Well, Mr. Gonzalez has resigned amid much murkiness, Mr. Vick has apologized for killing dogs, and Mr. Bean has made another cornball movie. Yes, my friends, it's another exciting week here on planet earth. And yet,
God is the king of all the earth; sing praises with a psalm.
God is king over the nations; God sits on his holy throne.
I suppose this is silly, but sometimes on Sunday mornings, during worship, I like to imagine that there are great holes in our sanctuary roof. You know, punctures … so we can see, and breathe—like how a kid punches holes in a metal lid, such that his newly-caught specimens can respire in their new glass dwelling. (I guess, by inference, we are God's little bugs!)
Like I was saying: holes in the roof. And when we sing, especially when we are singing well—in one of those magical Sunday morning moments when, even if just for an instant, it all comes together: mind, heart, and body—I guess I like to imagine that each of our words mingle together in shared song and sort of waft their way right up through those apertures—upward, heavenward, toward God. I guess this is why, by the time I finish singing the Gloria Patri with you, inevitably I find I am staring at the rafters. It's not so much that I like the color brown; it is almost as if I can see right through them. It is as if for a moment I can see what is really real in this life.
What I most want to see, what I think I am looking for up there, Sunday to Sunday, on the other side of our brown board ceiling, is a vision of God grand and gracious enough to grab my preoccupied attention again, one stout enough to lift my eyes above all the strangeness and silliness of these times. In a world suffused with governments' shortcomings, with the rise and sudden fall of superhero after superhero, with the antics of cheap entertainment (I'll confess though, I love Mr. Bean), I guess I need my eyes raised up just a bit. I need to see that which is eternal in the heavens—he who is above all this folly, more lasting than whatever chattering news update comes off the ticker hour by hour.
"Alberto-Vick-Bean … Alberto-Vick-Bean … Alberto-Vick-Bean … " Enough already. Show me, please, the life of another trinity, a far better consortium, one offering far better news. Let me see the Lord—Speaker, Word, and Breath—high above all this predictable press. Let the songs of my mouth arise to God alone.
Sing praises with a psalm. God sits on his holy throne.
Mr. Gonzalez, Mr. Vick, Mr. Bean … and for that matter, Mr. Hawkins as well: look up and look alive. See the One who sits enthroned above all this curious chatter, all this nebulous noise. Look up through the holes in your roof and see One who will not pass away, whose word outlasts even the cable news, and to whom all good and glad praises are due.
Look up to him … and live.