Fall on Your Knees
It seems that this weekend swept over me like a wave of contradictory events, some happy, some sad, some frustrating, all ultimatey awe-inspiring, and has left me here at the end of a vast ocean of ambiguity, wet and shivering, but still sensing the strength of the sun that has moved behind a winter cloud.
We had a Christmas Cantata at church yesterday. We’d been practicing rather half-heartedly for a month, or so, limited in so many ways by our current logistics: we can only meet in our school building/church facility for a few hours every Sunday morning, and that includes the worship service. They kick us out at 12:30pm. If we want to practice, we must arrive early, or meet somewhere else. We don’t have a piano, we have a small, portable keyboard; a stage is unheard of. Sound equipment doesn’t exist. Now, we have a roof, and a room, and chairs, and truly are happy with these “mean” blessings! But 15 minutes before the worship service is scarcely enough to time to train a choir of people who’ve no previous musical training, many of which are learning English as a second language as it is.
So I was frustrated on Saturday at our “dress rehearsal.” First of all, I was late (again) and frustrated with myself. The drama portion of the rehearsal went well. I consoled myself with that. The music, however, sounded worse than it had all month, and we didn’t even have all of the songs on hand to practice! No one seemed to mind. I, on the otherhand, seethed inwardly, stewing in my rancid perfectionism, and struggled against the urge to take over. For someone who can’t manage to be on time, I sure have big ideas about how to fix everything…
I called my mother on Saturday night to vent. She did understand. She’s as bad as I am in the perfectionism department. With all of our good intentions, we rarely enjoy anything we particpate in because we set standards too high for ourselves and for everyone else, and we inevitably crash and burn. It’s good, I believe, to want to do the best possible job with what the Lord has given us; it’s bad, on the other hand, to fail to recognize the God-ordained limitations and wonder how we can use them for His glory. To be discontent. To blame people who haven’t the experience, when we ought to be encouraging them, waiting for them, and submitting humbly to them, as to the Lord Himself. I was barely managing the outward show, and failing miserably on the inside.
My mother said she’d pray for me, and that awareness is a curse. We talked and talked. By the end of the conversation I realized that what I was most frustrated with was NOT the less-than stellar choral performance that day, but with my own inability to be humble, to be an encourager, to fully offer my own limited resources, to be content. I know that God isn’t glorified in our technically perfect church performances; He’s glorified in our unity as brothers and sisters in Christ. He’s glorified in a meek spirit. In someone who is willing to her own glaring shortcomings and, in turn, wait with patience on and for others. I knew that. I know that. I wanted Him to be so glorified. Willing spirits do not always counter-balance a weak flesh, however, and what is most needful is constant prayer, constant repentance, constant grace, constant mercy.
The Lord has a way of delivering what we don’t earn. Call them gifts of Grace. The church was full to the brim on Sunday, mostly with vistors (people who attend the Sunday Evening Bible studies, friends, relatives, and new students in town). I was past the point of worrying. There was nothing more to be done. We began to sing. The dramatic reading glued the scraps of our songs together. I myself was focusing on the back of the room, praying hard, throughout the program. I wasn’t praying so much for the play, or the choir. I was praying for myself: Lord forgive me. Lord, forgive me. Lord, forgive me.
And He did. After the program, Pastor had a short sermon about vthe Christmas story prepared. Notes had been handed out. He didn’t use them. He asked the song leader to lead the congregation in a Christmas hymn. He needed a chance to go “blow his nose and wipe the tears out of his eyes.” He wasn’t kidding. When he came back, he thanked our visitors for coming. He then began to share how much of a blessing the program had been for him (and he was also skeptical of the music, by the way). We’d adjusted an existing cantata drama to fit our situation and hopefully relate better to our audience. Instead of a play about a small-town, caucasian Fundamentalist church problem, we had a play about a small church in Boston and the struggle of a new, Asian pastor. Mandy, herself a newly-saved international student, acted the part of a young Chinese student who accepts Christ and leads her cantakerous old professor–a financial pillar of the church, and chief opponent of the new Asian pastor–to Christ on Christmas Eve. It worked. We like to think people “got it.” Pastor talked about Mandy. He talked about other participants, Peng and Wendy, and how Peng had recently been led from atheism to theism, and eventually to a knowledge of Christ. How Wendy was led to Christ back in China, through various means including secret Bible meetings. That she and Peng are even together is a miracle of grace. He talked about Bruce, Felicia’s dad, and about the miracle of his conversion; he talked about Felicia herself, who was singing in a choir unto the Lord for the first time as a new believer. She was glowing. I kept catching the blaze of her smile out of the corner of my eye.
There are just so many stories, and so many blessings. The fact that any of these people, myself included, were up there singing at all was no small miracle. And so what if we hadn’t hit all the high notes, and failed to follow dynamics and key changes? Perhaps fewer of the visitors were blessed than our regular church members were. I know that I was. I find that often with great blessing comes great shame. Hopeful shame: the shame of Isaiah, who upon seeing the glory of the Lord could only cry out, “Woe unto me!” and fall upon his knees in worship of the Highest. We cannot fully appreciate His greatness unless we see our own worthlessness. In wholly recognizing that worthlessness, we find our great worth: for, such a One as He has sought and bought us, against all common sense, and desires to use us, and put us on display, as it were, as the greatest works of art from the Master’s hands.
And so I am awe-struck. And rightfully so. I am humbled, and shivering, and glad. Why the aforementioned ambiguity, then, and the sense of losing the sun? After all of the lessons and blessings of Sunday morning, I got a phone call Sunday evening. My grandmother had passed away. Understand, we’ve never been close. And that’s partly her fault. But, for the past several years, she’s been suffering with Alzeimer’s in a specialized nursing home not too far away. We barely visited her. When we did, she didn’t seem to want us there. Still, in the past few months I’ve been pricked in conscience to go to her, to minister what I can, to honor her and love her and offer some sort of life. But I was too busy. And I’m not sure I really wanted to bother.
When will I learn to obey that still, small voice? But there is now nothing, nothing to be done. The thought crossed my mind last night that she is probably in Hell, and that it is proabbly my fault, and can God forgive even that in one who ought to, and does, know better? So fall, fall, fall on your knees. Lord, forgive me. Lord, forgive me. Lord, forgive me.