Hope

Let the sea resound. The same sea that was roaring in Psalm 93 is now being commanded to join the worship. The storm is not the thing that disqualifies you. The storm has been invited into the choir. Part three of Singing in the Flood.

The new song is not the old song with new lyrics. It is the music of wounded hope — quieter, gritter, a steady heartbeat that says I am still here. Part two of Singing in the Flood.

You will not, if you keep going at this pace, last. The Saviour of the world walked away from people who needed saving so that his own soul could be tended. If he could, you can.

Psalm 93 holds a tension our worship songs cannot. The waters are loud. The throne is older. You do not have to calm the storm to be faithful — you only have to remember whose throne stands above it.

You have taken from me friend and neighbour — darkness is my closest friend. Heman was not only in the dark. He was in the dark alone. The wound of being left is its own wound. Part four of A Slow Walk Through Psalm 88.

Anger at God is not the failure of faith. Apathy is. The angry person is still on the line. The apathetic person has hung up. Part three of A Slow Walk Through Psalm 88.

Most lament psalms turn at some point — yet I will trust, but you, O Lord. Psalm 88 has no pivot. It ends in the dark. The editors knew, and they left it. Part two of A Slow Walk Through Psalm 88.

The world is quietly walking away from hustle culture, and the church has not yet noticed. You are still going. The calendar is still full. And somewhere underneath, a question has started to surface — was this the shape it was supposed to take?

The acute part is over. The phone calls have stopped. The casseroles have stopped. And you are not, in any sense fine. The church often does not have a category for the long middle — the person who survived but is still, in some genuine sense, carrying it.