Romanticizing Some Pain
And Jacob said to Pharaoh, "The days of the years of my pilgrimage are one hundred and thirty; few and evil have been the days of the years of my life, and they have not attained the days of the years of the life of my father's in the days of their pilgrimage." Genesis 47:9
This week I was reading a collection of Charles Krauthammer's writings put together by his son after his death. Speaking to his son's graduating high school class, Krauthammer warns that we never realize the serendipity of our own times. We take current blessings for granted, especially if they are widespread.
Part of the serendipity of my own times is the streaming of a wider variety of music than anyone would ever buy at no additional cost. Granted the serendipity, I would call it grace, to sample from the music of the ages while attempting to be gratefully present in the present at work, I discovered Joni Mitchell, whom the rest of the world has known about for decades. Her songbird range and entrenchment with some of the everyday blessings of life made her an unlikely suspect to deliver prophetic directness. Those are the most effective kind.
She, or her narrator, engages in a conversation and confrontation with a weary soul in "The Last Time I Saw a Richard." She trills, unwilling to assume Richard's gloomy tone even while relating his words, "He told me all romantics meet the same fate someday." Richard warns her that moon-filled eyes, and a fondness for roses and kisses won't immunize her from disillusionment, from seeing through life's "pretty lies" as she matures.
The narrator's brief retort is more fortifying than many books I've read. "Richard, you haven't changed. It's just that now to romanticizing some pain."
Where does the line for that start? If not earlier, it might start with Jacob in the Bible's book of Genesis. Jacob's life as recorded there has been a romantic adventure in the broadest sense of the word. His life was preserved from a family feud that could've been deadly. As a fugitive, He got a glimpse of Heaven's nearby operations. His rags-to-riches presages Dickens, only it happened.
This elevator of grace takes him all the way from the estrangement of a wonder who violated his family's basic trust to, after many years of healing and affirming experiences, status as Pharaoh's invited guests. The potentate, revered as a god man by his own Egyptian subjects, has such respect for Jacob and Jacob's God that he humbles himself to accept Jacob's blessing. But, richly blessed, Jacob can't manage to give off some of that blessing, and then be silent out of respect for God or Pharaoh.
He, cue Joni, romanticizing some pain. Genesis 47:9 is part of his introduction, part of his identity, part of his elevator speech. If people know anything about him, they are going to know that he sees his days as few and evil, and that even his 130 years are denigrated because his life hasn't been as long as his father's.
This little speech, she terms it in incisively, has been romanticized. He has had to protect it against evidence of his own blame for the more difficult aspects of his plight. Even more, he has had to rehearse it doggedly to keep from forgetting his claim to bitterness amid the blaring, consistent refrain of God's grace to Jacob in particular.
What, friend, is your elevator speech? If people know anything of you and your journey, what will they know? You may never win an Oscar or a Nobel prize. You may never stand before a president or a Pharaoh at the height of your influence. Nevertheless, you and I are actively rehearsing for what will be the equivalent of that experience within the range of our life's arc.
What are we culling or cultivating in the story we tell ourselves, and prepare to tell others? Do we think that, if bitter water comes out in the droplets of everyday encounters, that sweet water will somehow emerge in a separate, impressive moment called Testimony?
Krauthammer admits to very little in terms of specific theology, and he knows better. The story we tell ourselves about our times almost never gives adequate space to the blessings of the age in which we live. Joni Mitchell's singing persona seeks gratification in serial romance, yet she sees the extent to which we are shaped by the thoughts we nurture, the narrative we edit, and replay, and replay.
Yet the same Word which isolates Jacob's ingratitude also offers us the opportunity to not only reframe our narrative but renew our minds. The begrudging concession to men, I didn't say that right, becomes a Hebrews 8:10 moment of intimacy and re-creation with the Author of life. The Maker of the mind, at our confession, puts His Word and its focus on His work in our minds.
If we have tended to deface our thinking and environment with the graffiti of complaints, His answer in that verse is to write His Word indelibly on our hearts. He Who made thinking and affections can re-create them both. He can foster, says Hebrews 8:11, and individual experience with Him so much more invigorating than cynicism's sham protections.
