The extent to which rage has become a common ingredient in politics (and spilling over into everyday life) is uncanny. It’s well documented how anger eats at your mind, your body, your very soul, and yet so much rhetoric is expended building rage.
Spend a few minutes reviewing the words of the average practicing politician of any stripe, and you will either find an angry man or woman, or you will hear words intended to make you angry.
Imagine if our chief export was peace.
Imagine if all the energy people channel into their rage was instead applied to love and mercy and trying to understand.
Imagine if, instead of expending fury, we fought just as hard to love our neighbors and smile on a brother.
In the end, the battle belongs to love. The ultimate triumph goes not to the one who shouted the loudest, whose hate was fiercest, whose arms were most powerful. No, victory belongs to the one who spoke most gently, whose love was most unshakable, and whose arms reached out in support.
Rage, a cousin of fear, is a disease that seeks to burn all in its path. Love will hold up the universe if need be.
I committed the sin of pride this Tuesday morning. I brought out the guitar and played a song I wrote called “Abigail Angel” for the first time in a very long time, and I was aghast. Why have I hidden this wonderful, beautiful song under a bushel basket for 39 years? Why have I let Abigail’s light not shine for almost four decades?
The song is one of eight that told a story that itself covers 40 years, beginning with “Sweet Sarah Wilde.” Over the course of a little more than two years, I composed this set of songs that I dubbed “Suite: Sarah and Her Children.” (See what I did there? I so clever.)
I sat down in September 1984 to write a story-song in the tradition of the old ballads like “Barbara Allen” — I was an ambitious young cuss — a story of true love where the beloved girl dies in the end. It turned out well — Red always said it was her favorite of the songs that I wrote. She said, several times over the years, “You should have someone record that for you,” wounding my precious ego, of course — what’s wrong with MY voice? — but I never followed up during her lifetime. I wish I had done so; after all, she believed in the song, we just disagreed about how to put it out there.
The song is narrated by a man whose best friend, Sarah, marries another man who gives her three lovely children over 40 years. Only after her husband passes does she admit, “Forty years ago I prayed to God that you would ask my hand.” But Sarah, says the narrator, we have been dearest friends, “and friends are more than lovers.”
The handful of people who heard the song at the time said they loved it, and after a year went by I began to think about those three lovely children. I decided their names were Peter, Abigail and Daniel, and in March 1986 they each narrated their own stories — “Peter’s Journey,” “Abigail Angel,” and “Daniel Shorting.”
A little more time passed, and over four days in October 1986 I wrote three more songs about characters from those first four songs — “Jennifer Calder,” “Grandma’s House,” and “Last Will and Testament (Frank Shorting),” that last song being what Sarah’s husband said to her in his final hours.
A few months went by, and I wrote one last tune in February 1987, to tie up the biggest loose end — who was the narrator of the original story of “Sweet Sarah Wilde”? I spoil the surprise at the end of the song by telling you it’s called “Pastor Tom, Pastor Tom,” but I don’t think that knowledge ruins its bittersweetness.
I have never performed all eight songs together for an audience, not even to a close friend or companion. I resolved Tuesday morning to do so, and soon. At the risk of committing the sin of pride again, I have been a fool not to share this suite, and as soon as I get my fingers and voice back in shape, I hope to find some friends willing to sit and listen to me sing and play for about an hour.
I hope and pray they slap me silly and ask, “Why have you hidden these songs under a bushel basket for 40 years?” And maybe that’s why I haven’t — what if they don’t like them? Could I bear to find out that what I consider my finest creation just ain’t that good? Wow, what a prideful reason not to share.
(I made the accompanying recording about a year after I wrote “Sweet Sarah Wilde,” and for what it’s worth it is ℗1985 w.p. bluhm, all rights reserved and all that.)
It’s the day after the day after Easter, and the chreasters have gone back into hiding until December.
“Chreasters” is the word a former pastor of mine called the people who only show up at church twice a year, on Christmas and Easter, the two most sacred days in the Christian year.
With the news coverage of Pope Francis’ death, I learned there is something called the Easter Octave, eight days during which Catholics continue the celebration of Christ’s resurrection. So I suppose it may be premature to say Easter is over and the chreasters have gone back into hiding, but you understand my point.
The thing is, as my current pastor said the other day, every day is “Easter Sunday.” The miracle of the Resurrection is not a once a year kind of celebration.
Back in 1873 a gentleman named Horatio G. Spafford, having lost his three daughters in an Atlantic shipwreck, wrote a poem that became a hymn about how, whatever life may throw at us, “It is well with my soul” because of Jesus’ sacrifice.
“My sin, not in part but the whole, is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,” Spafford wrote. “Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!”
Or, as another gentleman, named Charles Wesley, wrote in 1739, “Love’s redeeming work is done, Alleluia!”
In the earliest days of the faith, Christians greeted one another by saying, “He is risen!” with the response, “He is risen indeed!”
Two days after Easter, or two weeks after Easter — heck, on the Fourth of July or any random date you can toss around — it behooves us to remember Christ died for our sins and rose from the dead.
