Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind... Romans 12:2
A Call
by Jason Ewert
Come, blessed Saviour, grant us Thy blessing,
We implore Thee, we implore come.
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As I stroll into the sanctuary and find a seat, the soaring voices of a young women's choir welcome me. Clad in white and black, the facial expressions of the young women match the tone of their clothing. They are not relaxed but do not appear restless; instead, a sense of calm assurance emanates from their appearance. Let all creatures that have breath praise the Lord with all their being, praise His name forevermore!, they sing, intoning a call. It is a universal call, a call to earth and all its inhabitants, a call to offer praise to the Most High King.
Do the singers receive their assurance from the call or from the King? I cannot tell.
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Red-breasted robins scurry around the field underneath my window, scrounging for food and basking in the late afternoon sunshine. Along with the chickadees, they are the first birds to return after a mild winter, and it is a pleasant surprise to see them as they move around the barren field. They pick at the soil, searching for anything edible: I don't know how successful they are. Every so often they glance up from their search and look at each other, as if to say, "Spring is on its way: be joyful!" Though one might think the birds would be downcast because of the colder weather, there is no sense of discontent in their behavior. As they leave the field, flying about happily and rejoicing in the coming rebirth of nature, it is easy to imagine that they are singing, in their own way, "Hallelujah to the King forevermore." They are thanking God for His provision to them, for His promise: He has not forgotten them.
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Several young men join the young women on stage, providing a firm foundation to the singing. The base underlies the music, adding boldness to the assurance. Presumptuous self-sufficiency is not present, however, as the choir acknowledges the giver of their peace. There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole, sing two basses, declaring that this balm has given them peace and will do the same for others. Their words inspire reflection.
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Last summer, one of my siblings discovered a hummingbird in our deck skylight. Frantically flapping its wings, the bird sought to break through the clear barrier and escape its mental demon. The pitiful creature would not stop its attempts, exploring in every possible direction except downwards. After several unsuccessful attempts, I managed to carefully capture the frightened bird in a towel. I softly enclosed the bird in the towel, trying not to injure it. Taking the bird to the lawn, I opened up the towel, and for one terrible moment I had a clear glance of this marvelous creature as I looked down and saw that one of its wings was out of shape. Fear gripped my heart as I realized that in trying to save this poor creature I had crippled it, making its life worthless. A moment later, the fear vanished as the bird suddenly pulled itself upright and flew off, unhurt. Watching it fly away, I hoped that it was a little wiser, but in my heart I knew that I had only temporarily freed the bird from its stupidity.
Can the balm of Gilead teach one to see behind and beyond the present?
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The concert is progressing well, and as it continues, the singers begin to portray personalities. In the back row stands a tall bass, opening and closing his mouth like a trapdoor that swings with precise accuracy. The Lord is good, he sings, and his mouth slams shut, preventing any further sound from escaping. Suddenly, the next note arrives and his mouth flies open, releasing strong notes that support strong lyrics: The Lord is good; a stronghold in the day of trouble. I begin to wonder if he is enjoying himself, but my doubts are swept away when he and a neighbor perform a solo without the use of microphones. As their notes fly around the room, filling it with a deep richness, the singers' sincerity and joy is readily apparent, even to the most casual listener.
Another interesting character stands in the front row: he is a tenor, and he belts out his part triumphantly, congenially pleading with the listener to rejoice. When the notes become higher and require more breath, he scrunches up his eyes until nothing but a mass of wrinkles is visible underneath his forehead. Coming down for a breath, his appearance returns to normal, and he again reaches out to the audience with his friendly smile.
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Many different cloud formations catch our attention with their beauty while many more are ignored as they pass over our unobservant heads. Last week, as I drove home, a large, fuzzy cloud, spread out like a blanket, covered a portion of the sky, painted by the setting sun. The cloud was neither threatening nor timid: it was simply there, a portrait of the sunset's blazing flower being transformed into the night's dark grass. Farther to the west was the setting sun, surrounded by bleeding shards of cloud that blocked part of the sun's dying light. These clouds victoriously floated, proclaiming victory and displaying their badges of courage. Two completely different pictures, one peaceful and one violent; two different ways of speaking of God's glory. As the peaceful blanket and the exultant shards fell from view, God's name was raised to the heavens. Lord, we will never cease to praise Your name.
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In the alto section stands a cautious young woman. A bit taller than those around her, she carefully but confidently sings her notes. Her face glows with pride in a job well done and with that steady assurance found with most of the singers. Though there arose up war against me, Yet will I put my trust in Him. Trust. Faith. Praise. Glory. Amen.
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The concert is ending now, and the choir members are filing out the doors beside me. I am no longer in the sanctuary, however, but am standing in a courtyard beneath a majestic mountain. Surrounded by flowers and trees of all colors and sizes, I am astonished by the wonder of it all. In the center stands a wise, old monk, talking to the birds and looking at the trees with praise beaming from his eyes as he instructs a group of people around him. As I approach, I hear them singing a call, and the call is answered.
Return to Volume 8, Number 2.
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