Last week I had opportunity to be in Portland, Oregon, for the CanvasConference there. It was a wonderful event, the best kind – the last sort of
thing I’d have chosen myself, but divine Providence worked beautifully through
others to get me there. The final message was from the event organizer, Thomas
Terry, who spoke on the topic, “Practical
Design: A Call for Creative Orthodoxy/Orthodox Creativity.” He testified to
coming to Christ and experiencing a shift in his life from heart-creativity to
an exclusively mind-oriented doctrine. The verse he had been so passionate
about writing prior to conversion dried up as he learned truth. We are created,
and certainly re-created, to be whole, though. These aren’t his words, but we
are to love our God with both “mind”
and “heart” (Matthew 22:37//Mark
12:30//Luke 10:27). Some of us have been so turned off by the unfettered excess
of “heart” people who seem to shun
loving with the “mind” that we’ve
become heartless in so much of our loving of the Lord. For Thomas Terry, this
meant losing an important part of himself instead of redeeming that part for
the glory of Christ. He rediscovered and redeemed this left-behind aspect of
creativity from the heart while embracing a passionate mind-love of God’s
truth. This was a message I needed.
I used to write poetry. I’m not claiming to have been any good at it. I
won $100 once at university for a poem submitted on a whim. I loved reading it,
constantly wrote it. Then I felt God’s call to ministry. It was a powerful
call, a good call, a call that is my very being and identity in Christ for His
glory and my joy. But I never wrote another poem again after the moment of that
call. Thomas Terry’s talk has not so much awakened a question like “maybe?” or “what
if?” as much as just leaving a curious “?” in me. Maybe, I thought as he
concluded his message, I should try again. Scary, for some reason. Rusty old
heart-strings of creativity moving again in verse. Why not?
Piper writes poetry. Seems like good exercise for a pastor-teacher to cross-train his wordsmithing-workout by stretching language in different ways. I have a friend who’s spent years versifying Scripture. I’ve enjoyed his rhythm-rhyme worship. Sometimes I pull the George Herbert volume off the shelves for a secret moment. R.W. Hampton's The Last Cowboy: His Journey (℗ 1999 Cimarron Sounds) is one of my favorite albums ever. I enjoy Tolkien's poetry ("Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West, for your King shall come again, and he shall dwell among you all the days of your life"), Peterson's troll poetry ("Oog, wacklesnodspadgenoggy"), Kline's biblical theology that plays with language like a poet, and the redeemed hip-hop that has become the main musical style of my listening.
Maybe it's time for the poet to join the rest of me in this journey of sanctification.
This is a blog. A place for the inner to become carefully, tentatively outer. It’s not like poetry night at the coffee house where no snapping fingers could scare the would-be poet back into decades-long retirement. Here we go.
Piper writes poetry. Seems like good exercise for a pastor-teacher to cross-train his wordsmithing-workout by stretching language in different ways. I have a friend who’s spent years versifying Scripture. I’ve enjoyed his rhythm-rhyme worship. Sometimes I pull the George Herbert volume off the shelves for a secret moment. R.W. Hampton's The Last Cowboy: His Journey (℗ 1999 Cimarron Sounds) is one of my favorite albums ever. I enjoy Tolkien's poetry ("Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West, for your King shall come again, and he shall dwell among you all the days of your life"), Peterson's troll poetry ("Oog, wacklesnodspadgenoggy"), Kline's biblical theology that plays with language like a poet, and the redeemed hip-hop that has become the main musical style of my listening.
Maybe it's time for the poet to join the rest of me in this journey of sanctification.
This is a blog. A place for the inner to become carefully, tentatively outer. It’s not like poetry night at the coffee house where no snapping fingers could scare the would-be poet back into decades-long retirement. Here we go.
And so, the first poem I’ve tried to write in over twenty years: a
meditation on Numbers 11, Joel 2, Acts 2, and my pastoral longing for God’s
people to live up to what the Spirit has promised to do through them.
*******
In the desert
Gray-heads a wind tunnel
For the voice of the Spirit
Instead of the people’s complaints
Grace of a merciful Deliverer
Seventy the mouth of One
Word of heaven
In the desert
In the camp
Unexpected gust
For the voice of the Spirit
Works His grace where He will
Shadow of future fullness
Two the mouth of One
Word of heaven
In the camp
In the heart
Conqueror-in-training
Jealous to wall the Spirit-voice
But the servant of the house
Longs for a distant grace
All the mouth of One
Word of heaven
In the heart
In the swarm
Ground and hearts barren
Consuming clouds answer idolatry
But the wind promises tomorrow-harvest
Vats overflow, hearts pour prophecy
All the mouth of One
Word of heaven
In the swarm
In that day
Servant-desire come
Locust-eclipse dawned
Gracious Deliverer, subject of song
Wind unstoppable consuming earth
All the mouth of One
Word of heaven
In that day
In this prayer
Servant straining ear
Listening for the Voice
“Make them Your hurricane” plea
Sound heard, breath felt, still moved
All the mouth of One
Word of heaven
In this prayer
*******
*******
Hmm...we'll get there. Waking up is the only thing that never gets easier with practice, I've heard.
No comments:
Post a Comment