Blue

 Like many of you, I’ve been decorating my house for Christmas the past couple of weeks.  I’ve noticed that blue lights seem to go out more frequently.   Every year, it seems I replace more blue lights than any other color.  I like a strand of pure blue lights, but they are quickly overwhelmed by warmer and brighter colors like red and orange.   I think all this, combined with the Blue Christmas Service tradition, got me thinking about the qualities of Blue. 

I read this poem during Blue Christmas service at Good Shepherd UMC on December 22, 2021.

Blue is soft.

Blue is cool.

Blue is elusive.

 

Blue is beautiful when it appears in nature.

 

Blue eyes.

Blue sky.

Blue water.

Blue diamond.

Blue Moon

Blue Spruce

Blueberry

Blue Bird

Blue Jay

Blue Heron

 

Blue commands authority.

.

Blue is the Umpire.

Blue is the Police.

Blue is the Navy 

Blue is Royal

Blue is Advent.

Blue Laws.

Blue Ribbon.

Blue Light Special. 

 

But Blue is also feeling sad and down,

And especially at Christmas, when green and red abound,

This much is true:  It’s hard to be Blue.

 

We’d rather be:

Raging red.

Flaming orange.

Sunny yellow.

Envious green.

Incredulous indigo.

Virtuous violent.

Any Color other than Blue.

 

Blue and I go back a long way.

Blue colored my childhood.

It was the elephant my bedroom

Which was painted light blue.

We didn’t talk about Blue.

But Blue was everywhere.

 

Maybe that's why Blue became my favorite color?

Other Colors always seemed more popular to me.

But I always wanted someone to notice my Blue.

 

Blue helped me survive.

Blue got me through.

But Blue stayed with me.

Long after it should’ve.

Coloring the walls of my life.

     

To this day

Tears are rare to me.     

Strong feelings scare me.

We're all prisms through which God's light shines.

We each have a unique God-given spectrum

We need all our Colors to be fully alive.

Blue is part of who I am—who we are as humans.

But there’s so much more than Blue.

I want to learn to embrace the Rainbow that is me.

 

Events of this past year deepened my Blue.

To a point where I lost sight of other Colors.

I needed some help to see them again.

For some reason, that was hard to admit.

But I’m glad I did.

 

This Christmas

Be true to You.

It’s okay to feel Blue.

 

When the night is long.

And Blue seems all there is.

Remember 

Emmanuel.

God is with us.

Let your Blue Light shine brightly

God's Love Song

In the beginning was the Song.

God sang the Song, and the Song was God.

All things came into being through the Song; nothing exists apart from its music.

Everything alive sings the Song, creating billion-part harmony.

The Song’s sweet melody overwhelms the cacophony of darkness.

 

Priest, prophets, and kings sang the Song, each in their own way.

Often the Song chose unlikely singers to carry it on.

When humans fell silent, rocks, hills, and plains cried out.

All creatures great and small joined the choir.

Heavenly beings added their unending praise.

The planets, the stars—even the Universe itself—sang.

Every voice was unique—but all sang the same Song.

 

Through the years the Song sang on.

But there came a time when it faded to a whisper.

Few people remembered its lyrics.

The Song became the stuff of legend.

 

God so much wanted God’s people to remember the Song,

That long ago in a tiny town called Bethlehem:

Words entered a womb.

Sound became sinews.

Lyrics became ligaments.

F-sharps and B-flats took on flesh and blood.

The Song became a human being!

 

 

Did Mary know??

That as she sang her lullaby to her infant son,

She held God’s Love Song to the world in her arms.

As she pondered the happenings of this holy night in her heart,

Could she see a cross-shaped shadow looming over the manger?

I honestly don’t know.

 

But I think Mary knew,

As only a mother can,

That her son was no ordinary child,

That though his flesh was destined to fade, 

Through him all the Earth would be saved, 

And God’s Love Song would endure forever!

