metaphor to close that psalm with the faithful assurance that God would come through.
What a stark contrast. In today’s Psalm David begins by asking God how long he will hide his face from David. If holding the King’s face is his favor, then the King hiding his face means just the opposite. Today’s psalm seems to be David’s cry to God during one of those stretches of the journey when nothing is going right.
The contrasting metaphor remind me of the way I thought of life as a child. If things seemed to be be going my way, then I assumed that I had been good and God was blessing me. When things weren’t going well then I assumed I had done something wrong and God was punishing me. It took me a long time to see what a self-centered perspective that really was, as if everything in life is about me. Jesus said that if I want to find Life then I have to lose it, including the surrender of a childish notion that I am at the root of every circumstance.
Back in Psalm 7, I pointed out that David was singing the “Why Me?” Blues. Today’s song can just as easily be entitled the “How Long?” Blues. And, I think that’s the point as I meditate on it this morning. What makes the blues such a powerful music genre is that it resonates with and expresses the cries of my heart when life’s road gets rough, as it does for all of us.
Along the way, I’ve learned that the road is going to have its ups and its downs. There are going to be good times and bad. It may not be about me, but it’s certainly for me if I’m willing to learn what each stretch of the journey has to teach me about faith, gratitude, perseverance, joy, praise, growth, humility, blessing, trust, and maturity. And, when the road seems like a hard slog and my petulant inner child feels like God has hidden His face from me, I can always sing the “How Long?” Blues in which David begins with lament but ends with a refrain of trust and a reminder of God’s goodness despite the struggle.
If you know anyone who might be encouraged by today’s post, please share.
Time, Distance, and Perspective
[King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon] took into exile in Babylon those who had escaped from the sword, and they became servants to him and to his sons until the establishment of the kingdom of Persia, to fulfill the word of the Lord by the mouth of Jeremiah, until the land had made up for its sabbaths. All the days that it lay desolate it kept sabbath, to fulfill seventy years.
2 Chronicles 36:20-21 (NRSVCE)
Struggle, discouragement, loss, conflict, death, and divorce. Along my Life journey I’ve experienced both events and seasons I didn’t understand in the moment. I had no good answers to the “why” questions. From my vantage point on the road of life, the dark clouds surrounding me had no silver lining. Daily life became a slog through confusion, anxiety, grief, and even despair.
I know my experience is not the exception, but the rule. While the exact events and seasons may differ from person to person, I don’t know a single person who has not experienced at least a few “mountain top” moments in life, nor is there a person I know who hasn’t walked through what the Psalmist aptly describes as “the valley of the shadow of death.” Even Jesus in His earthly journey had His mountain top transfiguration contrasted with His guttural cry of despair: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
In today’s chapter we finish the book of 2 Chronicles. It’s a Cliff Notes version of the final Kings of Judah who become puppets of both the Eyptian and Babylonian empires. The season of Judah as an independent kingdom is over.
What fascinated me as I read the Chronicler’s final chapter is how he left the story. It’s very different than the scribe who wrote a parallel history in the book of 2 Kings. The scribe of Kings was writing at the time of the Babylonian exile. The story simply comes to an end with the fall of the Kingdom to Babylon. He is writing in the dark cloud of defeat. He has no vantage point of time and distance. He has no answers to the “why” questions. He is struggling to make sense out of the circumstances.
The Chronicler, however, is writing post-exile. He’s is further down the road of life and history. Cyrus, King of Persia, has allowed the Hebrew exiles to return to Jerusalem and has made allowance for wall of Jerusalem and the Temple to be rebuilt. There is a new beginning. There is hope. The Chronicler looks back at the exile and sees prophetic fulfillment. He sees that the exile has allowed his homeland to experience sabbath in preparation for a new season, the planting of new seeds, and the anticipation of new life and possibility of a fruitful future.
This morning I’m thinking about the ebb and flow of our respective journeys and our stories. There will be mountain top moments. There will be deep valleys and despair. I won’t always have “why” answers in the moment. In fact, I come to accept that I may never have certain “why” answers that satisfy my heart this side of eternity. If I keep pressing on, however, I may be able to look back with much needed perspective. Like the Chronicler, I may see in retrospect that to which I was blind in the moment.
At the end of every valley is another rise, and that which lies beyond. I won’t see it until I get there.
Possibility. Anticipation. Hope.
Wayfarer 