...I have been afraid

Lo! the hosts of evil round us scorn thy Christ, assail his ways!

Fears and doubts too long have bound us, free our hearts to work and praise.

Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the living of these days.

---Harry Emerson Fosdick, 1930

Careful now. Before we go seeing monsters under every bed, and bogeymen around every corner, let’s be clear-headed. When the hosts of evil scorn Jesus and his ways, what ways exactly are they disregarding? What are Jesus’ defining ways? I am going to go out on a limb here, and say that anytime you saw Jesus speak for the voiceless, stand with the invisible, lift up the lowly, welcome the outsider, or free the oppressed, it was then you were seeing the ways of Christ.

And if that be true, the hymn’s next line is put into beautiful, and perfect, and fearsome context for us. Because, my friends, I have been afraid. To speak up in the face of hate or disregard. I have doubted. Whether I was strong enough to stand up. Whether it would be worth it. Even (God forgive me) whether my stand would be fully understood and appreciated. Fears and doubts have silenced my speech and frozen me into inaction. I have not walked in Jesus’ ways.

Well, I checked, and there is no way Harry Emerson Fosdick, the prominent progressive pastor who penned this hymn, and John Mayer, popular singer-songwriter, could have been best friends. The dates just don’t line up. But, folks, let me tell you, I think they would have shared a groovy moment of synchronicity over some of their writing and personal philosophies. Because here is a verse of Mayer’s song Say:

            Even if your hands are shaking

            And your faith is broken

            Even as the eyes are closing

            Do it with a heart wide open

            Say what you need to say

Grant us wisdom, grant us courage. To say what we need to say.

...my kind of river

Like a river glorious is God’s perfect peace,

Over all victorious in it’s bright increase;

Perfect, yet it floweth fuller everyday,

Perfect, yet it groweth deeper all the way.

---Frances R. Havergal, 1874

I have never floated on the Mississippi River, but I’ve read Huckleberry Finn. There is a vivid description of the river that stays with me. Huck and Jim are floating on their raft down the river, intending to veer into the Ohio where it joins the Mississippi. Neither had ever seen the Ohio, or that part of the Mississippi; when they realized that the time for paddling hard upstream of the Ohio was nigh, it was obvious that the river was too wide, too deep, too inexorable to fight against.

I thought of this passage when I read the hymn text for today. This river of God’s peace? It’s no shallow, meandering, drought-sickened rivulet. This river, this peace, is a powerful force, growing ever deeper and fuller in its completeness. This peace is not a resigned, mousy resignation to the ‘true’  powers in the world. It is the force that is able to sustain life, overpowering the unrest, the injustice, the terror in the world with its current. This peace is the true force to be reckoned with.

That’s my kind of river.

...seeking the city

Where cross the crowded ways of life,

Where sound the cries of race and clan,

Above the noise of selfish strife

We hear your voice, O Son of Man!

In haunts of wretchedness and need,

On shadowed thresholds dark with fears,

From paths where hide the lures of greed

We catch the vision of your tears.

The cup of water given for you

Still holds the freshness of your grace;

Yet long these multitudes to view

The strong compassion of your face.

O Master, from the mountainside,

Make haste to heal these hearts of pain;

Among these restless throngs abide,

O tread the city’s streets again;

Till all the world shall learn your love

And follow where your feet have trod:

Till glorious from your heaven above

Shall come the city of our God.

---Frank Mason North, 1903

What a privilege we have today, to experience this hymn, just over a century old. It presents a great contrast between two cities --- one earthly, one the city of God. In this verse, I can almost feel the dank walls of the city closing in on me: narrow alleys with doorways leading to shadowy rooms; streets crowded with strangers passing, eyes down; threat of danger holding in the stale air like a threadbare blanket. Wretchedness, greed, fear, the noise of selfish strife, lurk around each corner and haunt each boulevard.

And Christ himself visits these streets, never shrinking from the pain and need. Weeping while he walks, aching for the hurting world he loves, but fully giving himself to its brokenness. And while we are Christ’s people in this brokedown city, we walk and weep like our brother Savior.

But there is another city, another city than the one we manage to create when left to our own devices. This city is inhabited with love, and these streets, too, are paved with the footfalls of Jesus; walking in them, living in the rare air of compassion, we put our hands to the wheel to co-create the Kingdom with our Savior. The cup of cold water still holds the freshness of grace; we tread the streets together, Christ among us, on his face “strong compassion.”

Seeking the City…

...diamonds from ashes

When through the deep waters I call thee to go,

The rivers of woe shall not thee overflow;

For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,

And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.

---John Rippon, 1787

There are lots of ways to look at the rough patches and tragedies in our lives. Some folk choose to look at everything that happens as God’s distinct will, some look at bad stuff as karma or payback. I see the bad things that happen as part of the price of being truly human in this world. For me, this resonates with my observations, with history, with my own life experience, and with my belief in a loving God.

In today’s hymn, with its text from the 18^th century, the hymnist speaks from the viewpoint of a strong, caring God to a searching believer. We will be called, no choice about it, through our life experiences, to journey through deep waters; but we will not go alone. God goes with us through our troubles and distress, to bless and even to make holy those experiences that try us the most. To me this says that God can bring some worth out of even the most tragic, worthless, hurtful situation, diamonds from ashes.

What a hopeful thought from a loving God!

...something rushes in

Come away from rush and hurry to the stillness of God’s peace;

from our vain ambition’s worry, come to Christ to find release. Come away from noise and clamor, life’s demands and frenzied pace;

come to join the people gathered here to seek and find God’s grace.

---Marva J. Dawn, 1999

Horror vacui, “Nature abhors a vacuum”, was thought to have been postulated around 485 BC by Greek physicist-philosopher Parmenides. The theory, in my (very) laywoman’s terms, is that where nothing is, something will rush in to fill it up. Lots of things about physical science don’t make sense to me; this, I have no trouble with. Clear off the kitchen table…whoosh, two days later, the surface is covered with the flotsam and jetsam of daily life. Horror vacui, indeed.

I thought of this principle as I read Marva Dawn’s wonderful new hymn text. She addresses the call, tempting to us all at various times in our busy lives, to come away, to retreat, to leave behind. And the things she names as ‘retreat-worthy’ are indeed the things that wear us down and use us up. But our lives don’t need to be left vacant, empty spaces void of substance or meaning when we retreat from the stressors of everyday.

Dawn suggests that when we come away from rush and hurry we come toward the stillness of peace. When we retreat from the idea that we change the world by worrying we move forward to release through trust in Christ. And when we draw back for a time from the lures of this world, with its clamor, frenzy, and unending demands, we can step into the gathered family of faith, seeking grace in each other’s company and God’s presence.

Nature abhors a vacuum. So when we step away from what binds us, let us lean toward the fullness of faith.