But that’s just what I must do.

Yesterday afternoon I met with Pastor Mark, of theSprings church. I was nervous going in, because in the past I’ve been highly skeptical of church leaders and their motivations, and I’ve generally been wary of churches in general. It’s a deep-rooted cynicism, and while it’s almost certainly an unfair prejudice, that doesn’t make it any easier to overcome.

In the end, though, I found a trustworthy, earnest friend. We spoke for perhaps forty minutes, and it was a true two-way conversation. His honesty disarmed me, his philosophy spoke to me personally, and he welcomed me with open arms. I look forward to knowing him and his Church community more deeply.

He recommended some reading to me, which I started last night, and I’ll get into more later. But what I’m thinking about now is idolatry.

I’ve written in this space before about some of my idols. I’ve been materialistic to a deep fault, and I’ve been guilty of objectification of people (close to me, or otherwise). I’ve also confessed that I have control issues.

Then yesterday, when Pastor Mark and I spoke about finding peace, we decided to pray together. Before the prayer, he explained about how in order to find peace, I must first ask Christ for peace with an open heart, but then he also relayed a story I remember from the Gospel of Matthew:

“Why do you ask me about what is good?” Jesus replied. “There is only One who is good. If you want to enter life, keep the commandments.”

“Which ones?” he inquired.

Jesus replied, “‘You shall not murder, you shall not commit adultery, you shall not steal, you shall not give false testimony, honor your father and mother,’ and ‘love your neighbor as yourself.’”

“All these I have kept,” the young man said. “What do I still lack?”

Jesus answered, “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me” (Matthew 19:17-21).

At first glance, it appears that the story is about giving to the poor, and giving of oneself, as an extension of the last commandment Jesus quotes. Pastor Mark pointed out that it’s deeper than that, though, and I agree. The story is about identifying the idols in our own lives and confronting our reliance upon them. It’s about abandoning those idols in order to find peace and life in the light of the Lord.

I also read a last night from the first two chapters of “Mere Christianity,” by C.S. Lewis. One of the chief positions he takes is that we all universally understand what he calls the “Law of Nature,” which is a fancy way of saying that there is a truth about what is right and what is wrong, and that deep down, we all know that difference. We may lie to ourselves and to others in order to justify behavior contrary to that law, but in the end it governs our conscience, and determines how we interact with other people. We know it, and we do not need to be taught it to know whether or not we are following it.

Perhaps it’s just my mind juxtaposing the two ideas, but it does seem to me like the two concepts are related. Deep down, I know what my idols are, because they run contrary to how my own understanding of the Law of Nature governs my actions. I’ve identified some of them so far without digging too deep, but I think some deep introspection was needed to really find a root to pull up.

Last night, I found a common link–I think that my idol is perfection. Namely, a perfect construct of an earthly life: to have all the possessions I would ever need, to control all the aspects of my environment, to surround myself with the perfect people to suit my taste and personal needs, et cetera. I think what I was looking for was an idyllic lifestyle, and I thought that if I found it, I could become my best self. By making my earthly life “perfect,” I sought to become perfect by extension.

In order to truly find peace, I must confront that idol and banish it.

All of this week’s lessons are coming together at once. I’ve written about accepting the things I cannot change, and as it pertains to that idol, I must understand in my mind and heart that nothing–and no one–of this earth is perfect. Especially not me. I have also written about shedding my expectations, and about accepting what life hands me as a gift from God. In relation to defeating my idol, it could be as simple as submitting myself to God’s will and understanding that the illusion of control is a joke I have played on myself.

Ultimately, my idolatry here has me held captive in a prison of my own making. I have ruined relationships and burned bridges because of it, and I have shut myself off from the world. I want desperately to rebuild those things. I must endeavor to accept God’s will and gifts in my heart to do so.

I have to let go of the illusion of perfection and control. I must be a leaf on the wind, and trust that God will see me safely to my destination.  Only then will I begin to find peace, and only then can I hope to rebuild my life through God’s love.

Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith is sitting on the table in a veterinary office. I’m sitting on a vinyl-cushioned bench next to him, wondering if I should get him a tissue for the wad of snot on his cheek.

Vader–my cat (and yes, on his paperwork, the above mentioned honorific title is his full name)–has been my friend for twelve years now. When I adopted him, they said he was eight weeks old, but he was too small to be eight weeks. He didn’t even weigh enough to be neutered yet; I had to take him back two weeks later. I’m guessing he was more like five or six weeks old.