Running Out

I recently read Running Out: In Search of Water on the High Plains (2021, Princeton University Press).  Written by Lucas Bessire, an anthropologist at the University of Oklahoma, the book focuses on how the Ogallala Aquifer, which underlies a vast expanse of America’s heartland, is being rapidly depleted—i.e., it is “running out.”  For ages this vast supply of underground water lay covered by earth. Up until the 1930s farmers relied on water at or near the surface to sustain life on the High Plains.  But after the disastrous “Dust Bowl” years in the 1930s, there was an attitude among those who lived through those days of “never again,” accompanied by a dramatic shift toward reliance on water drawn from deeper sources.  At the time, the aquifer was seen as a limitless supply of water—an “underground ocean” or “underground rain.” (Humans have this tendency toward naively assuming the planet’s resources have no limits.)   

Of course, we know now that the water supply wasn’t limitless. In less than 80 years, the people living on the Plains have extracted unfathomable amounts of water from the ground—often wastefully.  They have dramatically transformed the landscape in the process.  Surface water is gone in most places and with it, the flora and fauna that once thrived in these areas.   Today, some places on the Ogallala have all but depleted the groundwater supply.  One of the worst areas of depletion is the area around the “Little Rock House” in Southwest Kansas.  This stone house was originally part of a cattle camp established by the author’s great-grandfather.  He recalls spending summers there as an adolescent.  His father now lives at the house and the author spends two years living with his dad while conducting research for his book.  

Maps of the Ogallala Aquifer [left] and the area around the Little Rock House [right],which
is located in Southwest Kansas, along the former Cimarron River.  .  
Source: Copied from Running Out.

 In the course of his work, the author discovers that, like so many environmental issues, depletion on the High Plains defies easy answers. His research reveals complex personal and political interactions in play that muddy the waters.  For example, Bessire attends several meetings of the Groundwater Management District (GMD) Southwest—the board that regulates groundwater use in Southwest Kansas.  Almost from the start, something felt odd about the meetings, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.  He later comes to the realization that the most influential GMD board members represent agribusiness corporations—who are the groundwater users.  Furthermore, one has to possess water rights in order to have a vote.  In practical terms, this means that the decisions about water use are made by a small number of mostly white men—even though the working-class population most significantly impacted by the depletion of the aquifer is much more diverse.  The GMD pursues a policy of controlled depletion, arguing in essence that to do anything else would wreck the local economy and destroy the “rural way of life” on the High Plains. (Similar arguments are commonly used to argue against taking meaningful action to protect the environment.)  Bessire observes that:

 

“Corporate profits depend on aquifer depletion. In other words, there is a multimillion-dollar corporate interest to prevent regulation and to pump the water until its gone”—Bones, p. 78

 

Just like an aquifer is composed of overlapping layers of sediment, the author discovers that depletion is much more complex than he had assumed when he started his research.  When he began, he though he knew who was to blame for depletion, but he discovers there’s a whole lot more going on beneath those dry riverbeds than meets the eye.  As Bessire says it, “Depletion condenses the most urgent conundrums of our times into a single drama.  On the High Plains, it blurs the boundary between the planetary and the personal”—Notes to the Reader, p. xii.

 

Along the way, the author comes face-to-face with his own complicity in “running out.”  Bessire explains how, as a young adult, he literally “ran out” on the High Plains.  He left home to go to college and had and had no plans to come back.  And he didn’t—until he returned to research his book.  During the time he spends living at the Little Rock House, he and his father rebuild their previously estranged relationship.  In fact, his dad becomes a true partner in his research.  At the onset the author takes the lead on many of the interviews, but by later in the book his father is clearly taking the lead.  In fact, Bessire later realizes that many of the people who agree to be interviewed for the book did so as a favor to their friend Tony.

 

The author’s great-grandfather (RW) was among the second wave of white settlers to this region.  The wells his great-grandfather dug played a major role in drying up the surface water in the area around the Little Rock House.  Bessire comments that, “There are plenty of stories about RW.  None are about stewardship.  Most suggest that we he was singularly focused on agribusiness.  Someone told me that RW thought he could violate the laws of nature and make money doing it.”—Lines, p. 17. 

