Read:

As an apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among young men. With great delight I sat in his shadow, and his fruit was sweet to my taste (Song of Solomon 2:3, NRSV).

Metaphors allow us to say what we mean—only more so.

Think for a moment about how metaphors work. They allow us to free associate. They invite us to bring memory and senses to the aid of what is often an abrupt comparison. So, when the psalmist says, “I am a worm,” everything we have ever thought or felt about worms rushes in to help us understand what the psalmist is saying (Ps. 22:6). Sure, he could have explained that he was feeling vulnerable and was having trouble reaching his full human potential. But that would have been boring. And at the end of the day, it wouldn’t have told us a fraction of what he managed to convey when he smashed the words “I” and “worm” together.

Lovers have long been quick to catch on to the potential of metaphors. In this verse from one of the world’s most famous love poems (Song of Solomon 2:3), the woman invites us to share her appreciation of her beloved by describing him as an apple tree. Go ahead. Accept her invitation. What do you think of when you imagine an apple tree? Shade, sweetness, nourishment…. The list is as long as your imagination and as broad as your experience.

It’s not clear whether this verse from the Song of Songs inspired the 18^th century poem, “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree.” Others have made the leap between that ancient love song and the love between Christ and the Church. What is clear, however, is the poets’ mutual appreciation of a metaphor.

As you read it—and then listen to it expressed musically—free associate. Bring your own memories to the poet’s extended metaphor. Let the richness of the comparison fill your senses and your soul. Because metaphors allow us to say what we mean—only more so.

JESUS CHRIST THE APPLE TREE

The tree of life my soul hath seen,
Laden with fruit, and always green:
The trees of nature fruitless be
Compared with Christ the apple tree.

His beauty doth all things excel:
By faith I know, but ne’er can tell
The glory which I now can see
In Jesus Christ the apple tree.

For happiness I long have sought,
And pleasure dearly I have bought:
I missed of all; but now I see
‘Tis found in Christ the apple tree.

I’m weary with my former toil,
Here I will sit and rest awhile:
Under the shadow I will be
of Jesus Christ the apple tree.

This fruit doth make my soul to thrive,
It keeps my dying faith alive;
Which makes my soul in haste to be
With Jesus Christ the apple tree.

Listen:  Jesus Christ the Apple Tree This anthem by Elizabeth Poston is based on a text from “Divine Hymns or Spiritual Songs” compiled by Joshua Smith in 1784. This performance is by Seraphic Fire, conducted by Patrick Dupré Quigley.

Pray: We would rest here a while, O Christ—from our toil and ambition, from our anxiety and grief. Make our soul to thrive. Keep our dying faith alive.

Introduction to the Tuned for Praise Series

Leonard Bernstein once observed that “music . . . can name the unnameable and communicate the unknowable.”

In this series, we will take advantage of music’s power to pick up where words leave off. Each Bible passage will be paired with a link to a recording that—in my judgement at least—interprets Scripture’s words in ways that words cannot.

Enjoy!

Read: Luke 2:8-20

Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. (Luke 2:9, NRSV).

The shepherds were right to be terrified. The glory of the Lord can get you killed.

Ask the prophet Isaiah, who sees the Lord “high and lifted up” and knows right away he has no business in the presence of such electrifying holiness. “Woe is me!” he cries in Isaiah 6.  “I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!”

Moses may not know what he is getting into when he blithely says to the Almighty, “Show me your glory, I pray” (Ex. 33:18). God agrees, but only after stashing Moses in the cleft of a rock. When God passes by, Moses only gets to see God’s backside. We’re left to assume that God’s full-frontal glory would have turned Moses to cinders.

And then there is Ezekiel who is so nervous about describing God’s glory that he begins to sound like a contemporary teenager. The last three verses of Ezekiel’s call narrative contain eleven uses of the word “like” (Ez. 1:26-28). It’s just too risky to come right out and describe what God, so he settles for approximations. At the end he sums it all up with the doubly-distancing sentence: “This was the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the Lord.” Then he promptly falls on his face.

