On the whole, fairy tales don’t appeal to me. I’ve always preferred the wilder truths of the Tanakh.

Grief washed over me at a stoplight on my countless cup of Caribou as I realized that all my favorite stories from childhood were those of walking away {what does that say?} … from everything familiar for the sake of undivided attention and generously bestowed abundance.

What I have found attractive about the few mythologies that have captured my attention are the resemblances their narratives bear to real histories …

most notably, leaving everything you know to restore shalom, or to unite with a rich prince in a faraway land

… and the faith it takes to see beyond what everyone else does to get there.

Enoch; Melchizedek; Abraham; Rebekah; Ruth … all actual foretastes toward the Land of overabundance and never-ending Light that oversees, but does not overlook.

I wish that so much of what reads as my best work wasn’t forged in the moments I’ve been closest to or wiped-out by despair. It doesn’t fit neatly with the rest of what I believe. And it feels at odds with the eternal optimism that resides ‘rent-free’ inside of me. But at the risk of being crude, it feels like what I most have to show for my life so far is crusted blood . . .

hard things happening that have left me with healing wounds.

I’ve been thinking about how much effort it took for Jesus-as-a-divinity-emptied-human to go through what He did to rescue and redeem this ghetto planet. For us. For me.

Second Thessalonians and its admonition to not be idle as we watch the sky stands out to me this week with the varied phrasing of 1:5, … {enduring affliction} to be counted worthy of the Kingdom of God … How much do we want it? What are we willing to be bear? And yet, our entry cannot be earned.

In an effort to resist the urge to isolate, I have found that open-ness sometimes adds a layer of what feels like complication. I am coming to realize that though we are all made in the image of the same Creator, and are therefore all creative, not all of us are called to it in quite the same way. Or to the same consuming degree . . . or something.

Something shifted in me when I came across a reddit post where someone divulged that they ‘wanted to be a rapper, but didn’t know how to make good songs’. What does that even mean? Who just randomly wants to be an artist without the driving force of aptitude or innate inspiration? And what does it make of me to place myself with others as a class apart from the rest? Or am I merely acknowledging what God has already done?

I’ve come to the conclusion that only an artist can fully understand what it’s like to be one; and I’m increasingly convinced that musicians bear a particularly peculiar insignia . . .

a Calling that can go very far in either direction . . . heralding worship of The One True King as a strategy of holy war; or spiraling out into some self-indulgent sphere of demonically directed secular humanist emotionalism. And. While those are what I perceive to be the bookends of the spectrum, I think this sentiment is presented {and experienced} in a false dichotomy …

It’s possible to honor the Lord with our lips while our hearts are far from Him. It’s possible to be innocently or ignorantly inspired by something that is – at its root – unclean, and it’s possible to heal with spit and dirt.

Which is why I’ve taken to the tagline, singing the truth to the glory of God. Because the truth is both what actually happened and the Gospel that conquers it all.

And I heard a loud voice in heaven, saying, ‘Now the salvation and the power and the kingdom of our God and the authority of His Christ have come, for the accuser of our brothers has been thrown down, who accuses them day and night before our God. And they have conquered him by the blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony, for they loved not their lives even unto death … // Revelation 12

Here is a call for the endurance of the sanctified artists.


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