How often, and through which things, do we anticipate that we might hear a word from God?
Anyone who might actually read this blog probably is aware of Mumford & Sons' new album, "Babel." I have long used Mumford songs as aids to my prayers, as vessels to carry me into more contemplative modes of listening to God (please see 'The Cave,' 'Winter Winds,' 'White Blank Page,' 'Awake My Soul,' 'Dust Bowl Dance,' among others). This album as a whole has surpassed anything I've had in my possession before for that. As I've told a few friends already, I learn more about life and human experience with every new Mumford song I hear.
We can cover the usage of "Christian" labels on music elsewhere—I don't think that tag is worth too much; God is a creating God, so when humans create art we bear that image more clearly and in so doing reveal the reality around us in more detail through new perspectives—so, even though I am not aware of any such label (or faith commitments) on this band's part, I will tell of how the Spirit of God has already used it to speak into this particular moment of my life.
I've been in Abilene, Texas, for near 14 months now. Moving to this west Texas town has been a drag for me, primarily because I had built such a network of friends in Aggieland that not being in the midst of constant encouragement drained me greatly. Not only that, but I have had quite a hard time finding a feeling of purpose outside of my studies here (more concrete developments happening on this desire; another update coming soon).
So as I hit the 3rd track of "Babel"—called "I Will Wait—a few of its lines begin to run around and around in my head:
These days of dust, which we've known,
Will blow away with this new sun.
But I'll kneel down, wait for now.
I'll kneel down, know my ground.
Raise my hands,
Paint my spirit gold.
And bow my head,
Keep my heart slow.
And I began to think about the sand around Abilene.
Then, last Wednesday night, my MRNA (Missional Residency in North America) cohort had a family cookout, with hot dogs, black bean burgers, and s'mores with Reese's (which, by the way, will change your life). At the end of it all, a few of us followed our professor Kent Smith up a hill, and at the top we could see the lights of Abilene below us. And under the stars, we prayed over the city. I prayed about the sand.
I felt like I had been irritated by Abilene not being how I wanted it to be, much how I feel when I'm covered in sand in all the wrong places and can't get it all out. So my prayer was for God to make the irritating grains of sand to become like pearls, so maybe I'd begin to cherish and value this place as God so obviously does. So I consented to "kneel down," to "wait for now," and learn to praise God in that place regardless of feelings in the manner of the above lyrics.
Into this place the Spirit threw track #9, "Hopeless Wanderer." Not only does it have a fitting title (right Ruth?), but the song as a whole seemed to be an exegesis of my life in this moment:
The shelter also gave their shade,
And in the dark I had no name.
Much how I feel some shelter from the Spirit's forming of me in my studies, yet there is a shadow under which I am grasping for some sense of present (as opposed to future) identity in ministry.
So when your hope's on fire,
But you know your desire,
Don't hold a glass over the flame
Don't let your heart grow cold.
I will call you by name,
I will share your road.
Just try to read those lines, as a Christian, and tell me that it doesn't fit the picture we share of being called, of being named (claimed, given identity) by God—the very God who in Jesus walked our dusty, wandering roads.
THEN, we hit the kicker, the line that made me start screaming like Rafiki as it rang in my ears:
Hold me fast! Hold me fast!
'Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer.
I will learn, I will learn
To love the stars I'm under.
To love the stars I'm under.
SO SICK!
I could continue on about the lyrics of this album that so blatantly exclaim the realities of life, many of which the Church could learn to sing better, but I'll just stick to this point. I have a hope that the changing, shifting ground upon which I stand will become valuable to me, and that I'll learn to love the stars I'm under. I can eagerly anticipate a new sun, and even wait for it. All because my road's been walked before by the One in whom I trust. And because I know, by the always-active, always-listening God, that I am heard and not forgotten, and spoken to by even the most mundane things like a popular band's album:
"He who planted the ear, does he not hear? He who formed the eyes, does he not see?" - Psalm 94.9: God is a God who sees and hears us, and replies**; and, "Ever since the creation of the world God's eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things God has made." - Romans 1.20.
**Also see the Book of Job—and my blog about it, "Whirlwind of Trust"—and pay attention to 42.8-9, where God says that Job has spoken of God what is right... even though Job was calling God out. Perhaps God hears us better than we expect, and even desires to be called out by us.
"He who planted the ear, does he not hear? He who formed the eyes, does he not see?" - Psalm 94.9: God is a God who sees and hears us, and replies**; and, "Ever since the creation of the world God's eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things God has made." - Romans 1.20.
**Also see the Book of Job—and my blog about it, "Whirlwind of Trust"—and pay attention to 42.8-9, where God says that Job has spoken of God what is right... even though Job was calling God out. Perhaps God hears us better than we expect, and even desires to be called out by us.
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