The Silence of God

It's enough to drive a man crazy; it'll break a man's faith
It's enough to make him wonder if he's ever been sane
When he's bleating for comfort from thy staff and Thy rod
And the heaven's only answer is the silence of God

It'll shake a man's timbers when he loses his heart
When he has to remember what broke him apart
This yoke may be easy, but this burden is not
When the crying fields are frozen by the silence of God

And if a man has got to listen to the voices of the mob
Who are reeling in the throes of all the happiness they've got
When they tell you all their troubles have been nailed up to that cross
Then what about the times when even followers get lost?
'Cause we all get lost sometimes...

There's a statue of Jesus on a monastery knoll
In the hills of Kentucky, all quiet and cold
And He's kneeling in the garden, as silent as a Stone
All His friends are sleeping and He's weeping all alone

And the man of all sorrows, He never forgot
What sorrow is carried by the hearts that He bought
So when the questions dissolve into the silence of God
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not
In the Holy, lonesome echo of the silence of God

The Silence of God
Words and music by Andrew Peterson (1-9-02)

That pretty much sums it up today, another day of towers built and broken of so much Babel. Of acknowledging my humanity, my weakness instead of hiding beneath the comfort of my own piety, laced with the arm-chair faith of Job's visitors. Answers come so easy, ah, but the questions...

Love on me, Jesus. Like only only you can.

For

The aching may remain, but the breaking does not
In the Holy, lonesome echo of the silence of God

He Knows Me

2I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband.

3And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.

4He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."
(Revelation 21:2-4, NIV)

Ah, that sounds so good (even though I hear it Kirk Franklin's voice. Weird.) Sometimes in the press of earthly living, it is easy to forget the hope of heaven. In my first years of being a Christian, I thought of heaven often, longed for it, dreamed of it, even drew a detailed drawing of God's throne room in Revelation 4. Today, I think I will read that again: the sea of glass, the twenty-four elders, the heavenly refrain. "Holy, Holy, Holy the Lord God Almighty." It is good to remember all the wonder that Jesus left behind to win my life. It helps whenever I feel as I often do, misunderstood and out of place.

Yet, God knows me in all my quirky imperfection and tangled words. He requires no false humility or fake protraction from me. It is grace that He offers, lush and full, overflowing my cup at the table He has prepared me. The seat is one I do not deserve, cannot earn, but I climb it's golden rungs and crawl into it anyway. How can I not? He has bidden me, this Lover of my soul, creator of heaven and earth, to come.

And so I sit, slurping the cup of fellowship so unlike the bitterness He drank of. I try to mind my manners, but He reminds me that this is not the place. Or the time. This is the table for the starving, for those who thirst past the consideration of others, for blind men who cry out from roadsides, for women who dare to touch the hem of a stranger's garment . . .

As I think of heaven, of my inheritance, I am too overwhelmed to be appropriate, to be humble, to be quiet. I cry out today with a loud voice, in my need, in my pain,"Lord Jesus, come quickly! Help me. I am empty. Nothing."

And He who is everything, who holds the very atoms together by His word, pours His blood into my goblet, His words into my mouth. I try to sip slowly, but my need, it is too great. The time, it is too short.

I must go now. There is a stain upon my dress.

Someone might think I've troubled the Master.

Reflections in the Rear View of Life

Last night (or was it this morning?) I took a trip to a tragedy in world history (it's the Jeremiah in me, I have a thing for mourning...and laughter). Anyway, I spent the wee hours of this Memorial Day in Rwanda where the genocide of 800,000 Rwandans took place at the hands of their neighbors, and in some cases their friends who killed to save themselves. I read of a pastor who received a letter from his congregates seeking asylum, nuns who shut their doors to those seeking asylum, women who took their children on killing sprees and of my own nation, who scribbled memos debating the language to be used in the press ("Don't call it genocide or we'll have to do something. Call it civil war)

Is this not what I do, even now, pondering the grief of the world instead of dealing with the pain of things far nearer, in my country, my city, my neigborhood, sometimes down the hall, or on the other side of my bed? Is not this our way, to pass by Samaria, and forget also the utter ends of the earth, suspending ourselves in a fake world where mud doesn't slide, volcanoes don't erupt, and machetes do not split the skulls of little boys? Do we not also quibble over the language of our false realities? (Don't call it sin or we'll have to DO something...Call it a misunderstanding, a break in the chain of command)

It just blows my mind to consider all the bloodshed this century in post-colonial countries, many times because somebody got off a boat and decided who was different, who was better. Sounds so familiar...and scary.

Anyway, I wrote a poem 'bout it, and it goes like this...

GENO-SIDE

The radio sputtered with
the names of those
who would die tomorrow

Did you scream, dragging your
daughters as the screwdrivers
ripped through your skin?

i would have
i hope
rather than pick up my own
machete
exchanging your life for mine

but wait
i did that anyway
sitting here, picking
chicken from my teeth
while you were plucked
from your bed

rent and torn
died and born

the cloth wooed you
to a bloody love
the cross stuck fast
giving no refuge
while my chief
chose the best words
with which to strangle you

I wonder if your children,
who stare back at me
with soul hungry,
orphaned eyes
wonder where the hands
of a mighty God were
when they came,
tripping,
ripping
you apart

The answers skip past me
splashing against fazes
and whispers
which make me think
God's hands were held fast
by the fingers
of fearful men, covering
their own ears


and restrained by women like me,
covering their eyes
lest they be made to ponder
more than the
price of chicken.

The Underside

There are times like tonight, today, this weekend, when I am faced with the underbelly of myself, my faith, my relationships. Times when I am so grateful for God's grace in the face of my pride, my jealousy, my greed and myfear. Times when my rationalizations refuse to rescue me, mocking instead at the edges of my mind, leaving me alone to face the roar of truths I refuse to face.

It was this side, raw and bleeding, cursing and crazy, that Jesus kissed with his life, redeemed with his blood. It quivers still, this bloated ugliness with jagged stitches and crisscrossed scars. I have another skin, a mask of new flesh, smooth like a mango, that I stretch over the other. A smoothness that eases the anxiety of others when I pass and causes them to pull out the chair for me at gilded tables full of Pharisees and other confused people. I sit, glad to have a place to ease my feet of wandering.

Or so I think.

The chair is made of thumbtacks and the oatmeal runny with deceit. My mask melts in the heat of their inspection revealing the truth of my imperfection, my weakness, my desire. I wait, knowing that soon my place will be taken from the table, my chair overturned . . .

Instead, I hear the snap of cords as they pull filmy distractions tight over the bellies of their own lies. "Sit," they tell me, spooning yeast into tasteless dough. "Sit, and tell us a story."