And He Gave Up This View Just to Tell Her

begonia pink ch
Out of the ivory palaces,
Into a world of woe,
Only His great eternal love
Made my Savior go.

You don’t hear many bass baritones in popular music (or sopranos for that matter). I have a theory that involves people being most comfortable with voices that fit into cheap radios without too much distortion, but now that the quality of sound systems is improving it is probably time for a greater variety of voice types to appear. Bobby McFerrin said, “Listening to only one kind of music is like insisting on living in only one room of your home your entire life.” I would say the same about listening to one type and range of voice -tenors and alto belters. I have pretty eclectic tastes. Admittedly, sometimes I have to shut off the music critic in me to hear the heart of the singer rather than the style, but I can hear it. I do long for freedom in my culture for a wider expression of praise in worship music though.

I remember listening to recordings of George Beverly Shea when I was a child. I loved the richness and power and fatherly comfort of his voice. I remembered him yesterday as I listened to another beloved baritone (with an incredible extension into tenor range) -Josh Groban. I don’t know if it was intentional, but so often I hear something in his songs on a spiritual level that causes me to pause and pay attention. Yesterday it was a connection to the song “Out of the Ivory Palaces” by George Beverly Shea. This connection was about more than range. The Josh Groban song was “So She Dances” and the line that stood out to me was “And I’m giving up this view just to tell her…”

It’s a romantic song, but it reminded me of the Divine Romance, when the King left the ivory palaces, and laid down his rights so he could allure the one he loved and win her to himself. (Though he [Jesus] was in the form of God, [he] did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. Phil. 2:6,7)

The Church becomes the Bride of Christ in the great metaphor. It reminds me of the metaphor of Lover and Bride  in the Song of Solomon. It reminds me that the Bible talks about a great wedding feast at the end of the age when the King of Kings comes for his Bride. It reminds me of the great sacrifice Jesus made just to dance with us.

With just one glance the Bride captured his heart. He laid down His life to clothe her in garments of gladness and purity. In His eyes His Bride is beautiful.

Only His great eternal love made him give up His view just to tell her He loves her.

You are the object of God’s desire, and you are beautiful.

Spiritual Claustrophobia

IMG_0630 longview morning

I learned something about myself yesterday. When the doctor set up the MRI appointment she asked if I was claustrophobic. I said no and I thought it was an accurate answer. Apparently I lied. During the procedure I ran through my entire repertoire of meditation, positive visualization, prayer for others and calming songs in my head… Looks like I’m due for an upgrade. I tried not to think about the reason for being there, and I did endure to the end (including re-takes, because breathing too hard apparently jiggles your head -even when it is stuck in a cage) although I didn’t exactly hold on to peace.

The tiny logical side of my brain (the part that required state-of-the-art machinery to find) could scrounge up some attitude of gratitude that a mobile unit with such fine diagnostic equipment was available in our town, and that I live in a country where having pre-existing (Is that like time travel?) condition and (technically) being unemployed didn’t put the cost of medical insurance out of reach.

But logic alone didn’t cut it when I was so squished in that tube that I had cleavage up to my chin (or maybe that’s just where I folded) and my head was held rigidly in a cage with warm sponges on either side of my face like an visiting auntie’s unwelcome embrace.

I sang “You are My Hiding Place” (in my head) and I thought about being safe in a cocoon, and even imagined Jesus holding me tightly in  a loving hug. But honestly, it wasn’t long before I felt like yelling, “Jesus! Let go –now !”

I was only about 15 minutes into a 45 minute procedure at this point. I squeezed my eyes shut and decided to visualize the opposite instead. Wide open fields, with lots of sky. I pictured myself flinging my arms wide and dancing. Instead of restriction I imagined latitude, expansion, immensity –freedom.

Hey! I made it. (Although the technician noted, as he pulled me out, “You didn’t like that much, did you?”)

I prayed for him a lot while I was in there. The Bible says to pray for those who spitefully use you. He’ll probably get a new car.

 

I am learning that when I am in a tight spot without good solutions (quite literally this time) it is often because the Lord wants to give me an upgrade so I can better understand who he is and who I am and what he has for me -by showing me what’s missing. I’m learning to say, “Well, that sucks. What do you want to do instead, Lord?”

I was in no danger in the MRI machine. There was fresh air blowing in and the technician hovered only a few feet away. I could hear him on an intercom so I could talk to him and demand to be removed if it came to that. He told me instant removal is not an unusual request.

So, processing this experience later, I asked the Lord what that was all about. The old song, There’s a Wideness in God’s Mercy, started playing in my head.

Then the thought came: The reason I had to be under such restriction was because all this technology was focusing on finding what is wrong with me.

