Sabbath

Sundays are a great way to end the week. They surely didn't used to be for me. Anymore, the prospect of a Sabbath rest brings joy and peace to my soul. No longer is the week grasping for something to call the apex. Formerly, I would spend seven days going from place to place or activity to activity desperately searching for a key moment that might label my efforts successful or unsuccessful. Monday would come and so would the internal blandness. Occasionally, a transient triumph might come my way, but all in all, there remained nothing to strive for.

I am seeing the value in purposeful pursuit that leads to ultimate seizure. Even when failure comes, at least I was venturing for some conscious prize. Flippant, day to day living has led me to depression and boredom. Life sucks when good things only happen on a whim. The occasional blessing from the sky is surely welcomed but not as a substitute for the consummation of purposeful endeavor.

I sit here doing nothing special. Nick Drake is soothing me with his piano while generic food items accompany him. It seems strange that an evening meal of condensed soup with teflon flakes would make me smile, but I have planned this day. I find joy in doing whatever I want as long as it is a complete break from the norm. I am not working on homework. I may read for a couple of hours and feel rejuvenated. I may take a nap and, without guilt, thoroughly enjoy it. I may spend a couple hours with my church family and recharge from that communion. I might daydream about the future and contemplate what in the world my next step will be and with whom I might want to take it.

Life is simple on Sunday. The other six days need to differ greatly in comparison so as to not ruin the elegance of my rest. Finding the strength and energy to persevere in my work is tough, but the rigid absoluteness of my Sabbath pushes me to complete the task. Working hard helps me to rest well. If I don't rest well, I can't work hard. A nice little tension exists in this dichotomy. I think God might have had something going for Him with regards to this seventh day. How ironic it is that I might benefit from it as well.

forsaking the new for the sake of the old

The Robbie Seay Band put out a new cd recently and on that album there is a song called Beautiful Scandelous Night. I was just listening to the lyrics and was struck by the traditional view that they take of the sacrifice of Christ. The lyrics were originally written and performed by Smalltown Poets, but I had never heard the song before. Here is the excerpt that hit me the most.

"Go on up to the mountain of mercy. To the crimson perpetual tide. Kneel down on the shore. Be thirsty no more. Go under and be purified. Follow Christ to the holy mountain. Sinner sorry and wrecked by the fall. Cleanse your heart and your soul. In the fountain that flowed. For you and for me and for all."

The words here are comparable to the intensity and rawness of William Cowper's hymn There is a Fountain Filled with Blood. Nowadays, there seems to be a tendency to beautify the cross. Here I am speaking of beauty in the manner of actually cleaning up the blood that was spilt so as to not seem too morbid or gory. From what I see, the songs we sing in worship services today are cliche, superficial, and blithe.

I don't necessarily blame the congregation for singing these songs because we don't really have a choice. Worship leaders sing the popular stuff because cliche does indeed sell. However, I believe we have sold ourselves short and are falling victim to the notion that the words on the page are undoubtedly true. We belt out these, often times, ridiculous choruses and focus on the chord progression. We are so caught up in melody and four part harmony that we fail to see that our heart is way out of tune.

I do blame the congregation for this attitude. When a new song is given to us, we are more likely to look at the notes than the words. Even more grave is that we may read the words but not sing them from our true state. We should sing the same song a million different ways. Our heart is different every time we open the hymnal (if that still done). Thus, we should sing from a state of brokenness, a state of longing, a heart of thankfulness, a soul of gladness, or a mind of confusion. These songs can be sung without the voice.

What I see in the traditional music of the church are songs written from an honest perspective of life. The blood at the foot of the cross was not soaked up and cast aside with the towel. Knees were rubbed raw as the writer bowed and contemplated the forgiveness that trickled down upon such a wretch as him. Horatio Spafford didn't gleefully barge into the presence of God. He weepingly looked up to his Only Hope and found solace and rest amidst pain and sorrow. Only when he was crushed could he truly say that it was well with his soul.

I truly prefer the words of old hymns to the words of today's songs. I prefer the today's melody over those of the hymns. My point here is not to declare all modern music wrong. Though I find the modern worship music lacking in several aspects, I find the modern worshipper lacking in most. The old way of life is to use the mind and heart and respond with emotion. It seems today that emotion takes the lead and intellectual contemplation may or may not follow suit. My personal taste in style has no lasting influence, but I pray that we can at least change the internal method of worship so that the Lord, who sees what is done in secret (Matthew 6:18), will be glorified.

Amen