I’ve been thinking about a few things lately. Not that I don’t generally think about things. I do. Probably more than I should. But lately a few specific thoughts have refused to leave me alone. And those thoughts deal with my heart. And why it almost always feels like it is broken. I don’t mean that my wife or my boys, my friends or my family have broken my heart. Not that at all. Nothing like that. What I’m getting at is the feeling like my heart, who I am and where I live inside, is not completely put together. Not entirely whole. Broken. In need of a bit of binding up and healing. Like I’m sometimes kept together with duct tape and bailing wire. Regardless of how well or how downtrodden the day; in spite of the joys and sorrows of my situation; it feels, deep down, like there is a bit of an ache that just doesn’t go away. Like it never lets go. It has been reminding me of these words, “ He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” Psalm 147:3 (NIV) I’ve been thinking about them quite a lot these past few weeks. They are good words. T.S. Eliot reminded us to “wrestle with words and meanings.” Indeed.
And those words remind me of a song that kills me each time I hear it.
“The heart breaking makes a sound
I never knew could be
So beautiful and loud
Fury filled and we collide
So courageous until now
Fumbling and scared
So afraid You'll find me out,
Alone here with my doubt
Here it comes, a beautiful collision
Is happening now.
There seems no end to where You begin and there I am now
You and I collide
Something circling inside,
Spaciously you fly
Infinite and wide,
Like the moon and sky
Collide
Here it comes, a beautiful collision
Is happening now.
There seems no end to where you begin and there I am now
You and I, collide
Here it comes, Here it comes, Here it comes now
Collide
Here it comes, Here it comes now (You and I)
Feel it coming on, Feel it coming on now, Here it comes now”
(David Crowder Band, Collision, from “A Collision.”)
These words, like the words of Christ, feel weighty. Full. True. The weight is a gift. It’s gravitas. From Latin origins, it is full of quality of substance and depth of personality. Weighty. There is a blessing in the weight.
Because I learned a very long time ago that “this” is always about “THAT,” I’ve been praying and thinking and meditating on what these things mean to me. Here. Now. Today.
A few nights ago I was reading John Piper’s, “Desiring God, meditations of a Christian Hedonist.” It, too, is a reading where words will wrestle you to the ground. I was arrested. Perhaps it was his writing that began to put perspective to what I was feeling but could not articulate. Regarding a life of worship, Piper writes:
“There is a final stage in which we feel and unencumbered joy in the manifest perfection of God -- the joy of gratitude, wonder, hope, admiration. ‘My soul will be satisfied as with fat and rich food, and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips.’ (Psalm 63:5) In this stage we are satisfied with the excellency of God, and we overflow with the joy of his fellowship. This is the feast...
In a prior stage [of worship] that we often taste we do not feel fullness, but rather longing and desire. Having tasted the feast before, we recall the goodness of the Lord -- but it seems far off. We preach to our souls not to be downcast because we are sure we shall again praise the Lord (Psalm 42:5). Yet for now our hearts are not very fervent...
The lowest stage of worship, where all genuine worship starts -- and where it often returns for a dark season -- is the barrenness of the soul that scarcely feels any longing, and yet is granted the grace of repentant sorrow for having so little love... [God] is...glorified by the spark of anticipated gladness that gives rise to the sorrow we feel when our hearts are lukewarm. Even in the miserable guilt we feel over our beast-like insensitivity, the glory of God shines. If God were not gloriously desirable, why should we feel sorrowful for not feasting fully on His beauty?”
Amazing.
If God were not gloriously desirable, why should we feel sorrowful for not feasting fully on His beauty.
When I read those words I wince with the recognition of truth. My warm eyes as well as my hurting heart, but more importantly my broken soul, will testify to this innate truth. Like truth almost always does, it hurts. Because I relate more to the brutish beast than to the guest of the feast. But with the pain of recognition there is also freedom. And motivation.
