That's the thing with fruitfulness... Life requires death, wealth requires sacrifice.The kernel falls to the ground to become a full stem of wheat. The grape is crushed for sweet savoring. Good things require a yielding, a giving way.
I was encouraged recently reading a newsletter we receive from Times Square Church in New York City; it's the church founded by David Wilkerson, the missionary pastor in the incredible story "Run, Baby, Run" about gang leader Nicky Cruz and Wilkerson's redeeming work with the youth of inner-city 1960's New York. I'm always impressed at their letters, always real, often addressing brokenness, the downhearted, the down and out, and how God meets the broken ones whose seed has fallen to the ground in need of re-birth. So different from the message of suburban mega-churches, it seems. And why wouldn't it be? They're smack in the middle of one of America's most tumultuous, confused, and self-absorbed cities. Each day on their very church step, a block off Broadway, they encounter every painted color of depravity, violence, and hubris you can imagine, a vivid spectrum from Park Avenue to park bench.
This single phrase from the letter caught my attention, and it re-plays itself in my mind often as the days pass: "Drink deep the cup of salvation." Yes. Drink deep. I long for it. And I believe I do, to the extent that I am able. (Drink deep, that is.) I smile and wonder if God laughs at my child-like desire to take the fullness of his cup. "Are you certain?" He says, amused. A chill quickly passes over the arch of my neck, tiny hairs standing on end. "Well, maybe not the full cup," I think to myself. I suddenly see a little boy, one of my two maybe, holding a goblet to small lips, taking a broad gulp, immersing his young palate in the complex and adult nature of fermented vine. He emerges, sputtering, confused at the bitterness and strength in the juice. No, he's not ready. There's yet time. And small doses. But still he reaches out to receive what he can. As do I. God only gives what we're able to bear, and whatever He gives is good. Faith.
So we drink deep.
No matter the sting, no matter the stain, drink deep... as red wine flows from His cup to ours, life-giving blood to parched, constricted veins.
Drink deep, unabashedly, knowing the only one who truly sees is He who poured it.
Drink unashamed as the Vintner's own sacrifice marks the well from which the cup is drawn.
Drink gratefully as mortal flesh yields to divine glory.
Drink deep the cup of salvation.
And here's the thing... I feel like Christians are even hesitant to talk about these kinds of issues in worship because they're so sensitive about crossing lines - as if words like "body" or "lover" are dangerous swear words never to be uttered in church or relationship in fear of hellfire. Yet intimacy issues are, in my opinion, all too relevant to our relationship with God and worship thereof. In a sex-crazed generation, we are a intimacy-deprived church, the very intimacy this generation seeks without knowing it. Too few are brave enough to venture into these waters. I'd like to grow more in my ability to tackle these issues better myself.
Last week in church, I was thinking again about the American tendency (or maybe it's more of a Northwest tendency) to be body-conscious, body-bound. We're physically stifled as a people, nervous about how we look, restrained in our affections, and hesitant to be physically demonstrative in displaying our emotions. And it carries into our worship. Each Sunday we exercise heart and mind, soul and spirit, but "body" seems somehow neglected in our endeavors. We're encouraged primarily to focus on freeing our hearts to sacrifice, our minds from the pressures of the week, and our wills from the struggles of sin that hinder our relinquishing pure praise... Focus. Center. Throw off anything that entangles. Our minds pause to savor the lofty ideals set forth in hymnbooks written centuries before. Our hearts leap in joy at God's goodness or melt in sorrow at our depravity and pain. And then, when it seems the stars align, we seize some nugget of truth in the music before us, and we worship. Our mouths open to release praise. Moments of pure worship, truly.
But all the while, and too frequently it seems, the bodies (of the Body) stand dormant, unmoved, staunch and seemingly anchored to the ground. Or if we do worship physically, perhaps, we fall into the same predictable cycle of the same old comfortable mechanisms each week: Sit during Verse 1, stand at the Chorus, lift one hand second time around, lower it in Verse 2, (never ever lift both at the same time), etc., etc... That can be almost just as binding as doing nothing at all. The body is a God-given instrument to be unleashed to worship God freely as only flesh and bone can! There are too many things hands and feet can do that a heart or mind can't do alone. Who knows what things that kind of praise can unlock in a person, what it can communicate to a God who became flesh himself and danced among us? Isn't there a reason God gave a physical manifestation of love between a man and a woman? Can you imagine a relationship with a husband or wife where only heart and mind were exchanged and no body-love? Much would be profoundly lost! And while our relationship with God is compared to the relationship of the Lover and the Beloved, we worship frequently stifled. Hm. I can't get away from thinking sadly that overall, as a God-worshiping people, we are still pretty much body worship-depraved. It seems to me that in this way, at least, we have much to learn from ancient cultures and tribal people groups.
I feel it more in some churches than others, and every once in a while, I feel it in a church that I wouldn't even expect it. Why can't people release their hands, arms, legs, torsos, as freely as they release their mouths? What is everyone so afraid of? I guess it is a little more awkward if you're the only one moving in an entire section of people, but enjoyment is contagious. Maybe you're the spark that someone else needs to be brave. What might happen if we just wait expectantly each week to worship spontaneously, freely with all that we are and see how our bodies want to worship naturally on their own? I think when your body wants to move, you should let it lead you. (And I'm not excluding leading you to be still either. I just think we're pretty good at that already, purposeful or not.) When that toe feels like tapping and you find yourself doing it unconsciously, or your center of gravity takes over and starts swaying to the music all on its own, you should just let it. Or maybe you're so bound up, you need to start with just giving all those digits permission to move at all. Just maybe. I'm not so sure we're destined to end up maniac Pentecostals dancing in the aisles if we let our bodies lead, as it seems so many fear. That's not my experience so far anyway. But who knows? I've got a long way to go, so the sermon's as much for myself as for anyone else. My husband is my inspiration; I can always rely on him to be just a little more crazy, a little more spontaneous, a little more body-un-conscious. (Thankfully.)
It's kind of funny actually that sometimes the easiest thing I find to do in worship anymore is to participate physically. We've visited so many churches in the past couple of years where the worship songs are entirely unfamiliar. But do my feet know that? No. They start to kick around anyway, and it's worship. Do my hands know the words? No, but they move and speak praise without word or spoken thought, even in meditative and slow songs. It may not be traditional, but it's comforting to me, and I know it's glorifying to God. It's a way I can worship when I don't know how, a way to worship when there is no word.
I went out to get the mail a couple days ago and stumbled on a
beautiful surprise... this fully-blossomed holiday rose. (Just in time for Thanksgiving!) It faded fast once I brought
it inside, but I stole a memory of it before it escaped. I bought this
bush two summers ago for it's unique color of petals. The bud starts
out blood red, then quickly opens to a very light, flushed skin tone
bloom that varies across the face of the flower, sometimes a diluted
champagne color and others an almost grayish pepper white. It's tough to
see here, but it's likely the strangest and most delicate colored rose I've ever seen.
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