So we can hardly blame those certain poor shepherds in the gospel of Luke for being “sore afraid” (KJV) when “an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them.”

One of my favorite Christmas pageant memories is of the year when my daughter (then about age 7) played an unsuspecting shepherd. This was one of those delightfully unrehearsed productions. She had been told to “do whatever the story says.” So when the angel showed up and she heard the words, “sore afraid,” she dropped to the floor and started writhing. “Well, the story did say SORE!’ she told me afterwards.

Sometimes I wish we could capture a bit more of that “sore afraid” spirit when we hear the Christmas story. It’s one of those times when familiarity breeds not so much “contempt” as “numbness.”

Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to this poem be Jaroslav Vajda. It helps us to feel the shock waves in this story. And if we find ourselves scurrying for cover when the angel tears the sky apart with light—well—maybe that’s as it should be.

Before the Marvel of This Night

Before the marvel of this night

Adoring, fold your wings and bow,

Then tear the sky apart with light

And with your news the world endow,

Proclaim the birth of Christ and peace,

That fear and death and sorrow cease:

Sing peace, sing gift of peace!

Awake the sleeping world with song,

This is the day the Lord has made.

Assemble here, celestial throng,

In royal splendor come arrayed.

Give earth a glimpse of heav’nly bliss,

A teasing taste of what they miss:

Sing bliss, sing endless bliss!

The love that we have always known,

Our constant joy and endless light,

Now to the loveless world be shown,

Now break upon its deathly night.

Into one song compress the love,

That rules our universe above:

Sing love, sing God is love!

Text by Jaroslav Vajda

Listen:  Before the Marvel of This Night This anthem by Carol Schalk interprets a poem by  Jaroslav Vajda. This recording is by the St. Olaf Choral Ensemble.

Pray: Give us the sense to know when we are on holy ground this Christmas.

Introduction to the Tuned for Praise Series

Leonard Bernstein once observed that “music . . . can name the unnameable and communicate the unknowable.”

In this series, we will take advantage of music’s power to pick up where words leave off. Each Bible passage will be paired with a link to a recording that—in my judgement at least—interprets Scripture’s words in ways that words cannot.

Enjoy!

Read: Luke 2:1-7

And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn (Luke 2:7, NRSV).

We’ve known since we were kids that the little Lord Jesus was asleep on the hay. And we have it on the same good authority that when the cattle started lowing, Jesus didn’t even cry.

What’s “lowing”? Why do we assume baby Jesus didn’t cry? For that matter, why do we assume there were animals present? Look closely. Luke doesn’t say a word about animals. He mentions a manger. (For non-farm folks, that’s a box for holding animal food.) Ah—so we infer the presence of animals based on the reference to the manger.

I grew up on a farm. Since the barn was one of my favorite places, I always thought Jesus showed exceptionally good sense being born in one. But I was worried about that manger thing. After all, if a cow or a donkey was used to eating out of that manger, what if they took a bite out of the baby by mistake? My mother assured me that Mary and Joseph must have made sure the animals kept their distance. “But wouldn’t the animals be mad?” I wondered. Clearly, Jesus would have to be careful. Barns were great, but even I knew you had to watch yourself.

The mere mention of a manger may be weak evidence for our elaborate nativity scenes. Still, the instinct for including the animals is a good one. They are, after all, part of the creation that Christ came to redeem. And if we take the incarnation seriously, why shouldn’t they be among the first to witness the Savior’s birth?

It turns out that the only danger in our “animal enhanced” nativity scenes may not be from the animals themselves. Rather, it stems from our own tendency to romanticize the scene. Why is that we assume that any Bible story that features animals is automatically a children’s story? (Think hard about Noah’s ark. Is there anything remotely appropriate for children in that story?) Why is it that we assume the baby Jesus didn’t cry—or have a dirty diaper for that matter? If we’re going to believe in the incarnation, let’s embrace it—not sanitize it.