I had gone to the Humane Society looking for something specific. I had imagined in my mind a perfect little fluffy, all-white female kitten. When I saw a tiny little timid, black male, however, I completely forgot what I’d been seeking. He was cowering in a corner, having been bullied by his cage-mate, who was a little grey tabby girl, not much bigger than he was. On the cage-card, someone had indicated that his name was Ivan. They do that at most shelters: give strays names. He didn’t look like Ivan to me, though.

He was so tiny it was sort of novel, like he was a little marvel. How could a cat be so little? He fit in my hand. I expected him to be small forever. Not tiny, but little. Petite.

He now weighs roughly 18 pounds, which is significantly more than half the dogs I see people walking. Sometimes I call him monster. He’s still a marvel, but in a much different way.

Life can be funny. I went into the shelter with something specific in mind. Something I wanted. I came away with something entirely different and unexpected.

I wonder now, as we sit here waiting for a vet to come in and prescribe an antibiotic and corticosteroid, if part of what I’ve been missing in my life is that willingness to deviate from my expectations. Some of the best things in my life have come from unexpected places. Relationships, friends, experiences. Even little things, like the best laughs, often come in ways I don’t anticipate.

Earlier today, I quoted a passage from James, and I’m thinking about that again now. “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights” (James 1:17).

I think it’s time for me to stop looking to receive the gifts I have in mind, and begin to find joy in the gifts that find me.

One of the strange things about my personality is that usually when I’m feeling emotional, I tend to want to lean into it and amplify that emotion with whatever music I’m listening to. (Maybe it’s not all that strange, actually. I’m sure I’m not alone.) When I’m feeling buoyant, I’ll listen to something with good tempo and a bright melody to lift me even higher. When I’m excited, I’ll bolster that excitement with thrilling music.  When I’m feeling down, I’ll drag myself even further into the mire with solemn songs.

This morning I was struggling mightily with anxiety and painful depression. I’m running on very little sleep, and my feet are having trouble finding purchase on calm lands. I’ve read some Bible verses, I’ve prayed, and still I am anxious to the point of panic. I know intellectually that my Father will lift me when He sees that I am ready, and that the future, while unknown, will be safe and warm and dry and full of love.  I have faith in that.

But that hasn’t helped my emotional state right this second.

So, against my usual inclination, I made a conscious decision to find music to turn the tide. I thought that something joyful might do the trick, but to no avail; either I failed to find the right song, or there isn’t one for my state right now. Then I thought of something with great energy, but still I struggled. Then, as if from nowhere, my prayer was answered in a flash of understanding.

I turned to something from deep in my past; a song I’d forgotten about from long ago. A hymn from the church of my youth, Hymn 789 from the Lutheran song book. It is unquestionably, undoubtedly my favorite song of praise. I never sang it in a talented choir, or even learned all the parts. I barely remember the words, but I do remember that the tune, “Bunessan,” and the lyrics of praise always made me happy, and proud to be on God’s earth. (Most people know the tune from the Cat Stevens song “Morning has Broken.”) I’m absolutely certain that I never fully understood what the lyrics truly meant, but looking back on it now–and listening to it–I’m heartened to find that the song has even more power in my heart today than it did 25 years ago:

Praise and thanksgiving, Father, we offer
for all things living, created good:
harvest of sown fields, fruits of the orchard,
hay from the mown fields, blossom and wood.

Bless, Lord, the labor we bring to serve you,
that with our neighbor we may be fed.
Sowing or tilling, we would work with you,
harvesting, milling for daily bread.

Father, providing food for your children,
by your wise guiding, teach us to share
one with another, so that, rejoicing
with us, all others may know your care.

Then will your blessing reach ev’ry people,
freely confessing your gracious hand.
Where all obey you, no one will hunger;
in your love’s sway you nourish the land.

It’s a song of hard labor, and of glad tidings and togetherness. But the title of the song is Praise and Thanksgiving for a reason. I think that’s just what I needed, really. Not something uplifting and buoyant, or energized. I needed a moment of praise and thanksgiving to my Lord.

I was reading a little bit from the book of James last night, and I came across this passage that seems apropos this morning: “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights” (James 1:17). It’s not a mystery why that song “popped” into my head this morning, after having not thought about it for so many years: it was an answer–a gift from above–to my prayer for healing.

This line from Psalms also brought me some measure of comfort this morning: “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me. My heart leaps for joy, and with my song I praise him” (Psalm 28:7). On one hand, it’s strange to think that a moment of grateful thanksgiving and praise might quiet an anxious heart. But when I think about it, it’s really not that strange at all.

