This morning's song lesson

Something caught fire in me on Sunday. We went to pick up Lifa, and it was one of those nothing-went-according-to-plan misadventures. Eye-opening. Heart-wrenching.

It shook parts of me that I have tried almost successfully to put on the “Survival Simmer” setting in my heart. Abba, it was horrible.

So much broken.

So many of your children misguided.

Turning to false idols.

Bowing before demons breeding hopelessness.

Perpetuating generational curses.

Raising up their children – and mine – and YOURS – to do the same.

Yet creation is singing outside right now even before the first ray of light breaks through this dark night. I’m writing to the soundtrack of the greatest symphony, sung from the treetops by the most extravagantly dressed songwriters.

It’s dark outside.

It’s dark in those houses.

It’s dark inside so many broken hearts.

Morning still comes.

Creation still sings.

The Glory song starts when it’s still dark.

My heart feels dark.

It’s justice kicking, knocking me out of “simmer”. I can’t just survive here.

It’s dark here.

But I’m not singing a Glory song.

I’m kicking. I’m screaming. I’m shouting.

I have to confess that my heart is not pounding out an anthem of justice.

My blood is boiling way past simmer and way past righteous anger.

What do I do with this?

How do I walk through the dark and sing like the light?

How do I sing the birds’ songs?

How do even they know how to sing Glory when it’s still dark?

YOU came here so you could walk through darkness and sing Glory’s song. We crowned you with thorns and hung you up like a banner for darkness – all the darkness of humanity displayed through the broken body of the Son of Man.

But YOUR fists weren’t balled up like mine are.

YOU opened your hands for the nails.

YOUR teeth weren’t gritting. YOUR mouth wasn’t full of bitter, sour, hurting words.

Darkness asphyxiated you. But in the breaths you had left, You sang Glory.

“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do...”

“It is finished.”

YOU knew morning was coming.

YOU knew about Sunday.

But YOU shook. In YOUR sorrow, the sun stopped shining, and darkness took over the land. YOU tore.

YOU tore from the top-down. YOU tore so that light could come anyway.

Jesus, I’m lost in a battle of light and dark, even in this very moment while a dark-skinned little boy sleeps in my lap. His skin is not a stamp that says it’s ok for him to live in the dark. IT’S NOT OK. Sunday night was not ok with me. The unknown stories of the children I will kiss over and over again today are not ok. It’s still dark outside. Help me sing Glory’s song.

“See, darkness covers the earth

And thick darkness is over the peoples,

But the Lord rises upon you

And his glory appears over you…

No longer will violence be heard in your land,

Nor ruin or destruction within your borders,

But you will call your walls Salvation

And your gates Praise.

The sun will no more be your light by day,

Nor will the brightness of the moon shine on you,

For the Lord will be your everlasting light,

And your God will be your glory.

Your sun will never set again,

And your moon will wane no more;

The Lord will be your everlasting light,

And your days of sorrow will end.”

From Isaiah 60