As we move toward the manger this Advent, let’s stop and smell the manure. Let’s allow the baby Jesus cry for a while, for heaven’s sake. And don’t just send the kids into the manger in their shepherd costumes. Crowd in there with them. It’s a story for all of us.

Besides. Who else is going to make sure the cow doesn’t take a bite out of the baby?

Listen:  O Magnum Mysterium – This anthem by Morten Lauridsen reflects on the “great mystery” of the incarnation—animals and all. This recording is by the Nordic Chamber Choir.

Translation: O great mystery and wonderful sacrament, that beasts should see the new-born Lord lying in a manger. O blessed virgin, whose body was worthy to bear the Lord Jesus Christ. Alleluia!

Prayer: Renew our sense of wonder, O God, that “he came down to earth from heaven who is God and Lord of all; and his shelter was a stable, and his cradle was a stall.”

From “Once in Royal David’s City,” words by Cecil F. Alexander, 1848.

Introduction to the Tuned for Praise Series

Leonard Bernstein once observed that “music . . . can name the unnameable and communicate the unknowable.”

In this series, we will take advantage of music’s power to pick up where words leave off. Each Bible passage will be paired with a link to a recording that—in my judgement at least—interprets Scripture’s words in ways that words cannot.

Enjoy!

Read:

Have them make me a sanctuary, so that I may dwell among them (Exodus 25:8, NRSV).

When was the last time you read through the instructions for the Tabernacle in Exodus 25 through 31?

I think it’s safe to say that this section of the Bible is unexplored territory for most of us. And while this section of the Old Testament may never be a devotional classic for Christians, there are some startling truths tucked into this ancient instruction manual.

One of these has to do with God’s insistence that the holy heart of this structure be covered with animal skins—goat’s hair, rams’ skins, and fine leather to be exact (Ex. 26:7 & 14).

My colleague, Tom Boogaart, was the one who first alerted me to the theological significance of this detail. The holy place that houses the ark of the covenant—that “mercy seat” upon which God is symbolically enthroned—is to be covered with skin.

We might be forgiven for missing the significance of this detail if we’re reading these verses in the middle of July. But if we’re reading during the Advent or Christmas seasons, it’s harder to miss the canonical echoes ricocheting between the testaments. John 1:14 makes the echo explicit, announcing that “the Word became flesh and lived [literally “tabernacled”] among us.”

The irony in the Old Testament context is that, just as God is making plans to dwell among the covenant people in a more tangible way, the people are down at the foot of the mountain making a golden calf. When they stand back to admire their artwork, they announce, “These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt!” (Ex. 32:4). Of all the nerve! We cry, offended by their effrontery. Before we get too far up on our high horse, however, we might want to reflect on our own tendency to follow the wrong gods home.

God is offended, too, and threatens to wipe out these ingrates and start over with Moses. But Moses talks God down, and to make a long story short, the Tabernacle does eventually get built. It becomes the place where the covenant people can experience God’s holy presence in a tangible way—God clothed in flesh, as it were.

There is something essentially shocking about the incarnation. Frederick Buechner helps us to appreciate this when he describes it as “Ultimate Mystery, born with a skull you could crush one handed” (from Whistling in the Dark).

But spare a thought, this Christmas, for the Tabernacle’s instruction manual. It hints at an important habit of God’s heart—that is—God’s longing to “dwell” with us in a tangible way. Maybe with the Tabernacle fresh in our minds, we will be just a little less surprised when John tells us that “the Word became flesh and lived among us.”

Listen:  O Nata Lux. This text (translated below) is often associated with the Feast of Transfiguration. Its reference to being “clothed in flesh,” however, makes it a rich meditation on the incarnation. The composer of this setting is Morten Lauridsen; the performance is by the Los Angeles Master Chorale.

Translation & Prayer:

O Light born of Light,
Jesus, redeemer of the world,
with loving-kindness deign to receive
suppliant praise and prayer.

Thou who once deigned to be clothed in flesh
for the sake of the lost,
grant us to be members
of thy blessed body.