I used to be an avid reader. Lately, I’ve slowed down. I have no excuse, really, other than to say that other things took up my time. Laziness and lethargy set in, and easy entertainment (television, Netflix, YouTube) became my preferred medium. It’s the same old story: I allowed work to wear me out, and instead of coming home excited to learn and expand my mind, I spent my time just trying to wind down before bed.

I’ve mentioned before that in the last five years, two books have changed my life and altered my mind. The Bible is one. The other one is a book on woodworking called “The Anarchist’s Tool Chest,” by Christopher Schwarz. I’d like to take a moment to explore the latter in this space, because despite the ominous-sounding title, it actually shares some common threads with the former, at least in my own life.

“The Anarchist’s Tool Chest” explores traditional hand tools for working wood, how to use them, and how to build a chest in which to keep them. But at it’s core, it is not a book about tools and chests. It is a philosophical exploration of aesthetic anarchism (more on that in a moment), of moderation, and of being free from society’s expectations–it is about the refusal to kowtow to consumerism.

Growing up, my father and grandfather were always interested in woodworking. I grew up around power-tools, around woodworking catalogs, and around the idea of building my own furniture. I enjoyed it, I suppose. I enjoyed spending time with Dad and Papa, and I enjoyed learning new things, and I think that building is in my blood and bones. I wouldn’t say that it feels like a calling; I would say that it feels like a necessity. But growing up, something was missing.

When I first moved out on my own, the first expensive thing I bought was a fancy tablesaw.  I still have it, though now it’s in my Dad’s garage. It is extremely nice–much nicer than a hobbyist needs–and I was proud of it. Then I bought a router table. Then I bought a jointer. Then I got a drum sander, then a drill press, then a band saw. I built a shop in which I could manufacture practically anything.

The key word in that above paragraph is “manufacture.” I was manufacturing furniture, and it was easy. I was essentially machining wood as though it was plastic or metal. The results were fine. Some of the things were ugly, but that was my fault as the designer. The tools weren’t getting in my way. But the entire process was joyless. I was just killing time–largely alone–and manufacturing furniture-shaped objects. I didn’t understand what was wrong.

Then I came across Schwarz’s book while browsing the internet one day. I thought the idea sounded interesting, so I bought a copy and waited for it in the mail. From the absolute instant I opened the book and read the first page, I was completely transformed.

I’ll spare you the details. If you want to read Schwarz’s book, you can find it at Lostartpress.com. I only want to get at the essence of the philosophy here. I promise this is going somewhere.

The book explores what Schwarz calls “aesthetic anarchism,” or “American anarchism,” but what is also known as Individualist anarchism. It sounds disruptive and violent, but at its core, it is inherently peaceful. In the context of woodworking, the essence of this brand of anarchism is that often, what society tells us to do–or buy–is not right for every individual, because many individuals are left behind. Our society is driven by what’s best for corporations, not individuals. Mass-manufacture of goods reduces quality, lowers wages, and stifles individual thought. In short, it breeds greed and reduces humans to dollar-signs.

I realized what was missing in my woodworking: me. My self, my joy, my love, and my point of view. This book jarred me awake. I started working with hand tools, and finding joy and satisfaction in my hobby again.

After starting to read my Bible again some short weeks ago, I recently came to the same realization about what was missing in my life: me. My self, my joy, my love, and my point of view. I was sleepwalking, and I wasn’t me. I was conforming to what society thought of me: I was a cog in the machine. Because I was participating in the consumerism and conformity, and because my relationship with God had fallen to the wayside, I had forgotten my own value.

This verse, where Jesus speaks to his disciples, was instrumental to waking me up: “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows” (Luke 12:6-7).

Even the very hairs of my head are numbered! That is my value to God as an individual. That is my worth. I am so precious to Him that He treasures every single hair on my head. I am so precious to Him that an inconceivable sacrifice was given for me, and for all, so that we might live.

As I remembered the joy in my hobby five years ago, let me remember the joy in my own life today, for it is truly precious.

Prayer for the morning:

Holy Father, I am humbled and filled to the brim that You see my value, and that value comes from You. I hope today to see that value in myself and seek joy in Your name.

Because I’ve been enduring a time of great need, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about friendship, and what it means to give of myself, and receive friendship. This will be a short essay, because what I have to say is simple.

In any human culture, there are uncountable adages about friendship, and what it means to feel and exhibit true friendship. I’m not going to get into all of them here, but you can check out infinitely many here.  One of my favorites is Euripides: “Friends show their love in times of trouble, not in happiness.”

