“I will praise you, O Lord, among the nations;
I will sing of you among
the peoples.” Psalm 57:9
I had to be less than ten. We visited the United Nations, because I have some kind of memory of standing in front of that building, but no memories at all of being inside.
What I remember best, as I said, is two images, both from the streets of the city. In one, a woman who is apparently mad is screaming wildly. The words make no sense, as I remember; but the scene is distressing, and no one seems to care. People—hundreds of them—walk right past on wider sidewalks than I’d ever seen in my life. Someone should tell her not to scream, because it’s so disturbing, I thought. But no one did, and she kept it up. We didn't stop either. Finally, we were out of earshot.
And another image from the street—a man in a sandwich board saying “Repent” or something. I was a kid, but I remember being embarrassed, almost the same feeling I had when that mad woman wouldn’t stop screaming. This guy was preaching, and I knew it, but I found what he was doing repulsive, embarrassing. I didn’t want him drawing attention to something I knew better by the warmth of Christmas eve programs or the comfort of morning prayers over Sugar Pops.
What’s amazing to me is that those two memories are filed away in a similar folder—or scrapbook, the most vivid memories of a child’s first trip to the big city.
Gratitude is the beginning of the Christian life—that’s what I believe; and gratitude makes us sing. No question. Gratitude makes David pipe the dawn in this psalm, or believe he can—or at least make the outrageous claims. Our thanks for the salvation that has come so shockingly into our lives sends us all cartwheeling into the world. “I will sing of you among the peoples,” David shouts, ecstatic, and some guy in New York in the early fifties adorns himself in sandwich boards, stands out on the street where he scares the children and the horses.
Our pastor tells the tale of a young man with Down Syndrome in a previous congregation, a man who had a special love for a certain organist’s playing. Whenever she’d play, he’d dance in the aisles.
Maybe we all should. Maybe we all should pull on sandwich boards or paint “Jesus Loves me” across the side of our houses. There’s a man just down the block that loves to sit outside on Sunday afternoons, his stereo cranked, the sounds of “The Old Rugged Cross” being sung by a men’s quartet with bluegrass roots taking over the entire neighborhood.
I know the impulse of this verse from Psalm 57. David is almost gone in his deep affection for the God who has saved him so often and here, in the cave, has done it again. God almighty delivered him, and it’s as obvious as the nose on his face that he’s going to sing to the world.
But how? And what tune? And how loud? Snare drums or Native flutes? Bold type or fancy font? Stories or poems? Classical or folk rock? Johnny Cash or Mahalia Jackson? Flannery O’Conner or the 700 Club?
The older I get, the more I think the answer is simply, “Just sing.” Just sing songs of love and let God create the harmony.
What I remember best, as I said, is two images, both from the streets of the city. In one, a woman who is apparently mad is screaming wildly. The words make no sense, as I remember; but the scene is distressing, and no one seems to care. People—hundreds of them—walk right past on wider sidewalks than I’d ever seen in my life. Someone should tell her not to scream, because it’s so disturbing, I thought. But no one did, and she kept it up. We didn't stop either. Finally, we were out of earshot.
And another image from the street—a man in a sandwich board saying “Repent” or something. I was a kid, but I remember being embarrassed, almost the same feeling I had when that mad woman wouldn’t stop screaming. This guy was preaching, and I knew it, but I found what he was doing repulsive, embarrassing. I didn’t want him drawing attention to something I knew better by the warmth of Christmas eve programs or the comfort of morning prayers over Sugar Pops.
What’s amazing to me is that those two memories are filed away in a similar folder—or scrapbook, the most vivid memories of a child’s first trip to the big city.
Gratitude is the beginning of the Christian life—that’s what I believe; and gratitude makes us sing. No question. Gratitude makes David pipe the dawn in this psalm, or believe he can—or at least make the outrageous claims. Our thanks for the salvation that has come so shockingly into our lives sends us all cartwheeling into the world. “I will sing of you among the peoples,” David shouts, ecstatic, and some guy in New York in the early fifties adorns himself in sandwich boards, stands out on the street where he scares the children and the horses.
Our pastor tells the tale of a young man with Down Syndrome in a previous congregation, a man who had a special love for a certain organist’s playing. Whenever she’d play, he’d dance in the aisles.
Maybe we all should. Maybe we all should pull on sandwich boards or paint “Jesus Loves me” across the side of our houses. There’s a man just down the block that loves to sit outside on Sunday afternoons, his stereo cranked, the sounds of “The Old Rugged Cross” being sung by a men’s quartet with bluegrass roots taking over the entire neighborhood.
I know the impulse of this verse from Psalm 57. David is almost gone in his deep affection for the God who has saved him so often and here, in the cave, has done it again. God almighty delivered him, and it’s as obvious as the nose on his face that he’s going to sing to the world.
But how? And what tune? And how loud? Snare drums or Native flutes? Bold type or fancy font? Stories or poems? Classical or folk rock? Johnny Cash or Mahalia Jackson? Flannery O’Conner or the 700 Club?
The older I get, the more I think the answer is simply, “Just sing.” Just sing songs of love and let God create the harmony.
No comments:
Post a Comment