Introduction to the Tuned for Praise Series

Leonard Bernstein once observed that “music . . . can name the unnameable and communicate the unknowable.”

In this series, we will take advantage of music’s power to pick up where words leave off. Each Bible passage will be paired with a link to a recording that—in my judgement at least—interprets Scripture’s words in ways that words cannot.

Enjoy!

Read: Luke 15:11-32

So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him (Luke 15:20, NRSV).

Sometimes love can stop you in your tracks.

That’s what happens to me when I read the parable of the prodigal son. People have rightly pointed out that it is the father in this story who is, in fact, “prodigal.” He lavishes his love on not one, but two calculating offspring. The younger brother can’t wait for his dad to die, squandering his inheritance on short-term gains. Then the older brother pitches a fit when Dad decides to let bygones be bygones. What a pair!

Part of me wants to write “Part Two” of this parable. In the sequel we would find out whether the sons learned anything from watching their father’s application of what we might call “new math.” It was a way of calculating that multiplied and divided everything by love.

New math seems to be a motif in all three of the stories in Luke 15. The lost sheep and the lost coin were, in fact, practice sessions for the parable of the prodigal father. All three stories must have had the Pharisees fuming. But the tax collectors in the crowd must have smiled to themselves (see Luke 15:1-2). Jesus clearly wasn’t very good at math….

I thought of this story in choir rehearsal the other day. We were singing Dan Forrest’s exquisite suite for chorus and orchestra, Lux: The Dawn From on High. It was the third movement that stopped me in my tracks.

After the second movement’s insistent proclamation of John 1:5 (“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”), Forrest continues with these words from a poem by Daniel Ladinsky:

Even after all this time the sun never says to the earth, “You owe me.”

Look what happens with a love like that.

It lights the whole sky.

This week we begin another journey through Advent. As the days grow shorter and the news grows darker, turn toward “love like that” wherever you find it—love that doesn’t get lost in careful calculations. It’s a love that will light the whole sky.

Listen:  The Sun Never Says

Pray: Help us to reflect your prodigal love.

Introduction to the Tuned for Praise Series

Leonard Bernstein once observed that “music . . . can name the unnameable and communicate the unknowable.”

In this series, we will take advantage of music’s power to pick up where words leave off. Each Bible passage will be paired with a link to a recording that—in my judgement at least—interprets Scripture’s words in ways that words cannot.

Enjoy!

We continue the “Tuned for Praise” series with three hymns on healing.

This is the third of those three reflections.

Read: Job 42:7-17

After this Job lived one hundred and forty years, and saw his children, and his children’s children, four generations (Job 42:16, NRSV).

Contrary to popular belief, the book of Job does not have a happy ending.

Oh, I know that Job ends up with twice as much stuff as he had before and a whole new set of children. But are we meant to believe that life was ever really the same for him after his 42-chapter ordeal?

My young daughter, Ellen, made me feel the sharp end of this point once. I had just finished reading the ending to book of Job to her and her brother, Andy. Afterwards, she sat very still for a moment. Then she asked, “Mom, if Andy and I died and you and Dad got NEW kids—would that make it OK?”

No. It would not be OK. It would never be OK.

Her question sent me back to the end of Job’s story with some questions of my own:

• What was it like for Job to risk living and loving again once he knew that he could lose it all at any moment?
• How could he find the courage to serve God once he knew that faithfulness did not guarantee health, wealth, and happiness?

Though we can’t ask Job directly, there are certain clues to how he might respond to these questions in the details of the text itself. He prays for his so-called friends. He throws a big party and gives gifts to his siblings—even though they had been noticeably absent during his ordeal. He gives frivolous names to his new daughters (Dove, Cinnamon, and Eye-Shadow)—and then flaunts all convention by naming them in the will along with their brothers.

If we expected Job to be bitter, fearful, or suicidal—we have another thing coming. This is a man who knows how to throw a party. This is a man who seems to have decided to serve God even if there isn’t anything in it for him. This is a man who has learned to live without all the answers.

