Playing the Song

I realized something about myself recently.  When I think about the images I have of God and Jesus, they are completely different from one another.  I often see God as this shapeless sort of mass way up in the heavens, constantly watching the world and shaking His head at how ignorant and selfish His once lovely creations have become.  I sometimes see Him as this being full of wrath and anger, who created people in His image and is broken by the fact that those people resemble anything but Him.

And then there’s Jesus. When I consider Jesus, I see someone who is full of grace and mercy and love.  I see a relentless pursuer, a romantic, so to speak. I see someone who befriended the worst of mankind. I see someone who refused to rebuke the adulterer for her sin, but who had no problem reminding some of the church leaders that they didn’t have it as together as they assumed they did. I think Jesus would have liked me. But God…

I’m not sure where these ideas came from or when my views became so flawed.  I know God is love and that God was the One who sent Jesus into the world in the first place. I know Jesus is God, yet I’m having a bit of a hard time with this.

I think all of this stems from the fact that I just don’t understand love. I haven’t yet been able to wrap my head around the notion of something that is given without expectation or hope of reward. I can’t fathom someone who can give and give and give when those gifts are not appreciated or might even be spat upon by the recipient.

Because of this lack of understanding, I so often forget that there really isn’t anything I can do to make God love me any less, just as there is nothing I can do to make Him love me any more. God’s love is static and constant, never wavering or weaning away. I know this, but my decisions don’t often reflect that knowledge. When I truly examine my life sometimes, I end up with this long list of sins and grievances, this list full of things I know I should change about myself.  Looking at that list, I often get so shameful and discouraged that I put on an outfit of leaves and simply try to hide. 

There is always a time, however, when I want to come back. There is always a moment when I am overcome with this desire to be in love with Jesus.  It’s the coming back that is so hard, though.  I’m not sure if I struggle with it so much because of pride or stubbornness or something else. But it’s hard to pick myself up, kneel at the throne of God yet again, and pray a prayer that includes the word “sorry” about a million times.  It’s like I think I’ve had so many chances to be forgiven, chances which were used up long ago.  And again I realize I don’t understand a love that can forgive someone who doesn’t in any way deserve it.

Tonight at Bible study, we watched a NOOMA called Rhythm.  It’s my favorite, I think, because it always speaks to me and reminds me of truth I so often need to hear again.  Rob Bell was talking about how difficult it can be to think about a relationship with God.  It can often seem like this undoable sort of thing.  Bell went on to say this:

“Maybe you have this sense like you have no sort of relationship with God because of all these things, these ideas you have about what that means, and all these things that you’ve been told about what it is or what it isn’t. And an infinite, massive, kind of invisible God, that’s hard to get our minds around, but truth, love, grace, mercy, justice, compassion-the way that Jesus lived, I can see that. I can understand that. I can relate to that. I can play that song.”

And perhaps God and His grace are like a song, as Bell talks about.  I’ve played piano for thirteen years now, but haven’t taken lessons in the past six of those years.  When I was taking lessons, my sight-reading skills were great. I could pick up a piece of music, struggle through it a couple of times, and then have it down pretty well.  Now when I play, I usually play pieces I already know or things I’ve written or arranged; I don’t read new pieces of music that often so my sight-reading skills are nowhere as sharp as they used to be.  Learning a new song is frustrating.  Playing it over and over again, making mistake after mistake, can sometimes make me feel as if I have no ability with this instrument whatsoever.  But there comes a time when I play the song and it just works. My fingers find all the right keys, the timing is perfect, the dynamics are in perfect sync, and a beautiful melody is pieced together.  And then, at that moment, all the practice and frustration seem worth it.  All the error is worth it for that moment of beauty.

And so it may be with my relationship with God. I need to keep picking myself up when I fall, knowing that my legs will get stronger with every step.  I need to remember that I am not an exception to God’s grace, and that the people I don’t especially love are not, either.  I need to remember that the composer of the song has written a perfect melody, and has indeed enabled me to play it. I need to remember that the song is everywhere I am, and to hear it I must actually listen and be willing to hear its refrain. 

And, above all else, I must remember that God and Jesus are one, along with the spirit.  And this trinity, this central Christian doctrine that no one can truly comprehend, is a beautiful, mysterious thing.  The mystery is okay.  It is, in fact, good. God truly is love, Jesus was the human representation of that love, and the Spirit is the melody in each of Christ’s followers, leading us in a gorgeous rendition of the most perfect song ever written.

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