Arise My Soul

On Good Friday night, as is traditional in our congregation, we had a communion service. On Sunday evening we had a service centered around Easter hymns sung by the congregation, interspersed with singing by the older kids from school and also the local Gospel Echoes group that sings with the prison ministry.

Both services were lovely.

At one point we sang, "Arise, My Soul, Arise" and I was instantly transported back in that strange way that music can take you back, the full experience, sights, emotions, smells, everything.

I was back at the little Beachy-Amish church where I grew up, on a chilly spring communion Sunday, sitting on the front row with all the not-yet-youth girls, dressed in traditional communion black, hungry (since we were always encouraged to fast on communion morning), with oniony casserole smells wafting up from the basement through the registers. And I was very guilty and miserable, singing Arise My Soul, Arise, while my soul was actually very low and nearly dead.

I wonder sometimes how I could grow up going to church 3 times a week and so thoroughly miss the gist of the Gospel.

I also wonder if everyone around me was in the same boat or if my conclusions were the convoluted result of an overly sensitive child, with no one to discuss things with, exposed to sermons that were, well, I am trying to think of a kind adjective here because these men meant well, but they were mostly untaught farmers struggling to preach.

So I sat there at communion twice a year and knew I was not measuring up, not to the church's standards of black nylons and tied covering-strings, and not to God's standards of holiness either. I had asked Jesus to forgive me, oh, maybe a hundred thousand times, give or take a few, but it only worked for a very short time and then I had an angry thought about my sister and it was back to square one and I was lost again and we would sing, "Sin can never enter there. . .so if at the judgment bar, sinful spots your soul shall mar, you can never enter there" and I knew there wasn't much hope for me unless I happened to have the good fortune to die right after God had forgiven me for one sin and before I stumbled into the next one.

I don't know when, exactly, I discovered Grace. I just know that somewhere along the way the light slowly dawned that the whole point of the Gospel was that I could never be good enough to get or stay saved, and that was why Jesus died for me and rose from the dead. I was loved. I was forgiven. I was kept. I was allowed to make mistakes. Which meant, paradoxically, that I lived in a lot more victory over sin, than back in the fall-and-flinch-with-fear days, and a lot more joy too, believe me.

So last night I sang, "Arise my soul arise, shake off thy guilty fears, a bleeding sacrifice, in my behalf appears. Before the throne my surety stands...my name is written on his hands," and I wondered how I could sing that song back then and not "get it." Well, by God's mercy I get it now and I wish I could go back and take that frightened hungry child in the black dress in the front row out of that oppressive oniony atmosphere and have a long long talk in the sunshine.

Quote of the Day:
" 'Lift and pull' indeed! More like yank, twist, pull, bite. . ."
--Ben, trying to open a ranch dressing bottle.