Inverted Glory

This gift of time, it opens the door for me to walk through. So I step outside, down the snow-crusted street, drifts and ice and shovelled remnants telling the tale of a persistent winter. 

This gift of breeze, it tickles my senses and awakens me to beauty unseen, only tasted in the soul. And why should we be given such a palette of scents? We wouldn’t be the wiser if everything smelled like vanilla, or vinegar, or rotten vegetables.

This gift of sun, it beckons me to look up, look ahead, to LOOK, and see the wonder around me, see through the wonder to the WONDERFUL One who took pains to make it just so. 

And colour plays in hues. And breezes waft in gentle shades. And time slows, turns musical, and the world plays a symphony around me. And I join in, lift a melody line of sighing gratitude, breath falling in time: exhaling thanks, inhaling grace. 

Why does it come so rarely? Why can I not live in this sphere all the time? Why don’t I see the miracle and live in the song all the time? Here, I know I am alive. Why take such pains to avoid LIFE? Why sink in apathy and procrastinated gluttony, letting heavy soul glug along, sapping life and moving slow . . . a slow without intention, a slow without attention, a slow dulled and tired.

But this . . . this gentle walk calls life, draws attention, awakens purpose. Everything looks deeper, as though it really is significant, and can sing me a story. The leaning trees with shadow and shelter, the bridge ahead, the very ice of the lake. 

Snow footprints: they began as indentations, marring the unbroken silence of White’s blanket. Now, they are all that remains of a snow blown into ditch and rock and alley. They started as an interruption on the landscape by adventurers or lovers, exploring the newly formed world of ice. Now, they echo the journey, a brief-lasting memorial, guides and trophies of a secret past. 

And sometimes, glory echoes inverted, in the things that ruin our landscapes and mar our dreams. Sometimes, glory IS inverted, the marks and scars left after the adventure and surgery and soul struggle, these marks tell more than the pristine vista, because they tell of healing, of life still living, of battle and bruise and the fight with evil. They acknowledge something is WRONG in the world, they scream to be made right . . . even while they promise that there is RIGHT, that there is GOOD. Because scars reveal healing, and in each scratch is a story of grace.

 

 

Sometimes, we just need TIME to look for the stories, LIGHT to see their beauty, and EARS to hear the song of glory threaded through each one. 

So, let our souls WALK with You, Lord, the Maker of Song, so we can hear Your music in our own souls, and detect it in others . . . so we can call it out and join the global and heavenly song of Glory.

Those Anno Domini People

Dear Pilgrim,

What makes the Anno Domini people different? What characterizes their conversation of living, what is communicated by their actions? What does life in the reality of God is, and God is good look like?

We compile lists, reading the Text and jotting references to the Divine will, trying to chart a map and define the parameters of our existence. Sometimes we take the information and make a box to live inside. Sometimes we use the Text as a fence, to keep someone in or someone out. Sometimes, we sit down on mental crate, gazing at scattered tools and supplies, and sob in overwhelmed confusion.

We are confused about what to do, because we are confused about who we are.

We assume we must construct, must do business, must dominate territory and possess a corner on the market. We flail and pump and beat ourselves, and end up ragged with effort, or stiff with exhaustion that will not admit mistake or fatigue.

The problem is not the things we ought and want to do; it’s the best thing, we are not doing, NOW.

Above all other roles, beyond all expressions of energetic endeavour, transcendent through labour or reflection, beckons the call to worship God.

A worshipping heart hones appetites, pleasures, chores, as defining love colours all other affections. We’re always worshipping something or someone, Pilgrim.

So when my affections lie elsewhere, and joy is not centered on God, what can be done? Pilgrim, I’ve run around with condemning clouds enveloping me, stealing air and light and touch . . . but it’s not a matter of me trying harder to love God better: my duty is to acknowledge that He is worthy, He is God, He is good; to let go of my efforts and demands for justice, and let His goodness change me.

So, what does life for Anno Domini look like? At its core, the people who live in the reality of Sovereign Goodness say “thank You” . . . a lot. Because, if every good and perfect gift in life comes from God, and if every pain and sorrow is constructed and managed by Him for our good, how could we not say Thank You?

Today, I cannot change my heart . . . but I can acknowledge the One Who Can, and thank Him.

“Therefore by Him let us continually offer the sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of our lips, giving thanks to His name.” Hebrews 13:15

Soul Scurry

Quiet. Change comes, but for now, the moment of pregnant preparation lingers. Soon it will break, the silence shatter, the winds sweep us into transformation. But for now, we wait.

The waiting annoys us. This frustrating space: the breath before birthing effort, the still before the bluster, the pause before the next notes sung. Linger here, my soul, and learn the song of suspension.

How can it be that “stepping out in faith” requires me to stand still? It’s so opposite, so different than how I think progress works. We are inculcated to believe advancement equals action, stillness equals stagnation, pausing equals cowardice and ignorance. We know how to rush, how to work, how to drown out the noise and push through. We acclimatize ourselves to action. We stir it up, even when things are still.

Yet, we crave rest, peace, quiet. Isn’t every Westerner’s goal to enjoy sweet and early retirement? Don’t we scrimp and save and cut corners and burn bridges and squander lives so we can preserve our own?

Who has educated us in life mechanics? Who do we resemble in the “how” of our existence? What do we demand, expect, dream for ourselves?

The pause reveals it. Soul scurry: questing for substance through action, we go haywire in the maddening, quiet wait.

Whatever happened to the Anno Domini people?

We get caught up in Anno: the year. We flutter and muster for efficiency, always beating our previous goal, always pushing . . . even when we can’t remember why.

We forget the Domini : the dominion of our Lord. For those twice-owned by the universe Maker, life’s about Him, not me, not even us.

The pause tells us so. In it, the Creator says, “I am bigger than this. I transcend this dizzying chaos.” His priorities and proposals feel preposterous . . . till we remember that He is Adonai: Lord and Master.

We squirm and rebel at orders to “Be still,” till we remember Who is giving the orders, and why He can tell us what to do, and why we should do it.

The Creator is all about His glory, and our happiness. And it just so happens that our happiness depends on His glory, because He’s the most satisfying relationship in the universe.

And sometimes, He has to pause the movie a few extra minutes, till we are ready to hear, ready to acknowledge His priority, ready to be made happy by Him alone—not the thrill of the video or the crunch of the snacks or the comfort of the couches. This movie’s not about us; but about HIM.

Tales of the Times

It’s a tale of the times, of the un-common era, of the Anno Domini people.

We who now make history feel engulfed by the repercussions of yesterday’s follies and the deluge of tomorrow’s passage. The sea will be in turmoil our entire voyage. The weight threatens to crush life right out of this existence. And the only thing that will save us is the paradox of True Life, the weight of glory.

Paradox expounds its mystery and interprets ours: Eternity enters our time, now our time is His.

And in the swelling questions, the cultural currents, the raucous winds, the people of Domini cling to His Paradox, the reality of I AM in time. We hear the song of the resurrection, above, within, through the fatal tempest—life through death, life conquers death.

And where should we be? Where He is, because where I AM is, there is life. We will find Him in praise, because He occupies the praise spaces of His people. Every moment, every wave, every raindrop, where Christ Jesus is delighted in as Lord, is worship.

His dominion makes sense of our time, and enables us to live in the year of our LORD.

So, teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.