I like to imagine Job singing the hymn, “O God Beyond All Praising.” I picture him singing with his head thrown back and a smile on his face. The references to Christ in verse two would puzzle him, but if we told him the story, it probably wouldn’t surprise him to learn the lengths to which God was willing to go to make things right. And when he got to verse three there might be tears on his cheeks, but he’d sing all the louder. Because who would know better than Job that “whether our tomorrows be filled with good or ill, we’ll triumph through our sorrows and rise to bless you still”?

Listen:  O God Beyond All Praising– This hymn text by Michael Perry is here set to the tune THAXTED by Gustav Holst. You may recognize this tune as the triumphant theme of the Jupiter movement from his suite, The Planets. This arrangement for choir and orchestra is by Richard Proulx and is available from GIA Publications.

Pray: “Whether our tomorrows be filled with good or ill, we’ll triumph through our sorrows and rise to bless you still.” Thy will be done.

From v. 3 of Michael Perry’s “O God Beyond All Praising.”

Introduction to the Tuned for Praise Series

Leonard Bernstein once observed that “music . . . can name the unnameable and communicate the unknowable.”

In this series, we will take advantage of music’s power to pick up where words leave off. Each Bible passage will be paired with a link to a recording that—in my judgement at least—interprets Scripture’s words in ways that words cannot.

Enjoy!

We continue the “Tuned for Praise” series with three hymns on healing.

This is the second of those three reflections.

Read: Psalm 77

I will call to mind the deeds of the Lord; I will remember your ways of old. (Psalm 77:11, NRSV)

Memory. It lays the foundation for so much of our faith.

At the last supper, Jesus enjoins the disciples to “do this in remembrance of me.” In so many of the psalms, memories of God’s past faithfulness are the basis for present hope.

This seems to be the logic that lies behind Psalm 77. Yet, there is a twist at the center of this psalm that makes it especially valuable for the care of souls—especially those souls who feel betrayed by their own memories.

The psalmist’s distress could not be more real. “I cry aloud to God,” she admits at the outset. “My soul refuses to be comforted.” But as she continues to describe her distress, she departs from the usual pattern. For this psalmist, memories of God’s past faithfulness are tinged with more pain than pleasure. It’s the very contrast between past blessing and present pain that she finds so galling. When she “consider(s) the days of old, and remember(s) the years of long ago,” she is confronted with a litany of agonizing questions:

Will the Lord spurn forever, and never again be favorable?

Has his steadfast love ceased forever?

Are his promises at an end for all time?

Has God forgotten to be gracious?

Has he in anger shut up his compassion?

It is at this point that she comes to a bitter conclusion: “It is my grief that the right hand of the Most High has changed.”

If the psalm ended there, it would still be useful for the care of souls. It is no small thing, after all, to help us find words for our fears, our doubts, and our grief.

But the psalm goes on in a way that makes one wonder if A) the psalmist came back later and wrote the ending, or B) the psalmist was surrounded by a community of faith that was able to bear her up when her own strength was spent. There is no way to know for sure, of course, but I think I’m leaning toward the latter.

I think of Psalm 77 whenever I sing what has become one of my favorite contemporary hymns, “When Memory Fades.” Mary Louse Bringle wrote the words for a friend whose mother was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. Like the psalm, this hymn faces fear and pain with uncommon courage. And then it surrounds both primary and secondary sufferers with prayers to the God who will always remember us.

As you listen, let the words bear you up even if your own strength is spent.

Listen:  When Memory Fades – This hymn text by Mary Louise Bringle is here set to a tune by Jane Southwick Cool. The arrangement is by Eric Nelson. It is sung by the St. Olaf Choir, Anton Armstrong, conductor. In some newer hymnals, the text is also set to the familiar tune, FINLANDIA, by Jean Sibelius.

Pray: “When memory fades, and recognition falters, when eyes we love grow dim, and minds confused—speak to our souls of love that never alters; speak to our hearts, by pain and fear abused. O God of life and healing peace, empower us with patient courage by your grace infused.”