It hit me. Sometimes we need to focus on a problem so we can be aware of it and take steps to fix it — and it’s not a comfortable experience. But sometimes we can become so introspective, so perfectionist, so merciless, so restricted by the traditional constructs of this-is-the-way-it-is-done that we can’t move. We have no elbow room, no vision, no freedom. Sometimes religious practices that major on striving to be better by finding and rooting out all impurities end up feeling like being in an MRI machine week after week, month after month, year after year, and the end result is that we are more conscious of our sin than we are of the freedom we have in Christ. We become dependent on an institution or a mediator to point out our sin so we can do a mea culpa self-flagellating kind of repentance that keeps us restricted to a tiny sphere of influence. Without a vision beyond the confines of our own making, we, at best, merely endure.

Abba seems to be talking to me about grace a lot lately. I think I’ve got it, but then he says, “There is more! There is more, more, more than you have ever imagined! There is wideness in My mercy. I give you latitude.”

With both feet planted firmly on love, you’ll be able to take in with all followers of Jesus the extravagant dimensions of Christ’s love. Reach out and experience the breadth! Test its length! Plumb the depths! Rise to the heights! Live full lives, full in the fullness of God.God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us. (Ephesians 3 The Message paraphrase))

The first thing I did when I was pulled out of that machine was to stretch my arms and go outside where I could see the sky. Freedom feels wonderful.

 

I was going through photos looking for something else last night, when this one caught my eye. I took it near a place called Longview.

 

Holding On and Letting Go

fushia

I’m holding on to hope

I’m holding on to grace

I’m fully letting go

I’m surrendered to Your ways

For some reason these lines from the song, Anchor, have been stuck in my head for a couple of weeks.

Perhaps letting go of anything that does not glisten with hope, or float with grace is surrendering to God’s ways.

Grace gives us permission to move and explore like an unsteady toddler who is anchored to a loving Daddy’s finger…

or like a pretty fushia in her ballet skirt, dancing in the breeze, yet nourished and sustained by a connecting stem.

Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem

I am re-posting this today. This was written over a year ago, but it is even more important today. I don’t know what it is like to be on either side and have bombs aimed at me, but I do know what it is like to be pushed into a place of desperation and see God answer prayer in response to our pleas.

Charis Psallo's avatarCharis: Subject to Change

It’s a commandment.

Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem

While we were in Israel I was very aware of the presence of guns and the need to be vigilant against sudden violence. In the place where we live a lot of people own hunting rifles which are kept carefully locked up outside of hunting season, but I don’t know anyone who carries a weapon designed to shoot people, other than police. We don’t see many soldiers in these parts, and certainly we don’t see teenagers in shorts and flip-flops patrolling the community with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders like we saw at a kibbutz.

I don’t live in a place with concrete walls and barbed wire or big red signs in three languages that forbid other ethnicities from entering an area with threats to their lives if they use that road. I don’t know what it’s like to find…

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The Brilliance of Grace

arise shine mock orange charis

This is the brilliance of grace: it welcomes our darkness into the light and does nothing to it, knowing that it doesn’t have to, because darkness thrives on hiddenness, and it’s at the mercy of the light.

Light drives out darkness, not the other way around.

When we no longer have to push our darkness back down beneath layers of shame our darkness doesn’t stand a chance.

-Dr Kelly Flanagan

 

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Dr. Flanagan on Why I Don’t Believe in Grace Anymore  (It’s a short article – and please don’t jump to conclusions until you have read the whole thing.)

Willow

willow birdhouse watercolour

The place where my family vacationed when I was a child is the place where I now live. I remember being amazed by the mountains and tall fir and pine tress with their wonderful scent, but I had seen those before. This is the first place where I remember seeing a weeping willow tree. They don’t grow on the prairies in Canada.

One hot July day, many years ago, while Mom fried potatoes and bacon on the little green Coleman camp stove, and Dad set up the tent, I cooled my feet in the brook that runs through the campground in the center of town. I watched the breeze play with the long trailing branches of the willow trees. They dripped down to the earth like luxuriant overflowing green fountains. On a hot day their shade was satisfying to my soul. I remember declaring out loud, “Someday I am going to live here.”

And now I do.

And I still love weeping willow trees. They remind me of the goodness of God.

 

For I will pour water on him who is thirsty,
And floods on the dry ground;
I will pour My Spirit on your descendants,
And My blessing on your offspring;
They will spring up among the grass
Like willows by the watercourses.

(Isaiah 44:3,4)

First Light

First Light
First Light

The sun comes up, it’s a new day dawning
It’s time to sing Your song again
Whatever may pass, and whatever lies before me
Let me be singing when the evening comes

Bless the Lord, O my soul
O my soul
Worship His holy name
Sing like never before
O my soul
I’ll worship Your holy name

(from 10,000 Reasons by Matt Redman)

I’m not a morning person. In times when I don’t need to conform to other people’s hours I tend to go to bed later every evening, which means I tend to be less than sparkly at dawn. But I miss a lot of good light. My friend reminded me of this yesterday when she urged me to get up and get going with her on a photo shoot. I grabbed my coffee and stumbled out the door when her vehicle pulled up and we headed out. What a beautiful morning! Sometimes we need a little encouragement, a little vicarious optimism, a little holy provocation. Thank you, Denise. You are a blessing to me.