But the book of Proverbs has perhaps the most beautiful, simple, humble summary of what it means to be a true friend. It’s so perfect that I’m only going to include this singular piece of verse in this writing, because it says everything that needs to be said about friendship, and doesn’t leave anything unsaid.

“A friend loves at all times,
and a brother is born for a time of adversity.” (Proverbs 17:17)

In these times of “social” media, where casual, long lost acquaintances count as friends, and clicking a thumbs-up or heart-shaped button counts as support, it can be easy to forget what a real friend means. And, when we are isolated from those hollow interactions, it can be easy to feel alone.

Every day since I put down Twitter and Reddit and Facebook, I’ve been reminded of who my true friends are. A friend loves at all times. Good times, hard times, times of need and times of plenty. All times. It’s that simple.

But when we are truly in our hour of most need, those friendships that endure are galvanized. They become a bond unbreakable, and those friends become something akin to the family that we choose. They become our brothers (and sisters!) I believe that even for those who are disbelievers, God is in that love, and strengthens that bond. Friendship is the ultimate example of the Golden Rule that I’ve written so much about. If I love others as I love myself, and I find even one person that feels the same way about me, then that person is my true friend, and my true brother.

This song is secular, but in a way it is not.

One of my greatest struggles in this life is that I feel a need to control every variable. It is against my philosophical beliefs to control people, but I still try to control situations. This manifests in mainly three ways.

First, I feel a deep unease when I don’t consider myself prepared for any eventual outcome; the Scout Motto I learned many years ago is “Be Prepared,” and I still take that to heart (even if I don’t remember anything else from Boy Scouts). This starts with over-planning for unlikely eventualities, continues to collecting and keeping any useful thing or tool I might ever need, and it cripplingly ends with avoiding situations for which I don’t feel prepared. Sometimes those reasons are emotional, sometimes they’re financial, but they’re almost always irrational.

Secondly, I can’t resist the urge to fix things (or at least attempt to do so). When someone tells me they have a problem, difficulty or struggle, my first instinct is to try to help them fix it. That someone can also be myself, and the real struggle rears when the problem cannot be solved. If I feel something is wrong in my life, I dwell on possible solutions, over-analyze, and create a wall of inhibitions and doubts between myself and moving forward. Instead of realizing that sometimes the solution to a problem is simply moving on from it, I internalize the problem and create a new, bigger problem in my mind and heart.

Thirdly, I forget myself and my personal philosophy, and I try to influence or convince people to see things my way. This is a great source of shame for me. It is my deepest desire to let people see the world in their own way, and live their life according to their own creed, but sometimes in my need for control I forget that. Instead of openly discussing politics or religion or philosophy with an open mind and heart, I will instinctively dig in my heels and try to impose my will through logical and well-spoken rhetoric. The line between being right or wrong seems to fade away into the background, and I assume that because something is my belief, that makes it right for both myself and for people with whom I’m close.

Sometime in the early 1930s, Reinhold Niebuhr wrote down a prayer that would become perhaps the most famous non-scripture verse in history.  Today, we know it as the serenity prayer, and though it has taken on many forms, they all go something like this: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”

Recently, something happened in my life that I am having trouble accepting, so this is particularly poignant right now. In a broader sense, though, this prayer is a good reminder of God’s will for every day in our lives. In particular, the first phrase about acceptance rings true to me.

The apostle Paul writes: “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control” (Galatians 5:22,23). Sometimes I lose sight of what the word “peace” can mean. Often when I think of peace, my mind considers it to be an antonym for violence, and that word calls to mind external conflict. So Paul, like Jesus before him, calls us to be non-violent. This makes sense, and I’m certain that it’s part of what Paul meant.

But, if I turn that ever-so-slightly on its end, though, I can think of unrest in my soul as violence of a sort, and that “serenity to accept the things I cannot change” could be what I need to quell that inner turmoil. Inner peace feels like it has always been just out of my reach, but finding that peace through God may be my most important fruit of Spirit.

This song from MercyMe, off their 2017 album “Lifer,” contains some powerful lyrics, but one of the most affecting and apropos is “God when you choose to leave mountains unmovable/Give me the strength to be able to sing: ‘It is well with my soul.'”

Asking for that strength is critical to my relationship to God, my relationships with people I love, and to my inner peace. I must take to heart the trust that God would not leave a mountain unmovable simply to hurt me or teach me a lesson; His reasons are His alone, and I must have faith that if I give myself over to His will, my current struggles will bring me closer to becoming who He means for me to be.