 

In contrast to RW, the author is guided by wisdom collected by another of his ancestors, whom he discovers became an early advocate for conservation.  In a dusty file cabinet at the Little Rock House, he finds crinkled Manilla file folders and binders containing writings compiled by his grandmother (Lila “Fern”) about a variety of topics.  Fern died when the author was 12, so his memories interactions with her are sketchy, enshrouded in the mists of childhood perceptions.  However, he distinctly remembers her walking him across the pastures to visit the memorial for the nearby Wagon Bed Springs—which even then existed only in her grandmother’s memories.  He later learns that his grandmother played an important role in helping to determine the location of the springs and lobby for the memorial to be created. 

 

In talking to others about Fern, he learns that she is a kindred spirit.  Like him, she was often at odds with her father, and she too “ran out” on the High Plains.  The day she turned 18, she left the farm and got married.  After World War II, her husband Roy returned “broken” from his experience.  Against Fern’s wishes, they returned to the Little Rock House, where she would live out the rest of her days, “stuck in a small prairie world under the thumb of less talented men”—Lines, p. 21.  When she was in her mid-thirties, she had what was called a “nervous breakdown” and spent time in two different mental institutions. While Fern didn’t describe that experience in her writings, the author learns a great deal about what his grandmother likely endured from a six-part exposé published in a Wichita newspaper in 1974 by a woman named Betty Wells, who spent eight days at the place where Fern was first sent.

After returning from her time spent in the institutions, Fern became obsessed with learning about the past and trying to reconstruct it—most notably, her work to document the location of Wagon Bed Springs.  Fern’s efforts never led to any published works when she was alive.  But she would probably be proud that all these years later, her writings served as an invaluable guide to her grandson’s quest to understand depletion.  More than once, he returns to her dog-eared, often hand-written notes to help him figure out the “next step” in his research.

 

The author also becomes keenly aware of how forces of depletion played a role in making the life he had growing up on the Plains possible.  While walking on his father’s farm, he recalls a time as a child when he found a bison bone.  This leads him to research the details about the eradication of the Plains buffalo herds. In the span of three years between 1871 and 1874, it is estimated that between three and seven million bison were killed within a hundred-mile radius of the Little Rock House.  This mass slaughter had the effect of displacing the Native American populations living in that area that depended on bison for survival, which in turn made it possible for his white ancestors to take possession of the land.  He also discovers stories of forced relocation—and even genocide—of the indigenous populations that once resided on or near the land on which he grew up. Learning the details of these atrocities has a powerful impact on the author’s understanding of depletion.  

He realizes that even though he never killed a buffalo, or mistreated a Native person, or drew a single drop of water from the ground himself, in order for he and his family to live the life of relative privilege they lived on the High Plains these atrocities had to be committed against the native inhabitants of this land—both human and non-human—and the native environment.  

 

Bessire talks about what I will call the slipperiness of memory.  On one hand, we rely upon our memories to reconstruct the past.  For example, he relied on the stories told to him by numerous people about past events to compile his story.  But, on the other hand, he reflects on how we typically have selective amnesia in terms of what we remember and how we remember it.  History tends to be told from a particular point of view—often that of the dominant power.  This certainly was the case in the stories he was told as a child about bison herds and Native peoples.  He reflects, that: 

“We lived among the rubble of genocide and dispossession in a landscape that had been transformed.  Nothing seemed as fascinating as the chips of flint and arrowheads and old bullets and potsherds secreted among the last ribbons of native shortgrass. And nothing seemed as innocent. Only now do I see that their allure was part of displacing the monstrous events that allowed me to inhabit the Plains.  We confined the horrors of eradication to a cartoonish lost world; one that we thought was entirely disconnected from our own.”  He notes that these things were rarely if ever discussed and even when they were, “their significance was largely blocked off from our memories”—Bones, pp. 129–130.

