Song of the Suffering

We all love our fronts, especially here in the suburbs. Box houses line up row after row with shiny cars in the garage and crystal clean pools in the backyards. It looks idyllic. But is it? Amidst the fronts, there are people suffering with a variety of ailments, whether it is spiritual darkness, financial burden, or maybe a bodily disease. All is not well, despite the green lawns. No, those tall wooden fences are there for a reason -- so you cannot see inside, cannot see the hurts, cannot see the pain.

I don't live in one of those box houses. Maybe you do. My house is actually a 20-foot by 31-foot cabin hidden from the road amidst the trees. It's old and worn down but it's home. However, I can tell you from personal experience that my house also contains a person who has suffered. It's common to all. Fronts and all.

The lament psalms were written from the hearts of people who were suffering, whether physical illness like David in Psalm 34 or spiritual illness like Psalm 51 or emotional sickness like Asaph in Psalm 73 or Korah in Psalm 42. But churches tend away from teaching about laments, about suffering, about the reality of life as we await the final coming of the King. Here's my first offering in the category of lament songs.

O Lord, why do I have to suffer?
To be subject to so much pain
Like Job my woes keep on mounting
What is there to gain?

My strength like wax it is melting
My bones they ache from the strain
O Lord, please forgive my doubting
But what is there to gain?

Come and rescue me
From my misery
Maker of heaven and earth
Creator of every soul
Rise up and look on your servant
Mend my wounds and make me whole

My prayers have become such a burden
I don’t know how to explain
I know you know of my troubles
I know you know of my pain

Come and rescue me
From my misery
Maker of heaven and earth
Creator of every soul
Rise up and look on your servant
Mend my wounds and make me whole

The Peace of Silence

Two weeks ago I decided to do something rather different for a Monday evening. I went for a walk. Well, not just a walk but also an adventurous photographic exploration of the great unknown. I snuck under the gate of an abandoned farm at the end of the road, camera and tripod in hand, and decided to captured whatever images of art and beauty my eyes could see. You see, there were some pretty purple flowers in the pasture that drew my interest at first, then some white blossoms that seemed to be randomly planted between the purple ones. Then there was this old tree stump and an old wooden fence that at one time were a majestic oak tree and its gleaming white friend. Along the fence ran a rutty winding dirt road, which also bordered a old stock pond and its companion, a rusty grain silo. Indeed, there was a lot of neat things to photograph at Green Acres Farm. But what made an impact on me perhaps more than anything else was the most noticeable thing out there: the silence. There was relative silence and peace. No televisions, no computers, no phones ringing with telemarketers, no noisy neighbors... none of that. Just the birds and the turtles, the flowers and the trees, the little things of God's creation that we often pass by on our way to our noisy jobs in our noisy cars with our noisy cell phones just waiting to disrupt our new day. Perhaps there is great peace in silence because we don't have enough silence in our lives. Maybe our prayer lives struggle because we don't plan any silence into our days. Maybe all we need is a little walk down the street every now and then to find out what we truly are missing. Peace and quiet.

Another Favorite Photo

What draws me to this particular photo, another flickr.com selection, is its tunnel-vision effect. Where are we? How far is it until we get to the light at the end of the tunnel? I like the fact that this tunnel is not immovable but is made up of trees instead. In the winter time, the tunnel will be little less than a skeleton and it won't seem nearly as scary. But as of now it is rather claustrophobic. Uncomfortable. Unsettling. It's much like the Christian life. We can't always see the things happening around us but we know that at the end of this journey there will be light, an everlasting light. We can see it through God's word and this sight is confirmed by the Holy Spirit within us, but we must all go through the tunnel -- through the darkness -- until we get to the end. And we can easily start to panic when we take our eyes off of that end and look at the closed-in atmosphere around us. So that's why it is important for us to never take our eyes off of the end. We must live in the knowledge that Jesus will return for His church, to take her to glory, and will one day after conquer all sin and death and darkness. The apostle Peter wrote in his second letter that in light of this ending we should be motivated to live for God today, sharing the gospel, and working to be God's ambassadors on earth (read 2 Peter 3). The end of the tunnel is reason to live in the tunnel. To share what we know with those who cannot see the light at the end. That way, they too can walk with us towards the light and, in turn, bring even more along.

The Beauty of Art

A photo by Steve Hixon

I attended a meeting of photographers and photography lovers from my church this morning. During the meeting I was struck by a realization of the depth of art. Art, as I like to define it, is creativity's physical expression. It is the result of using our creative gifts and urges, whether it's a new way to stack the dishes or an oil painting. This morning, our teaching pastor, Steve Hixon, showed us some of his photographs of which he was really proud. And they really were exquisite. He's what I'd call an advanced photographer. When he gets behind the lens, he knows exactly (or almost exactly) what he intends to shoot and how to shoot it. It a skill 99.9-percent of the world's picture takers would love to posses. There is probably almost as much art in how he sets up a picture as in what that picture shows. Almost. But not quite.

Anyway, one thing that struck me this morning as our small group looked at his pictures was how each person saw something a little bit different in those photos. Some people noticed things that even Steve himself didn't notice when he took the shots. There was one photograph but many elements to that photograph. This is part of the beauty of art. It is deeper than just the surface, like a vein of gold deep within its mountain home. We intend one thing when we create an artwork, maybe two if we're resourceful, but even we, the artists, cannot see everything beautiful or unique about our art. It takes a community sometimes to bring about the greater beauty in art. That's something I noticed this morning.

Video Blog: My Favorite Chapter

Behold, my first ever video blog! Reference the previous post for context.

Back With a Question

After a lengthy break due to some internet problems, I'm back and roaring to go. Tonight I have a simple question for you: What is your favorite chapter of the Bible and why? Do you have a favorite chapter? What about a favorite verse?

For me, I'm infatuated with Isaiah 40. Smitten, you might say. It says more about the character of God, the way He relates to the universe, and the way He relates to the individual than any other single chapter I can recall. The words were written 2700 years ago but they contain a lot of application for today. I suggest you read it through, verse 1 to verse 31. Then read it again. What does Isaiah say about God? What does God think of the nations? How does He relate to the individual?

In these hallowed 31 verses, you can find theology that covers the inspiration of the Bible, the justice of God, the tenderness of Jesus the the Good Shepherd, the sovereignty of God, the importance (or unimportance) of the nations, the alertness and concern of God for the individual, and the promise of God to supply the weary with strength. It is a marvelous text. My favorite.

What's your favorite chapter?