As Paul writes in Colossians: “Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.” (Col 3:15)

One of the things that’s been weighing on my mind lately is the wisdom to discern the difference between true understanding of God, and simply following my own heart. Because I am human–and therefore am simultaneously prideful, fallible and frail by nature–part of me wonders how I might be able to tell if my path is truly God’s will and wisdom, or if my human mind is just attributing my own thoughts and feelings to God’s plan based on how “right” something might feel. And, in the end, if I act by submitting myself to God with humility, is there a difference between the two sides of that coin?

I turned this morning to 1 Corinthians, in which Paul addresses the Greeks, and he offers several verses that may help.

“The wisdom of the wise will perish,
the intelligence of the intelligent will vanish.” (Isaiah 29:14)

Paul quotes this passage, and then talks about how in order to preach truly for God and of Christ, he had to undo his eloquence and human wisdom. He does not say that he did not have those things, only that he could not rely on them to relay the message of salvation through the Lord:

“For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ and him crucified. I came to you in weakness with great fear and trembling. My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit’s power, so that your faith might not rest on human wisdom, but on God’s power.” (1 Cor 2:2-5)

The key word in that passage is “resolved.” He is literally saying that in order to convey the true message of Christ’s salvation, he had to make a conscious decision to forsake his human knowledge and wisdom. I’ve written here before about making spiritual decisions of faith by simply choosing to do so, and what Paul writes is not that different. In much the same way that I make a conscious decision to disregard my previous doubt, and simply “believe,” Paul says that we can just flush our minds of our lowest human impulses of pride in our own cleverness and knowledge.

He continues:

“The Spirit searches all things, even the deep things of God. For who knows a person’s thoughts except their own spirit within them? In the same way no one knows the thoughts of God except the Spirit of God. What we have received is not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit who is from God, so that we may understand what God has freely given us. This is what we speak, not in words taught us by human wisdom but in words taught by the Spirit, explaining spiritual realities with Spirit-taught words. The person without the Spirit does not accept the things that come from the Spirit of God but considers them foolishness, and cannot understand them because they are discerned only through the Spirit.” (1 Cor 2:10-14)

For me, this is a critical distinction: perhaps it is not that I must forsake my human mind and human will because they run contrary to the wisdom of God, but because I cannot simultaneously rely on my human intelligence and worldly wisdom while truly accepting the Spirit of God in my heart; they are at least somewhat mutually exclusive. Our low, human minds cannot conceive of God’s own infinite, omniscient and omnipresent mind. If we try to conceive of God’s thoughts, our human limitations will impair us, governing our ability to commune spiritually. Instead, I must take what the Spirit gives into my heart, and grow to know God that way.

In Ephesians, Paul writes, ” . . . how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know that this love surpasses knowledge” (Ephesians 3:18,19).  This verse similarly juxtaposes the two as completely separate entities.  It is almost as if Paul is asking a question: would you rather have the infinite love of Christ, or your own meager knowledge? When posed as a dichotomous choice, I suppose the answer is very clear.

The difficulty, at least at this stage of my young faith, is determining where one ends, and the other begins.–especially since they are not on a linear plane together. Perhaps there is no way to reconcile what I think is right and righteous in the Lord’s eye against what my spirit feels is right and righteous. It may really be as simple as emptying my mind, and allowing the Spirit to fill me up and guide me closer to God and His will. Ultimately, if I submit myself humbly before him, and ask that his will be done, I can only follow to the best of my ability, and know that He knows my heart and will not abandon me.

Prayer:

Holy Father, thank you for this morning, thank you for your word, and thank you for your guidance. Today, I ask for help in emptying my mind of human thoughts and wisdom, so that I may seek your Spirit, and find your will.

One of the more difficult philosophical paradoxes is the question: does true altruism exist?  It’s certainly an interesting question, and one that I’ve been thinking about for a week or so, ever since I came across this passage in Matthew.

“Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven. So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you” (Matthew 6:1-4).

Altruism is easy to define: it is simply “unselfish regard for, or devotion to, the welfare of others” (MW). It is decidedly more difficult to identify. The key is the word “unselfish,” and the rub is in unravelling what unselfish behavior really means. I can’t think of a single act of truly altruistic behavior that I’ve performed in my entire life, because in retrospect, there was always some benefit to myself. Even if I gave of myself and told no one, I felt a sense of satisfaction. It can be an expensive way to buy satisfaction, and it is certainly one of the most selfless acts, but there is still a (barely) selfish motivation on the periphery.