 

While this book focused primarily on the issue of aquifer depletion on the High Plains, the author summarizes similar stories of depletion that play out all around the world in areas that are heavily dependent of groundwater for survival.  The specific circumstances of each location are unique, but there are common themes of depletion running through all these regions.  As Bessire describes it:

 

“Depletion flourishes wherever people inhabit the residues of settler invasions and forgotten genocides, traces of destroyed ecosystems, surges of boom–bust despair and simmering resentment, chemical disruptions, and the specter of more heat and drought.  In these zones, similar histories and technologies coincide with scarred landscapes and ideologies of unceasing productivity and profit that easily blur into militant fundamentalism’s when they collapse”—Afterword, pp. 178–179.

 

As people of faith, I think engaging stories like Running Out can help us wrestle with our call to be stewards of Earth as we grapple with complex issues related to preserving the increasingly depleted natural resources of our world and protecting its environment.  I wonder how many of us might relate to the author’s story.  Could we write our own tales of “running out” in our own local context?  The author includes a quote that he found in Fern’s notes.  While she applied to her personal recovery, it spoke to me about the attitude we need to have toward environmental issues. She said, “The first step in my own reclamation of command is to admit that I am not responsible for the past, but I am accountable to tomorrow”—Dust, p. 133.  

 

Often when confronted with a complex issue like climate change, we say things like, “I am not responsible for what happened in the past.”  And, of course, we’re correct on a personal level, but it strikes me that such a mindset seems to have become our society’s de facto excuse to maintain the status quo when it comes to the environment.  While it’s true that we can’t change—and we’re not responsible for—what has gone on before us, there’s a real sense that we are, as Fern said it, “accountable to tomorrow.”  

 

How will future generations judge us?  The jury is still out; although, toward the end of the book, the author muses that, considering what we’ve already done to the world they will inherit, they might not be too kind toward us.  The truth is, though, the story is still being written.  The future world is not fully formed yet.   The decisions we make (or choose not to make) help to shape that world.  As Bessire did in the process of researching Running Out, we each have an obligation to reckon with how the life we live contributes to the depletion of resources and/or degradation of our environment.  But it’s not enough just to know; we need to find ways to act on what we’ve learned—both individually and corporately. 

 

With the future of the planet that we call home hanging in the balance, it seems clear that water is not the only nonrenewable resource that is running out; even time itself seems to be slipping through the dusty hourglass.  The latest (sixth) IPCC report reminds us—in the strongest language to date—that the status quo isn’t sustainable.  The change we are seeing has an increasingly undeniable human “footprint.” The “band-aid fixes” to date simply aren’t adequate to address the problem of global climate change.  Failure to take more meaningful action to move away from such heavy dependence on fossil fuels and to otherwise mitigate the effects of climate change could have disastrous consequences for future generations. When it comes to the issue of climate, we face what Dr. King called the fierce urgency of now.  The decisions we make (or refuse to make) today impact the world our children, and their children, inherit.  Putting them off for the “next generation” to decide is no longer a viable option.  

Finding Our Way, Perceiving New Things

 Last year during Advent, I wrote a blog post called “Green Volunteers."   I talked about a fuchsia plant that I had purchased for Mother’s Day 2020, which had faded during the summer (in part due to neglect), but then—remarkably—bloomed again around Thanksgiving.  I brought it inside to try and carry it through the winter, but the transition to inside didn’t go well.   I carefully watered it and placed it in a sunny spot hoping it might recover yet again.  It did…  

December 13, 2020
A "green volunteer" emerges.

The picture on the left was taken December 13, 2020.  At that time I had written: “A green volunteer!  A branch growing out of roots!   And maybe, just maybe, a new flower bud?  It’s an annual, so I have no idea if I can bring it back to flourishing, but it does appear to be growing, so I’m curious to see what happens…

The picture below was taken August 10, 2021.  That’s the same plant that was a “green volunteer” eight months ago.  I moved it back outside this spring and it has thrived.  Seeing it thrive makes me smile.  

