The Weeper

I don’t remember the date, but I remember the first time. I was back in Hancock for some reason. It was before Glad Tidings moved to the new church. There we were, nestled up on that hill, singing. Worshiping. Such a simple refrain:

Lord, I hunger, thirst for Your righteousness

Father, come and fill me once again

Lord, I hunger, thirst for Your righteousness

Fill me with Your oil and Your wine

And something happened.

A weight, a heaviness pressed down upon me. I could barely stand up under the weight of it. I could scarcely breathe. I knew immediately what it was: the glory of God, his presence among us. And as we continued to sing, my heart crumbled into a million pieces at how holy God was, and how wretched I was. And I wept.

And I wept.

And I wept.

And I sang and I wept.

In the last decade, I’ve wept more times than I care to admit. It’s frustrating, to be honest. Most often, I can’t even tell you why I’m weeping. Most often, I don’t feel any emotion. It just happens. It just collapses on me like a universe that must be flooded in tears. I don’t understand. I don’t understand it one bit.

Except that it is something God has been doing in me for almost a decade. What the end result is, I don’t know–I may never know. I think that’s alright. But last night I played (start to finish) through my first binder of worship songs, and I stopped again on that old classic, Awake, O Israel (put off thy slumber and the truth shall set you free! For out of Zion comes thy Deliverer in the year of Jubilee…you know that one.) It’s always been an upbeat, fast, rejoicing song as I’ve heard it. Not anymore. Last night it was a prayer. A cry. A bitter weeping.

And it occurred to me: Maybe that’s the point. If the Church (big C) is as broken as I tend to think, maybe my part isn’t just to observe, just to comment, just to criticize, but to weep and pray over Her. Over us. Over me.

Still, I’m not sure I understand it. But it’s alright. God knows.

Affectionately yours,

The Weeper…

…who just remembered the first promise God gave her in Hancock: Psalm 30. Huh. Isn’t He funny that way?

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