2023-12-08 A Meditation on Creative Voice
“44 On that day men were appointed over the storerooms, the contributions, the firstfruits, and the tithes, to gather into them the portions required by the Law for the priests and for the Levites according to the fields of the towns, for Judah rejoiced over the priests and the Levites who ministered. 45 And they performed the service of their God and the service of purification, as did the singers and the gatekeepers, according to the command of David and his son Solomon. 46 For long ago in the days of David and Asaph there were directors of the singers, and there were songs of praise and thanksgiving to God. 47 And all Israel in the days of Zerubbabel and in the days of Nehemiah gave the daily portions for the singers and the gatekeepers; and they set apart that which was for the Levites; and the Levites set apart that which was for the sons of Aaron.” (Ne 12:44–47 ESV)
Above the haggard fray, words magnetic have reached aloft: what we say is the first battalion to be judged, our front line, our conscience writ in verbality; who we are is plain for all to see, by what proceeds from the vocal chords of the speech. What we are, is no laughing or diminutive matter, no hasty “Ha!” as though we of all people were most to be despised.
No, with words a woman or man is saved (Ro 10:10), and with the Word is nurtured. God the living Word spoke into the ether and Life was formed. God caused a serious take to be made surrounding just who, emphasis on the woman or the man, was doing the acting around here, who doing the talking, who and what claims are made.
Isn’t it quaint, to hear (a variant on?) the familiar old song? We hear and we are blessed, waves of invisible baptismal waters aflush around awash above awakened within us. The sacramental shove of the cry urgently made, that in Christ are no more sins, that in Christ all the religions’ flawed self-composure or self-righteousness is brought to His Cross. Where we make gladsome confession as to a wrecked conscientiousness, a havoc-wrought mindset, a soul thirsting because it has felt and known the pained depravity, but too the longing, the question mark around whether it is ours to command, to lead, to parent, to engage. Whether with words we might attain unto that perch Creative, unto that beacon Persistent, unto that clarion call Lifted Aloft. Hear, and be blessed. Hear, and be encouraged. Hear, and be assured.
Assured, we rest in the Heaven Here and Now, our sins not unheard of, but rather the dry well that longs to be fed and watered. Some fountain of merciful sweet water. Some spigot to the parched tongue. Some bastion or pools of living waters to help to cope, to help to sing, to help to rise up.
Hear both the Movement and the forlorn absence or loss of momentum. Hear both the desire to share and rise up, and the spare morn of friends gone. For now, departed. For the time being, peace and moved out. For this moment, quiet personal time to reflect. In reverence. In amazement. Yet, the stallions are leaping at the reins. Yes, the movement was no figment of the imagination. Yes, the sparse or tired or absent Spirit is in fact ours beloved and with us on a deeper level than ever imagined: Love has preceded us, Love has taught us, Love has familiarized us with an off-the-cuff ease at speech and at correspondence, assumptions that we are capable to make friends, our own license implicit in what we do and how we behave. Oh, would some doubt and subjugate? No matter, we are content by the solo crossing, in our own little world of incessant, rather, plethoric prayers tantalizing the mind and exciting the patient morn. In all this is Inspired Reverence for an Almighty that worked out in this our generation, who lubed the talking facilities unto a Word shared and Testimony writ for all to see. Who respected what a woman or man said about themselves. As God-created image bearers.
Those knowing an oppressive “other”, a “man” who troubles and is never overcome; to these we extend a class-blind hand of fellowship: come and belong, be at peace, rather, be recognized for your lived out war. To doubt the Bishop Christ’s promise. To assume abandonment or persecution. To have a persecution complex that infuriates the more built-up social class, that to some are equated with church-folk. Blithely at ease. Pedantically concerned with platitudes and litmus tests of the faith. Blind to the beggar on the doorstep of the church. Yet our trauma is God’s chief concern, who takes pains to ensure we know ourselves to be overcomers, know ourselves to be capable and wise, no fools nor despised ones, but winsome and engaging. In this we hope.