I am shy about what I will now write because I know it will make no sense to some of you. I feel like I'm in The Garden with nothing to cover my nakedness.
 
I've shared with you my deepest doubts and some high and low moments. Now I want to tell you how faith drags itself across the strings of my heart. The vibration comes from far down and long ago.
 
I was alone at the church this week, setting up chairs and tables for our Wednesday evening meal. There is no formal prayer time on Wednesdays. Our fellowship is our prayer and the Spirit we sense in each other is the answer to that prayer. It is enough and sometimes too much.
 
As I worked with table and chair, I was listening to “Celtic Reflections on Hymns”, by “Eden's Bridge”. Their rendition of “Be Thou My Vision” is my favorite song on this CD.
 
Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,
Be all else but naught to me, save that Thou art;
Be Thou my best thought in the day and the night,
Both waking and sleeping, Thy presence my light.
 
Be Thou my wisdom, be Thou my true Word;
Be Thou ever with me and I with Thee, Lord;
Be Thou my great Father, and I Thy true son;
Be Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.
 
Be Thou my breastplate, my sword for the fight;
Be Thou my whole armor, be Thou my true might;
Be Thou my soul's shelter, be Thou my strong tower,
O raise Thou me heavenward, great Power of my power.
 
I wish you could hear Eden's Bridge perform this song. One woman's voice, soft and clear, her Irish accent peeking out of the vowels, and the patter of palms on simple drums.
 
Somewhere in the listening I started to cry. These were the good tears that come from joy. There was sadness in the joy because of the longing, but this sadness was rich and sweet.
 
I stood leaning on a chair and closed my eyes so my ears could have all of me. I ceased all movement so my body could listen. I made myself be the song. I felt the goodness of the words so deeply that my heart broke open and bled joy.
 

Be Thou My Vision...
Be all else but naught to me...
Be Thou my wisdom, my shelter, my tower.
 
I wept because I am not my own. I cannot speak to you as a free man. I was raised from childhood to give my life to Christ. Now the profound nature of that giving has become the source of my happiness. How can I separate myself from that which brings joy? Why would I want to?
 
I could no more leave Christianity than I could shed my own skin. The truth in that song captured me long ago. Deep beauty for me is Christ and the hope of redemption for this world. Yes, THIS world, for I dare not think of the next.
 
I do not weep for my captivity because I count it as joy.
 
I know this sounds crazy to many of you. I can't explain it. I'm caught and I want to be caught.
 
Who am I? They call me Preacher. I am a coarse and common man, a dreamer and a deep feeler. I have never found the sweet spot between raucous laughter and quiet devotion, and I hope I never do. It is good to be ever juggling these virtues.
 
I am constantly found guilty of the sin of words. Vulgarity is not my downfall, though I am vulgar. My sin is having words that are far more beautiful than my life.
 
How graceful are those whose lives outshine their words.
 
Perhaps my life will catch up to my mouth someday. Perhaps my body will catch up to my heart, my hands to my eyes, my feet to my soul.
 
I have nothing to offer the Creator but myself. Here I am. I have nothing to claim but grace. I want more from life than I deserve and have given back less than I should.
 
I cannot see the path. I know not the way. I have not avoided the obstacles. Blinded and uncertain, I have only this prayer:
 Be Thou my vision.

The Preacher

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