I think it mostly answers my question. Today’s question anyway. Why does my heart always feel like it is broken? Because through the grace of God given by manner of repentant sorrow I am sparked to desire that which is infinitely desirable. God Himself. He creates this hurt in me to draw me back to Him. There is in me the creation of an incompleteness (longing) so that there is a recognition of what is truly complete (fulfillment). And in that recognition and fulfillment there is worship.
He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.
How, exactly, does He do this? By giving to us the very thing that brings healing and binding -- Himself.
God bless the broken hearted. The kingdom of Heaven belongs to us.
And those words remind me of a song that kills me each time I hear it.
“The heart breaking makes a sound
I never knew could be
So beautiful and loud
Fury filled and we collide
So courageous until now
Fumbling and scared
So afraid You'll find me out,
Alone here with my doubt
Here it comes, a beautiful collision
Is happening now.
There seems no end to where You begin and there I am now
You and I collide
Something circling inside,
Spaciously you fly
Infinite and wide,
Like the moon and sky
Collide
Here it comes, a beautiful collision
Is happening now.
There seems no end to where you begin and there I am now
You and I, collide
Here it comes, Here it comes, Here it comes now
Collide
Here it comes, Here it comes now (You and I)
Feel it coming on, Feel it coming on now, Here it comes now”
(David Crowder Band, Collision, from “A Collision.”)
These words, like the words of Christ, feel weighty. Full. True. The weight is a gift. It’s gravitas. From Latin origins, it is full of quality of substance and depth of personality. Weighty. There is a blessing in the weight.
Because I learned a very long time ago that “this” is always about “THAT,” I’ve been praying and thinking and meditating on what these things mean to me. Here. Now. Today.
A few nights ago I was reading John Piper’s, “Desiring God, meditations of a Christian Hedonist.” It, too, is a reading where words will wrestle you to the ground. I was arrested. Perhaps it was his writing that began to put perspective to what I was feeling but could not articulate. Regarding a life of worship, Piper writes:
“There is a final stage in which we feel and unencumbered joy in the manifest perfection of God -- the joy of gratitude, wonder, hope, admiration. ‘My soul will be satisfied as with fat and rich food, and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips.’ (Psalm 63:5) In this stage we are satisfied with the excellency of God, and we overflow with the joy of his fellowship. This is the feast...
In a prior stage [of worship] that we often taste we do not feel fullness, but rather longing and desire. Having tasted the feast before, we recall the goodness of the Lord -- but it seems far off. We preach to our souls not to be downcast because we are sure we shall again praise the Lord (Psalm 42:5). Yet for now our hearts are not very fervent...
The lowest stage of worship, where all genuine worship starts -- and where it often returns for a dark season -- is the barrenness of the soul that scarcely feels any longing, and yet is granted the grace of repentant sorrow for having so little love... [God] is...glorified by the spark of anticipated gladness that gives rise to the sorrow we feel when our hearts are lukewarm. Even in the miserable guilt we feel over our beast-like insensitivity, the glory of God shines. If God were not gloriously desirable, why should we feel sorrowful for not feasting fully on His beauty?”
Amazing.
If God were not gloriously desirable, why should we feel sorrowful for not feasting fully on His beauty.
When I read those words I wince with the recognition of truth. My warm eyes as well as my hurting heart, but more importantly my broken soul, will testify to this innate truth. Like truth almost always does, it hurts. Because I relate more to the brutish beast than to the guest of the feast. But with the pain of recognition there is also freedom. And motivation.
I think it mostly answers my question. Today’s question anyway. Why does my heart always feel like it is broken? Because through the grace of God given by manner of repentant sorrow I am sparked to desire that which is infinitely desirable. God Himself. He creates this hurt in me to draw me back to Him. There is in me the creation of an incompleteness (longing) so that there is a recognition of what is truly complete (fulfillment). And in that recognition and fulfillment there is worship.
He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.
How, exactly, does He do this? By giving to us the very thing that brings healing and binding -- Himself.
God bless the broken hearted. The kingdom of Heaven belongs to us.
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