After a year of such spectacular filling and learning
and revelatory delights, I am found in the valley. Where the only portion of scripture that is ringing
truth into my heart is the psalter. And
the chords which these poems strike are not high and taut with the universal
beauty of Christology or soteriology; but achingly and tremulously deep, with a
resonating truth for me. Right here. In this
breath.
I have always loved the psalms for their intimacy,
their naked honesty before God. Those
that flow from the quill not, at least initially, meant for others’ consumption;
those are the ones that I find forming themselves in my chest before I even
know how to pray on these days. So many were
penned in moments of intense, personal emotion; some as praise that incorporates
a [hopeful] complaint, and others as lament ending in worship. Thus we find there is room for the entire
pendulous scope of human emotions, in either at one time.
And so I am here, recalling that yes, the Word of God
is meant for teaching, and rebuking, and guiding, and forming. But it is also a salve. When too long in the refining fire my soul
has been made to linger. When I am weary
of the vastness of my wilderness; when the loop-the-loop nature of my journey
has caused me to yearn to lie down in a cool, dark, safe place.
Therefore, I am dedicating these next few posts to
joy. A focus to which I committed my
year; and one from which I do not feel I’ve strayed. But these next two weeks I will address the
abiding joy that is not circumstantially dependent; joy that sustains through
the storm, yet is neither forced nor false.
Joy that is big enough to allow for tears and great disappointment, for
pain and genuine wounds. A joy that
might not look anything like the common typography of the word. Because there is a difference between jumping
up and down, clapping one’s hands while declaring the Lord’s praises, and only
having the strength to lift your face, wet with tears, long enough to say, “Today,
God is still God.” Yet in both, joy
resides. And it is neither sinful nor
weak to inhabit the later for a time. Both are equally valuable in His
eyes. Both are attended to with the same
Divine devotion and tenderness. And both
are allowed to be expressed in the throne room.
Let me encourage you, if you are in the midst of your
own storm, if you feel you are drowning, you are not. If only you trust in the Lord. If you are dancing because the joy inside
must be expressed, turn your praises to God and delight in where you are. But count what we will cover in the next two
weeks as preparation. Tuck the words
away, as provision for what may come.
And know that even if the sheen of your delight never dulls, you may be
called upon to use these lessons to care for someone who hasn’t the strength to
recover their joy. You may be the one
who must help carry them through their storm.
If you have never tried the spiritual discipline of
praying through the Psalms, may I suggest that you do? If this seems too daunting, pick one: a
favorite, one you’ve heard taught before, or just open the book and choose the first
one you see. If you can’t connect what
you’re reading with your life immediately, move to the next psalm. There is one that will. When you find it, pray it. Replace the second person with your name or
personal pronoun (Jen, or “I”, or “me”); replace the third person (“The Lord”)
with second person (“You”). Make it
personal. Talk to God using the words
found in scripture; and let the Holy Spirit do the work in between. Do this for a few days this week; try for at
least three. Write it out; speak it out
loud. Do whatever will make this a
conversation between you and God. About
you and Him; about your life right now and your relationship to Him right
now. It may feel stilted at first, it
may feel rote; but give it time. You
will find the gamut of human experience within the psalter, and seeing your
life reflected back from the Word of God can be one way to experience a new depth of intimacy with God.
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