 

August 10, 2021
A "new thing" springs forth.
What was barren now blooms.

In my Advent devotional I wrote: [A famous line from the movie “Jurassic Park” was]:  “Life finds a way.”  (In the movie, the dinosaurs found a way to reproduce despite the scientist’s assurance that this was in fact “impossible.”) Nature bears witness to this.  Think about areas ravaged by volcanic eruptions or forest fires.  Life comes back in abundance afterwards.  In fact, the ash can provide nutrients for new life.  Eventually, life wins. 

 

Over the past 17 months, we have been in the grips of a global pandemic, and other simultaneous societal upheavals.  I have also experienced personal challenges I’ve had to overcome; I’m sure you have too.  We’ve all had to “find a way” to, as Paul says, “keep running the race marked out for us.”  Some days, that has seemed nearly impossible to do.  There just seemed to be too much to take in, too much to overcome.  And yet somehow here we are.

 

In March 2020, the world changed without much warning, and we had no choice but to “find a way” to adapt.  In our church, I think we faced a collective crisis large enough that we actually overcame the inertia of “how we’ve always done it before.”  (Some churches have been more successful at doing this than others.) 

 

Not just in the Church, but across our society, we’ve had to learn new ways to be in community together. While some of us knew about Zoom before COVID, it really wasn’t the norm to use it.  There was a learning curve we had to climb; it wasn’t always the easiest ascent, but we did it.  Now, virtual meetings are commonplace.  People of all ages conduct activities online.  While live activities are slowly resuming (the Delta variant notwithstanding) hybrid is clearly the way of the future.  Providing online options for participation in live events is no longer optional.

 

Following the plant analogy, in March 2020 COVID-19 stripped us down to bare minimum. We had to rapidly transplant ourselves to survive.  We weren’t sure if the tender shoots would prosper in the new environment.  We could plant, and we could water, but it was up to God to make things grow.  And that's exactly what God did!  

Like the fuchsia on my deck, 17 months later, flowers are blooming.  COVID-19 is slow to loosen its grip, but where I worship, we are finding our way to a “new normal.”  (I suspect the same is true at many other churches.)  At my church, we  have fellowship groups and Bible studies meeting online throughout the week via Zoom, as well as all of our committee meetings.  While we surely lose some things by not being together face-to-face, we also gain things conducting certain church activities online. For example, we’ve gotten used to doing church committee business from the convenience of our homes.  

 

The core elements of who we were before March 2020 may not have changed—but the world around us has.  Make no mistake, we are emerging into a new day. There is no map to where we are headed; we almost "make the road" as we walk it.  We must trust God to be our guide.  “New things” are indeed trying to “spring forth.” and our job is to “perceive them” and embrace them—not resist them.  If the Church is to thrive in the years ahead then we must find ways to meet the world where it is today.  It becomes increasingly clear that they are not likely to come to us without a personal invitation. 

 

FOR REFLECTION

 

·      What new things do you perceive springing forth in your life today?  At your church?

·      What new things do you perceive as needed, that might be “trying to be born”?  How can you be part of the birthing process?  

·      Where might we need to take a second look for “green volunteers”? 

·      What things can our churches do to help equip us to engage the “new world” around us?

Learning to Swim Again

I haven’t written much the past couple weeks.  However, it was World Oceans Day this week, which inspired me to write a poem about my current circumstances.  (Today is four months after my wife's open heart surgery and seven weeks after my dad passed away quite unexpectedly.)  The lines in red italics in the poem below are lyrics from the song “Oceans” by Hillsong United, which is a favorite praise song of mine.

 

You call me out upon the water.

The great unknown.

Where feet may fail.

And there I find you in the mystery.

In ocean’s deep, my faith will stand.

 

Sometimes you can anticipate the waves of life.

You can time them like the rhythm of the surf.

 

Laurie and I could see the big wave coming when this year began.

My wife had open heart surgery on February 11.

We could plan for that.

We could get ready.

Sort of...

 

But even when you know a big wave is coming.

