The Poetry of Life

In studying the unity and interrelation of Scripture, I’ve discovered that a student of the Word—at least this one—is most inspired to dwell in a holistic medium between two extremes: the Bible’s simplicity and the Bible’s complexity. The Bible is simple in that its truth statements, especially the soteriological (salvific), can be understood by everyone. But then you dig beneath the surface and study things like internal references and textual criticism and stumble onto an endless world of self-witness. Simply stated, the Bible is so incredibly self-sufficient and unified in its message on all levels of understanding that God’s authorship gets more impressive the more I pursue understanding it. And yet, being a fleshly human, I am compelled to focus on the poetry, of God’s beautiful penmanship, in my own life.

Something about my journey to Briercrest, especially the travel here, caught me off guard. I think it happened at the Wesleyan, during a dimly lit worship service, followed by a dynamite sermon, and a lot of conviction throughout. My personality type can render me a bit of a closed book at times, but I was sobbing through many of those familiar choruses. And I was captivated by how uniformly true and necessary the sermon was, basically about how we serve a God who can not only save by sanctify. And we need to claim it.

And as I said my goodbyes and shook hands and hugged a few people, I realized that my life as a Wesleyan convert in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia had reached its vertex during that same service, and instantly—not to mention rapidly—my life spilled back from the summit to which God had led me and tumbled back into what I could only describe as a symbolic valley in my life. The very sequence in which I said goodbye was like an inverse of how I had met those people. Then, as I went home, I said goodbye to my cat, who, for better or worse, for whatever an animal’s love is worth, has been a faithful companion to me these past seven years, having come into my life (and, in this case, out) during a time of upheaval. Last time it was being left in the lurch, this time it was being moved three times zones west. The first time I stayed; the second time I left. If you study Hebrew poetry, these bracketing forms of switching things up are sometimes called a chiasmus, though I am abusing the analogy a bit.

From there, I engaged in a battle with an old nemesis: my stomach. Yeah, my digestive system was so volatile that I just refused to eat. Wound up buying several brands of anti-nausea medication, and consumed relatively high doses. But a person just can’t handle a case of the runs when carrying three pieces of luggage through an airport. So I closed for business for a couple days. I confess, my preference would have been for God to bail me out of this one and rebuke my body, but I guess there is no growth or potential to learn perseverance in that kind of scenario. Anyway. My time in Nova Scotia winded down the same way it had begun: in the dark. From the womb to the world, and now from the world, into a plane, at the mercy of technology and turbulence and absolute, sheer, raw grace. I left my parents behind in Nova Scotia, to whom God had given me over, not as property but for them to be stewards over me, and I don’t know how obscure this post sounds, but there was an extreme breaking free in this trip. In many ways, I was returned into God’s possession in ways that transcend Psalm 50 (where God talks about everything in creation being His anyway, regardless of our perception). But I digress. I remember pondering these things as we drove to the airport at 4:00 a.m. and passed by what seemed like a forest of pylons, reflecting striped white and orange in the light rain that fell from heaven.

It’s funny. In my head, this post was a lot less cerebral. I wrote several versions of it between Halifax and Regina. In my head, now lost in the shuffle of orientation and unpacking and insane landscapes of those Canadian amber waves I’d heard about. Okay, so they’re a little dull and sun scorched at this point, but for me it’s still quite a wild experience to see the sky dominate the land by such a powerful kind of leverage. I don’t even feel that tall here, because the sky has this place in a seemingly unending...umm, insert whatever the correct term is when a wrestler manages to suppress his opponent.

Anyway, I need to relate the “movie poster” moment of my trip here, and then shut down this machine. (I’m writing this in Word to be posted later when I have the Internet in my dorm room. [And yeah, I’ve left out countless other details.]) It was when we were just about to take off from Toronto. I was extremely conscious of the fact I had never been west of Toronto. I was aware that, within moments, I would be travelling in territory that would completely foreign to me. I looked through the window of the plane at the grass that flanked the runway. Thought for a brief moment how much work it took to maintain the field. Then I prayed to the Lord how odd it was that He’d brought me there. I started to ramble-pray like I do so often. “God, I know I don’t deserve this but I am glad you... and on and on.” It was as if I was trying to fill a silence between God and I that was more compelling as silence. This is a character flaw of mine that He will surely work to correct while I’m here. I need to relax. If you know me, you know that. But then it happened. Amid all the flurry of thoughts that I and the enemy were trying to splatter over that moment in my life, I heard these words in my head: “Be still, and know that I am God.” I saw a gust of wind dust through the grass, pushing it back like a hairbrush. The plane started up the runway until we lifted from the ground and pierced through the clouds. I beheld the world as God would see it if He were limited to our human vision. A place where the sun always shines, where God can look down upon all the feasts and celebrations and disasters of the world. Where there is a kind of transcendence, even for this planet. And I knew that, invisibly, without a conversation, without a need for conversation, God had changed me forever. And He wasn’t done.