He is not a tame lion.

The fool has said in his heart, “There is no God.”  Psalm 14:1

O Lord, we come this morning
Knee-bowed and body-bent
Before Thy throne of grace.
O Lord--this morning--
Bow our hearts beneath our knees,
And our knees in some lonesome valley.
We come this morning--
Like empty pitchers to a full fountain,
With no merits of our own.
O Lord--open up a window of heaven,
And lean out far over the battlements of glory,
And listen this morning. –James Weldon Johnson

And sometimes I am discouraged, as I sling my daily knapsack over my shoulder and head out into the new day; the road is rocky and the high passes ahead of me are formidable indeed.

It tool them some time to reach the foot of the slope and, when they did, they looked down from the top of the cliffs at a river running below them from west to east. It was walled in by precipices on the far side as well as on their own, and it was green and sunless, full of rapids and waterfalls. The roar of it shook the earth even where they stood.

“The bright side of it is,” said Puddleglum, “that if we break our necks getting down the cliffs, then we’re safe from being drowned in the river.” –C. S. Lewis

And now and then I even wonder if this journey is all in my own head, a foolish game that Puddleglum and I are playing.

And this morning I came, knee-bowed and body-bent.

Like an empty pitcher before a full fountain.

Gripping the metaphorical prayer list of beloved souls in my fist, before the Throne of Grace.

No. As I hold each name before the fountain, No. I will choose to believe. I will choose to believe in purpose and goodness and dependence on His strength and courage and His outstretched love. I refuse to settle for the tepid stew of good sense and security and big walls built up.

“One word, Ma’am,” he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. “One word. All you’ve been saying is quite right, I shouldn’t wonder. I’m a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won’t deny any of what you said. But there’s one thing more to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things–trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that’s a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That’s why I’m going to stand by the play-world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we’re leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that’s a small loss if the world’s as dull a place as you say.”

On June 16, 1976, seven hundred school children were killed in Soweto, South Africa, as the struggled against the forces of apartheid. The 1,500 heavily armed police officers deployed to Soweto on 17 June carried weapons including automatic rifles, stun guns, and carbines. They drove in armoured vehicles with helicopters monitoring the area from the sky. 

 And this is the song the children sang:

We are marching, marching,
We are marching, marching,
We are marching in the light of God.

We are living in the love of God,
We are living in the love of God,
We are living, living,
We are living, living,
We are living in the love of God,

We are moving in the power of God,
We are moving in the power of God,
We are moving, moving,
We are moving, moving,
We are moving in the power of God.

Siyahamb' ekukhanyen' kwenkhos',
Siyahamb' ekukhanyen' kwenkhos'.
Siyahamba, hamba, siyahamba, hamba,
Siyahamb' ekukhanyen' kwenkhos'.

And so today, LORD, let me not settle for warm fireplaces and sweetly scented drowsiness and the, quite honestly, soothing, thrum, thrum of busy background noise that urges complacency and safety, and questions all that is good.

Let me march forward today, living and moving in His power, with cheer on my lips and a song of joy in my heart to God our Strength.

Only a fool has said in his heart, “There is no God.”

Fortunate Fall.

For God alone my soul in silence waits; truly, my hope is in Him. He alone is my rock and my salvation, my stronghold, so that I shall not be shaken. In God is my safety and my honor; God is my strong rock and my refuge. Put your trust in Him always, O people, pour out your hearts before Him, for God is our refuge. Those of high degree are but a fleeting breath, even those of low estate cannot be trusted. On the scales they are lighter than a breath, all of them together. God has spoken once, twice have I heard it, that power belongs to God. Steadfast love is yours, O Lord, for you repay everyone according to His deeds. Psalm 62:6–14

There’s that refuge word again. And again. Twice I have heard it, that power belongs to God.

And last night at the annual Gingerbread House Event in which the Louvre, a pickup truck, an outhouse and even a dumpster on fire were constructed out of graham crackers, bowl upon bowls of icing, and an ancient gathering of gumdrops, licorice sticks, and pretzels, I overheard a conversation about this waiting thing.

Is this God is Love thing something that we humans have constructed out of scavenged fairy tales and shaky longings like that beautiful Rapunzel tower covered with bright green vines and flowers that tumbled over into a sweet heap with a slight shift of the plastic-covered table?

I pushed my way into the conversation with my go-to guy Puddleglum who, after stomping out the foggy-witch-lies with his bare webbed feet, comes back, limping, because of the pain, and looks the Deceiver in the eye and declares: Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things-trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That's why I'm going to stand by the play world. I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it.

And I think of ol’ John the Baptist, stuck in prison for speaking the truth, staring at the sturdy rock walls around him, with only a slight glint of outside sunlight, sending this same message to Jesus: Are you the One we have been waiting for? Is this what is looks like, all of this hope and glory?

And Jesus replied, “Yep. This is it. Look and Listen. Blessed are those that do not stumble.

Happy is she who does not stumble.

So I choose the Joy Dare, and look carefully and listen carefully for the miraculous, the manger-small, and angelic song.

As I sit quietly by candlelight and quilt a Christmas stocking for Simone, which means She Who Listens.