In the above passage from Matthew, Christ tells us to be private about our charity and service of the needy. (The next few verses are also some of my favorite–they tell us to be private about our prayer, and not to pray for the benefit of others, but to keep our prayer to the Lord behind closed doors.) This privacy, He says, will please the Father, for it means that we are doing it for Him, and not to elevate ourselves in the eyes of our peers.

Charitable acts make us feel good. They make us feel connected. They make us feel righteous. Helping others, in short, makes us feel better about being ourselves. One thing that has always ruffled my feathers is vainglorious boasting. I hate braggarts. Even so, I have been guilty, in past moments of weakness, of crowing about a charity to which I’ve donated. In the future, I must be mindful to keep acts of service or charity between only myself and God.

In the end, I’m not sure that truly altruistic behavior exists. Even in the context of what Christ tells us in the above message, He mentions a reward. Even if that reward is simply that the Father is pleased with me, does that reward preclude selflessness? I think there’s certainly an argument to be made.

Ultimately, though, I think in the context of Christianity, I must shift my understanding of the definition of altruism. Perhaps instead of simply restricting altruism to unselfish behavior, I can redefine it as unboastful, humble, and modest regard for, or devotion to, the welfare of others in the service of God. In the end, only he can know my true heart, and whether I am doing something for Him, or for myself.

On a related note–after having re-read those passages–I’m not certain whether I should offer my written prayer in this space. I’m not really certain that anyone is reading it besides myself and God, but it still feels as though it borders on boastfulness. On the other hand, typing a prayer often helps me put words to what my heart is trying to say. A difficult choice, but for now, in the unlikely event that someone reads this and it might help them to articulate their own, similar thoughts, I will continue to write them.

Prayer:

Father, help me see my own heart, so that I know that my actions are in your service and in the service of others, and help me to be as selfless as is humanly possible. Thank you for today, and for this lesson in humility.

I don’t have a lot of time this morning for thoughts, but it does seem like a good morning for some simple sacred music.  This is one of my very favorite hymns I’ve ever sung with a choir. Here, it is very well sung by the University of Wisconsin at Eau Claire Concert Choir, conducted by Dr. Gary R. Schwartzhoff.

Paulus, who died in 2014, wrote “Pilgrim’s Hymn” in 1997. One of the most notable things about the piece is how traditional it sounds, given the contemporary nature of the composition. The harmonies, tempo, and key sound more in line with the 1890s than the 1990s. This is no accident, as the piece is written from the perspective of early American settlers, and the lyrical themes remind me very much of the traditional Shaker hymn “Simple Gifts.” Let’s look at these lyrics by Michael Dennis Browne, as adapted from a Russian Orthodox prayer:

Even before we call on Your name
To ask You, O God,
When we seek for the words to glorify You,
You hear our prayer;
Unceasing love, O unceasing love,
Surpassing all we know.

Glory to the father,
and to the Son,
And to the Holy Spirit.

Even with darkness sealing us in,
We breathe Your name,
And through all the days that follow so fast,
We trust in You;
Endless Your grace, O endless Your grace,
Beyond all mortal dream.

Both now and forever,
And unto ages and ages,
Amen

The first stanza is incredibly powerful to me personally. The theme here is that God knows our hearts and needs before we even pray to him. This is reminiscent of the Gospel of Matthew, Chapter 6, verse 8: “Your father knows what you need before you ask him.”

The second stanza is a glorification, not unlike the line in the Lord’s prayer, “Hallowed be thy name.”  In fact, this entire song is a simple prayer that follows the basic outline provided to us by Jesus Christ, in that above-mentioned chapter of Matthew.

The theme of the third stanza is trust in the Lord, and understanding that His infinite nature is beyond our mortal imagination.  Even in our darkest times, He is there, and we need only have faith beyond what we know.  These are beautiful thoughts.

But, I think that the most beautiful thing about the piece is the simplicity of the harmonies and unities. The composition itself is humble in a way that few contemporary pieces manage to achieve. The song is absolutely gorgeous; it is gentle and clean, uncomplicated, and swells with love when it needs to do so. And it may sound strange to say this, but the song is not about the song. This song is about a straightforward prayer to God, from the heart. It glorifies with love and devotion and trust, and not elaborate, difficult harmonies and solos. It is sung essentially in unison by a large choir, and no one vocal part stands out.

Psalm 116, verse 6 says: “The Lord preserves the simple; when I was brought low, he saved me.” This song seeks that same humility.