This week I was reading a collection of Charles Krauthammer's writings put together by his son after his death. Speaking to his son's graduating high school class, Krauthammer warns that we never realize the serendipity of our own times. We take current blessings for granted, especially if they are widespread.
Part of the serendipity of my own times is the streaming of a wider variety of music than anyone would ever buy at no additional cost. Granted the serendipity, I would call it grace, to sample from the music of the ages while attempting to be gratefully present in the present at work, I discovered Joni Mitchell, whom the rest of the world has known about for decades. Her songbird range and entrenchment with some of the everyday blessings of life made her an unlikely suspect to deliver prophetic directness. Those are the most effective kind.
She, or her narrator, engages in a conversation and confrontation with a weary soul in "The Last Time I Saw a Richard." She trills, unwilling to assume Richard's gloomy tone even while relating his words, "He told me all romantics meet the same fate someday." Richard warns her that moon-filled eyes, and a fondness for roses and kisses won't immunize her from disillusionment, from seeing through life's "pretty lies" as she matures.
The narrator's brief retort is more fortifying than many books I've read. "Richard, you haven't changed. It's just that now to romanticizing some pain."
Where does the line for that start? If not earlier, it might start with Jacob in the Bible's book of Genesis. Jacob's life as recorded there has been a romantic adventure in the broadest sense of the word. His life was preserved from a family feud that could've been deadly. As a fugitive, He got a glimpse of Heaven's nearby operations. His rags-to-riches presages Dickens, only it happened.
This elevator of grace takes him all the way from the estrangement of a wonder who violated his family's basic trust to, after many years of healing and affirming experiences, status as Pharaoh's invited guests. The potentate, revered as a god man by his own Egyptian subjects, has such respect for Jacob and Jacob's God that he humbles himself to accept Jacob's blessing. But, richly blessed, Jacob can't manage to give off some of that blessing, and then be silent out of respect for God or Pharaoh.
He, cue Joni, romanticizing some pain. Genesis 47:9 is part of his introduction, part of his identity, part of his elevator speech. If people know anything about him, they are going to know that he sees his days as few and evil, and that even his 130 years are denigrated because his life hasn't been as long as his father's.
This little speech, she terms it in incisively, has been romanticized. He has had to protect it against evidence of his own blame for the more difficult aspects of his plight. Even more, he has had to rehearse it doggedly to keep from forgetting his claim to bitterness amid the blaring, consistent refrain of God's grace to Jacob in particular.
What, friend, is your elevator speech? If people know anything of you and your journey, what will they know? You may never win an Oscar or a Nobel prize. You may never stand before a president or a Pharaoh at the height of your influence. Nevertheless, you and I are actively rehearsing for what will be the equivalent of that experience within the range of our life's arc.
What are we culling or cultivating in the story we tell ourselves, and prepare to tell others? Do we think that, if bitter water comes out in the droplets of everyday encounters, that sweet water will somehow emerge in a separate, impressive moment called Testimony?
Krauthammer admits to very little in terms of specific theology, and he knows better. The story we tell ourselves about our times almost never gives adequate space to the blessings of the age in which we live. Joni Mitchell's singing persona seeks gratification in serial romance, yet she sees the extent to which we are shaped by the thoughts we nurture, the narrative we edit, and replay, and replay.
Yet the same Word which isolates Jacob's ingratitude also offers us the opportunity to not only reframe our narrative but renew our minds. The begrudging concession to men, I didn't say that right, becomes a Hebrews 8:10 moment of intimacy and re-creation with the Author of life. The Maker of the mind, at our confession, puts His Word and its focus on His work in our minds.
If we have tended to deface our thinking and environment with the graffiti of complaints, His answer in that verse is to write His Word indelibly on our hearts. He Who made thinking and affections can re-create them both. He can foster, says Hebrews 8:11, and individual experience with Him so much more invigorating than cynicism's sham protections.
Comments
Post a Comment