Almighty God, who of Thine infinite wisdom has ordained that I should live my life within these narrow bounds of time and circumstance, let me now go forth into the world with a brave and trustful heart. It has pleased Thee to withhold from me a perfect knowledge; therefore deny me not the grace of faith by which I may lay hold of things unseen. Thou hast given me little power to mould things to my own desire; therefore use Thine own omnipotence to bring Thy desires to pass within me. Thou hast willed it that through labour and pain I should walk the upward way; be Thou then my fellow traveller as I go. –John Baillie

Stir up Your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us; and, because we are sorely hindered by our sins, let Your bountiful grace and mercy speedily help and deliver us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be honor and glory now and for ever. Amen.

His power. His grace. His mercy.

Heaping and overflowing, poured into our lap.

The fullness of the Godhead knit with our humanity
Flesh and bones sewn in the heart of God inseparably
I know, I know, and I believe You are the Lord
I know, I know, and I believe You are the Lord
Help my unbelief.

Strange and sweet collision of justice and mercy
Your burden is light and your yoke is easy.
I know, I know, and I believe that You are the Lord
I know, I know, and I believe that You are the Lord
Help my unbelief.

O happy fault that gained for me the chance to know you, Lord
to touch your wounded side and know the joy of my reward 
I know, I know, and I believe that You are the Lord
I know, I know, and I believe that You are the Lord
Help my unbelief.

My Lord and my God
My Lord and my God
I know, I know, and I believe
I know, I know, and I believe
Help my unbelief
Help my unbelief.  –Audry Assad

Even now the axe is laid to the root of the tree.

Knit my heart to You. Psalm 88:11

I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt and said, “Open your mouth wide, and I will fill it.” Psalm 81:10

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, is the question: What are you afraid of?

“Spiritual discernment is a way of preparing and disposing the soul to rid itself of all inordinate attachments, and, after their removal, of seeking and finding the will of God in the disposition of our life.” -St. Ignatius of Loyola

I hung out with a couple of wise friends of Nicole’s Wednesday and the topic at hand was “inordinate attachments,” and the need to sort through one’s (my) life and rip them out. What has distracted me from My First Love?

And it’s got to be fear. Fear of not doing It right. Fear of what others might think. Pretty brutal, but could it be that I am a man-pleaser rather than a God-pleaser?

And He wants to be the Lover of My Soul. To have my eyes and mind fixed on Him and no other. To have my heart knit to His, seamlessly one.  To have Him be the yearning of my soul and no other. And of course in moments like these, it is hard for me to not turn to my friend, Puddleglum.

But the main thing is He and no other is the LORD my God who has brought me out of slavery through the blood of His only begotten Son, and if I open wide my mouth, He will fill it.

And the ladies had this picture of me running along the beach in the sunshine with the biggest smile ever and my hair flowing out behind me. And, well, the Christy-limited-by-the-material-and-bad-twisty-ankles-seemingly-realistic-me doesn’t really run. But the Christy in my childhood daydreams was a big beautiful horse, with a tossing mane and tail who galloped along the beach towards the horizon with a strong joy.

Disposition. What am I going to do with it?

Take my love, my Lord, I pour
At Thy feet its treasure store.
Take myself and I will be
Ever, only, all for Thee.

Stand back. For even now I am at work.

Thank you very kindly for our supper

Then all the disciples deserted him and made their escape. There happened to be a young man among Jesus’ followers who wore nothing but a linen shirt. They seized him, but he left the shirt in their hands and took to his heels stark naked. Mark 14:50-52

I get it. The being tired part. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

We are all tired. Andrea and Ali are tired of New York City winters. John is tired from working six twelve-hour shifts heaving discount tires around to pay for a trip to Italy. Cherish is tired of moving ten times in two months. Nicole is tired in the transition between suitcases, something she learned to overcome racing triathlons. Jenny and Tim are tired; the backyard project turned out to be bigger than expected. Even spring-break-Alan is tired; his neck hurts from leaning over while welding all of these cool thing-a-ma-bob key fobs.

And I could totally take off in the opposite direction, stark naked. Leaving it all behind. Especially that stack of Works Cited to grade and the supply list for the Mexicali crafts and games. I haven’t even read the self-study for the school accreditation.

So it was a good thing to wander around Psalm 139 this morning, slowly. Through he bits about If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall Thy hand lead me, and Thy right hand shall hold me, and the How precious also are Thy thoughts unto me, O God! how great is the sum of them! bits. Because I am way like those disciples of Jesus. The could-not-keep-their-eyes-open-and-they-did-not-know-what-to-say-for-themselves disciples. Like them, I cannot even pretend for a moment that maybe I bought into the whole Puddleglum* mind game, Even if sometimes in early still-dark hours my tired soul slides into that existential swamp and is comforted. Like them, things are not exactly what I thought I had figured out, and it is always unexpected around the corner. But I have seen and I have tasted His faithfulness. And gathered up the leftovers in huge baskets. Which should tide me over on the journey.

Search  me, O God, and know my heart; Try me and know my anxious thoughts; And see if there be any hurtful way in me, And lead me in the everlasting way. Psalm 139:23-24

* “One word, Ma'am," he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. "One word. All you've been saying is quite right, I shouldn't wonder. I'm a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won't deny any of what you said. But there's one more thing to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things-trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That's why I'm going to stand by the play world. I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we're leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that's a small loss if the world's as dull a place as you say.”