Even when you brace for it.

The force of water is deceptively strong.

If you aren’t well grounded it can knock you over.

 

And any bodysurfer knows, the big wave is not the only concern.

The little waves between the big ones can trip you up.

Like my son’s second sports injury in six months.

Or my daughter’s virtual school struggles.

Or the persistent pull of a prolonged pandemic,

That runs like a rip current through the world.

The harder we swim against it, the further it pulls us from the shore.

 

So many creative ways my feet can fail.

But always the same result:

I end up sucking saltwater.

 

I grounded myself as best I could to withstand the big wave.

I thought I held my own.

Around Easter, I remember exhaling a bit.

I thought I might be headed to calmer seas for a time.

 

But then on April 23 the rogue wave came.

My dad passed away.

Although he was 86—it was unexpected.

It hit me like a tsunami.

Swamping the beach where I stood.

 

Suddenly my feet failed.

I was at the mercy of the waves.

Only faith could ground me.

Would that be enough?

 

And I will call upon your name.

And keep my eyes above the wave.

When oceans rise, my soul will rest in your embrace.

For I am yours, and you are mine.

 

In recent days, it’s been all I can do to stand.

But then again sometimes just to stand is a mighty act of faith.

 

I search for Jesus in the midst of my storm

I’m surprised to find him stretched out on a cushion.

 

“Jesus!”  I cry.  “Can’t you see I’m floundering here!?

This is no time for a nap!”

He sighs, and says simply, “Peace.  Be still.”

The turbulent sea becomes glassy calm.

As if very wind and waves obey his voice.

“Where’s your faith?” the Master of the Universe asks me.

“Didn’t you know I was with you all along?”

 

Times like now call the question of faith for me.

Do I know beyond knowing that He’s with me no matter how turbulent the sea is?

Do I really believe I’m His and He’s mine?

Can I truly rest in his embrace?

 

His grace abounds in deepest water.

His sovereign hand will be my guide.

When feet may fail and fear surrounds me.

He’s never failed—and he won’t start now.

 

Faith is as simple and as complex as this last stanza.

You can’t just sing faith, you have to live it.

Faith is most real when the waters are deepest.

Those are the times we can’t swim on our own.

 

That’s where I’ve been recently.

Trying to keep my head above the waters.

Trying to live what I sing every Sunday.

Learning to swim all over again.

A Serious Call to Sing Our Song

In my Renovaré Book Club, we’ve been studying William Law’s spiritual classic, A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life.  Reading A Serious Call was a serious commitment for me to make. The other three books the club read this year were written by more modern authors (at least 20^th century) addressing more practical topics. But this one was first published in 1728 and while the writing has been updated a for modern consumption, the writing style still reflects that time period.   There are long run-on sentences I had to read several times to understand.  At times, I felt like the same thing was said five different ways within a few pages.  At moments when I’m reading, I just want to say, “Okay, William, were you paid by the word?  We get it.  Move on.”

 

Although I hesitated at the start, and despite its somewhat archaic writing style, I’ve enjoyed reading A Serious Call.  I begin to see why the book is considered a “classic,” having influenced the formation of John and Charles Wesley, George Whitfield, John Newton, and William Wilberforce, among others.  While Law and I certainly part company theologically at moments (e.g., his overemphasis on works-righteousness and rigid, legalistic descriptions of practices), having now read through a good chunk of the book, I now begin to see that Law had a method to his madness.  He was trying to get the attention of the people of his time, many of whom had become lukewarm in their pursuit of holiness and needed a wake-up call.   He wanted to remind his readers that the Christian life isn’t a passive endeavor. As the title of the book implies, the choice to follow Jesus is not to be taken lightly.  It’s a “serious call” that is worthy of our best effort to pursue growth in holiness and devotion.  While we never can do enough to earn our salvation, we always need to put forth maximum effort in pursuit of it.   

