Is also one of the most formational worship songs in my life. The stone-cold-classic “I Lift My Eyes Up” by Brian Doerksen. It shaped me for years. It still resonates with me today. Which is fitting, because the Psalms were meant to be sung.

Music is a powerful force. It influences our moods. It makes our bodies move. It stimulates our brains in deep ways—educators know this, which is why, (especially at younger ages, but it ought to be more common at older ages), so much is taught through song.

Case in point: How did you learn the alphabet?

I will listen to what God the Lord says;

he promises peace to his people, his faithful servants—

but let them not turn to folly.

(Psalm 85:8)

What is God saying to you today?

Through the Scriptures. Through creation. Through those that you live with. Through the Wise of years past. Through unexpected circumstances. Through the mundane ordinariness of daily chores.

In the bustle of life. In the chaos of quarantine. In the chatter of children. In the quiet places of your own spirit. In the seemingly random musings of your mind. In the flicker of a candle. In the subtle in and out of your own breath.

In this place? At this time in history? Doing the things you are doing? Surrounded by these people?

Why not any other place? Any other time, doing anything else, surrounded by any other people?

This is, arguably, the root existential question of humanity. The one that all religions, if they’re worth their salt, try to answer. Here’s a really poignant take on this from the Apostle Paul:

We all live on a certain plot of land. We live within a measured acreage; our home is a certain square footage. We live in a particular location that has a size and shape.

Our lives have a certain width and breadth. The reach of our relationships and influence is different for each of us; we all touch a unique set of other lives that no one else touches.

Of my own knowledge of God. Proverbially, I am my own worst enemy. Metaphorically I am my own rock and my own hard place. Spiritually I am my own dead weight. Literally I am just a natural creature trying to seek after a supernatural Creator.

Flannery O’Connor, in her prayer journal, writes a prayer worth weaving into my daily prayers:

Because everything is connected. Everything has an effect, however small or large, on something else.

The thing is, I often have more options than I realize. It’s far too easy to passively go with the flow, to just allow things to happen to me, within me, and through me. But the good news is than I can allow certain triggers to be pulled. I can also leave the safety on for other triggers. The triggers I allow to be pulled will lead me either in the direction of brokenness or in the direction of wholeness.

Or at least we’re good at believing that we’re supposed to figure things out. We’re good at convincing ourselves that figuring things out is part of responsible adulting.

Often times we think we’re quite good at figuring things out—that is, when our calculations seem to add up. We get quite embarrassed and frustrated when we can’t seem to figure things out. So we buy more books and read more blogs and download more podcasts and bang our heads against more walls.

Yesterday I unplugged from all news media outlets and social media. All day. A full 24 hours. It was our normal weekly Sabbath day, but this kind of fast isn’t usually a part of my practice. It might become a regular thing.

Here are a few random observations after going off the grid for a day:

Throughout history there have been those who have chosen to engage in “social distancing” for lengths of time. Some for ascetic reasons. Some for philosophical reasons. Some for artistic reasons. Some for neurotic reasons. Some for religious reasons. Today, we’re all doing social distancing, to one degree or another, for public health reasons.

In the Christian tradition we have a group that we call the Desert Fathers. They were early Christian hermits, monks who lived mainly in the deserts of Egypt around the third century AD. They developed rigorous rhythms of prayer and Scripture reading, forsaking worldly wealth and prestige. Eventually monastic communities grew up around them that became the model for monasticism.

They’re an interesting bunch to read from and about.

No one likes it. We like being in control of outcomes. We like being in control of pacing. 

We don’t handle it well when the waiting is in someone else’s hands. We like it even less when the waiting is in the hands of something much broader and unpredictable–like, say, a pandemic.

An indefinite season of waiting.

The question is what are we waiting for? Perhaps many things: for the Coronavirus to run its’ course; for officials’ next decisions or recommendations; for labs to produce more tests; for scientists to develop a vaccine; for our bosses to make decisions that affect our employment; for school systems to announce the next steps; for… for… for…
Our “waiting for” list could be quite extensive and overwhelming at this point.