From v. 1 of Mary Louise Bringle’s “When Memory Fades.”

Introduction to the Tuned for Praise Series

Leonard Bernstein once observed that “music . . . can name the unnameable and communicate the unknowable.”

In this series, we will take advantage of music’s power to pick up where words leave off. Each Bible passage will be paired with a link to a recording that—in my judgement at least—interprets Scripture’s words in ways that words cannot.

Enjoy!

We continue the “Tuned for Praise” series with three hymns on healing.

This is the first of those three reflections.

Read: Luke 5:17-26

Just then some men came, carrying a paralyzed man on a bed. They were trying to bring him in and lay him before Jesus; but finding no way to bring him in because of the crowd, they went up on the roof and let him down with his bed through the tiles into the middle of the crowd in front of Jesus. (Luke 5: 18-19, NRSV)

I once knew a woman whose spirit had been twisted by a bitter divorce. Decades later she was diagnosed with colon cancer. Faithful friends gathered around her to pray for her healing. Much to everyone’s surprise, God answered those prayers by healing her spirit instead of her body. She eventually died of the colon cancer, but she lived her last months suffused with gratitude and joy. It was, by any measure, a miracle.

It’s hard not to think of that woman when I read this story from Luke. It is also found in Mark 2 and Matthew 9, but in all the versions, the friends play an important role. Their determination to get their friend to Jesus is nothing short of heroic. This in itself is an answer to prayer. Not everyone is blessed with friends like these, after all. Their intervention serves as an inspiration to all of us who aspire to bring those we love to the throne of grace.

But this brings us to the matter of the man on the stretcher. The narrator describes him as “paralyzed,” but Jesus’ first instinct is to heal his spirit and not his body. “Friend, your sins are forgiven you,” he says when the man interrupts the lesson plan by descending from the ceiling. Granted, people of that day assumed that physical illness was directly related to physical infirmity—i.e.—they assumed that he must have done something to deserve this. But I wonder if Jesus’ words reflect a more complicated triage of the man’s needs. We have no way of knowing, of course, but the story leaves room to wonder if the man’s need for spiritual healing is even more pressing than his need for physical healing.

In any case, the Pharisees blow a gasket and accuse Jesus of blasphemy. “Who can forgive sins but God alone?” they fume.

It’s at this point that Jesus tells the man to get up and go home. He does—which gives the Pharisees even more to think about.

To listen to some people, praying for healing is as simple as walking up to the Divine Vending Machine, putting your faith in the slot, and waiting for God to deliver according to what button you press. There are many problems with this approach, not the least of which is what happens when God does not deliver. When that happens, we conclude that the problem is either God’s (not enough power) or ours (not enough faith).

Maybe that’s why I appreciate the words to John L. Bell’s hymn so much. “We cannot measure how you heal,” it acknowledges, “or answer every sufferer’s prayer; yet we believe your grace responds where faith and doubt unite to care.” God’s love and response are what we can count on, even though God may respond in ways we do not expect.

As you listen to this recording of Bell’s hymn, open your own spirit to all of the ways God heals. And whether you find yourself carrying someone else’s stretcher or yourself being lowered down in front of Jesus, remember that we cannot measure how God heals.

Listen:  We Cannot Measure How You Heal – The words to this hymn are by John L. Bell; the tune is a traditional Scottish folk song, YE BANKS AND BRAES. The recording is by the Cathedral Singers.

Pray: “Lord, let your Spirit meet us here to mend the body, mind, and soul—to disentangle peace from pain, and make your broken people whole.”

From v. 3 of John L. Bell’s “We Cannot Measure How You Heal”

Introduction to the Tuned for Praise Series

Leonard Bernstein once observed that “music . . . can name the unnameable and communicate the unknowable.”

In this series, we will take advantage of music’s power to pick up where words leave off. Each Bible passage will be paired with a link to a recording that—in my judgement at least—interprets Scripture’s words in ways that words cannot.

Enjoy!