 

Law’s choice of writing style was most likely quite intentional.  He used the age-old writing technique of hyperbole to emphasize the urgency of the subject matter he discusses.  He intended to provoke his readers to take action—now—to grow in holiness.  I think the book is a classic precisely because, if we can get past the somewhat archaic wording, his words have the potential to issue the same “serious call,” and provoke the same reaction in us today.

 

Paul counsels the Philippians to: work out your own salvation with fear and trembling—Philippians 2:12.   It strikes me that the word workout is used in today’s vernacular to describe physical exercise.  We expect to exert effort in this context; sometimes we use the adage, “no pain, no gain.”  We expect to sweat when we work out our bodies.  But what about spiritual workouts?  Do we expect them to be similarly strenuous?  Or do we expect spiritual growth to just happen with minimal effort on our part?  

 

Law, I think, would think it as absurd to suggest that spiritual growth can happen without serious—and ongoing—effort on our part, as it would be to think we can improve our physical body without a commitment to getting sweaty on a regular basis. 

 

The theme that carries throughout A Serious Call is that God does much more than merely forgive our disobedience, God also calls us to obedience and to a life completely centered in God.  That implies a lifetime of maximum effort on our part to grow as a follower of Jesus.  If we do our part, however, then we can trust God to do the part that only God can do.  

 

Law himself says it this way: “If you will here stop and ask yourself why you are not as pious as the primitive Christians were, your own heart will tell you that it is neither through ignorance or inability, but because you never thoroughly intended it.” 

 

Law resonates with Dallas Willard and other authors and theologians throughout history who have emphasized the vital role of intention (making up our mind to do something—and to make it a priority) in linking our vision of doing something we cannot presently do with the acquiring the means to pursue it.  Dallas Willard used the clever acronym V–I–M: Vision–Intention—Means—which reminds us of vim and vigor, which is used to describe something alive and thriving; another related v-word is vitality.  We can think of intention as the bridge to a thriving spiritual life.  Intention links vision to reality via various means of grace or spiritual practices.  

 

Willard echoed Law when he said in one of his books: “Grace is not opposed to effort, it is opposed to earning. Earning is an attitude. Effort is an action. Grace, you know, does not just have to do with forgiveness of sins alone.”     

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One technique Law uses that is rather clever is the use of what I might call “case studies.”  Throughout the book, he introduces us to individuals who embody the traits (whether positive or negative) that he’s been emphasizing in that chapter.  For example, in Chapters 7 and 8, Law discusses the proper use of one’s estate to serve God.  To illustrate his points, Law contrasts the lives of two sisters: Flavia and Miranda, whose parents died twenty years ago and left them a substantial estate.  Flavia talks a good game when it comes to religion, but her actions don’t match her words.  She chooses to primarily spend her wealth on herself, giving to others only what she has “left over” or when it benefits her to do so.  Miranda, on the other hand, walks the talk.  She keeps only what she needs for herself and gives the rest of her wealth away to the poor and to charity.  

 

Via these case studies, abstract theological concepts like those Law discusses in A Serious Call take on flesh and blood.  I have no idea if Law based Flavia and Miranda, or the others we meet in A Serious Call, on people he knew from his life in 18^th century England.   Whether the people are “real” or merely meant to serve as archetypes, I think it’s fair to say when we meet them we quickly “recognize” them.  That is, we’ve seen the traits in ourselves and/or in others we know.  They resonate with us because, adjusting for our 21^stcentury context—they are us.   

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After laying the groundwork of his overall thesis in the first part of the book, Law gets into more specifics about the particulars of different spiritual practices like prayer, worship, and fasting that can help us deepen our relationship with God.  He gets quite exact (perhaps too exact for my taste at moments) about what he recommends as the orthodox (proper) way to do things. 

 

For example, in Chapter 15, Law suggests that a key to entering into worship is singing psalms to God.  He almost immediately anticipates that some readers will object by saying that they “can’t sing.”  Choir leaders, does this sound familiar?  But Law isn’t buying it.  He argues that no one is exempt from the call to sing psalms.  Now, that doesn’t mean we’re all called to lead public singing.  Law recognizes that some people have special gifts and training in that area and are ideal candidates to lead public singing, while others (like me) are not—even though I try it occasionally .  But as Law says it: “All things considered, it is fully as just for a person to think himself excused from thinking upon God, from reasoning about his duty to God, or discoursing about the means of salvation because he has not these talents in any great degree, as for a person to think himself excused from singing the praises of God because he has not a fine ear or a musical voice.”

 

This chapter really resonated with me because the situation we face right now as we begin to emerge from the COVID-19 pandemic and reengage public worship.  When we consider all the things COVID-19 has deprived us of over the last year, we could list many things that we’ve lost.  However, when it comes to public worship, I suspect singing may rank high on many people’s list.   At my church (Good Shepherd), we resumed public worship beginning on Easter Sunday, but we’re still advising against singing for the time being.  For some, I’m sure this seems like sacrilege.  How can we possibly worship God if we can’t sing?!  I get it; sometimes I feel that way too.  It’s such a part of our Methodist DNA to sing our praises to God.  What would Charles Wesley say?  Who are we without the ability to sing our songs?  

 

It’s been an interesting experience for me the past few Sundays as we’ve returned to worshipping in person—but been asked to refrain from singing.  I’m so used to using my voice to sing—and I may need to confess to singing softly under my mask at times.  However, God has also reminded that I have other senses that I can engage during worship.  I’m realizing that even though my voice is muted temporarily, the Song goes on.  The Song can ring in my heart while someone else leads the public singing.  If the words are on the screen, I can be intentional about engaging my mind to focus on them.  I can’t always do that when I’m singing with the Praise Team or even when I sing out loud during worship.  I’ve probably gotten overfamiliar with some songs, meaning that I just rattle them from memory without thinking about the words.  I might even sing the wrong words by rote—because I’ve forgotten what the lyrics actually say.

 At other times the last few weeks, I’ve also found myself engaging my eyes, looking up at the beautiful colored glass windows that adorn our sanctuary while our song leader sings.  The windows, if you will, surround us with our Song.  Have you ever taken time to notice?  The windows create a panorama, a compelling visio divina that starts in the rear of the right side of the church (looking forward) with Creation and other stories in Genesis depicted.  It continues forward clockwise with other Old Testament stories depicted.  It then moves into the New Testament and beyond, depicting the life of Jesus, the start of the Church, the start of the United Methodist Church, and the founding and building of Good Shepherd.  The final panel looks toward the future consummation of all things when Jesus returns to judge the world.  (There’s also a large Good Shepherd window in the center, above the altar.)

 

There’s also another source of beauty that God has reminded me of recently during worship.  I see it when I pay close attention to the expressions on the faces of others—yes, even when they are masked.  The Communion of Saints is always present when we worship, but it’s easy to get caught up in ourselves during worship and never notice.  Whenever we enter the Presence of God, who is eternal, the veil between past, present thins and there’s an opportunity to get a glimpse of how God always sees things.  Perhaps because my voice must be suppressed, our post-pandemic worship gatherings have heightened my awareness of this reality.  I suspect I am particularly sensitive to the saints right now because my dad passed away recently.  I’ve felt his presence at times the last couple of weeks, as well as that of my daughter Hope, and my grandmother. 

 

So, no, we can’t sing in the way we’re used to right now at Good Shepherd, and there’s no denying that I miss that—and look forward to the day we can.  However, in the meantime, I’m finding other ways to for the Song to go on within me—and I hope you are too.  

I think of the praise song lyric, “When the music fades, and all is stripped away”—even our voices—then what’s left?  Can we still find ways to sing our Song?  I think Law would say that, just like any other thing we do in life, worship and the pursuit of God is always worthy of our best effort, and sometimes that will require “thinking outside the box.”  My guess is that if he was alive today, during COVID, Law would encourage us to get creative in figuring out new ways to continue our serious pursuit of a devout and holy life, so that we can continue to grow in grace and reach as many as possible with God’s love.