The Terror and the King

My soul makes its boast in the Lord.

It seems to me that there is a scourge afflicting many Anabaptists. A black cloud hanging dark and heavy. A spirit of fear, of performance, of OCD.

I remember being a young boy in the elementary classroom and needing to balance and control the feeling of fingers on chairs. I'd tap the chair with one finger and quickly, to balance, tap the same finger of the other hand. Balanced sensation. Safety. Control. A safety and control won by the labor of my hands.

Hands on metal, hands on metal, and I'll make it all feel safe.

I remember in college feeling a dark weight of guilt, like an oppressive burden that made the days feel as gray and gloomy as the Frostburg skies. Like a constant gavel sounding in my heart. If I were truly spiritual, truly approved, my soul would shun food and fast and pray. I would stay away from McDonald's after Cru nights to fast and pray. I would stay down on those cold November evenings, strongly and piously resisting delicious meals with my family after a hard day of study. I'd surely fast and pray and go evangelizing if I were truly good enough, truly approved.

A mouth going hungry, a mouth going hungry, and I'll make myself feel safe.

I remember the anger one day as I fasted, sitting in my room to pray. Anger as I heard my family laughing at something funny as they happily chewed through leftover chicken and rice. Why am I back here? Oh how I hate this.

A mouth going hungry, a mouth going hungry, and I'll make myself enough.

I remember when I thought I had cancer, and the fear was not dull, but cutting and ferocious. To lie in the grave with that gavel sounding in my ears. To be snuffed out and destroyed. To not be enough to face that day.

Hands on metal, hands on metal, a mouth without food, a mouth without food, but the fear cut like fire through my guilt-laden heart.

I remember the terror of having wrong thoughts. The Trinity, oh, the Trinity, why does my soul pause before it? Is that unbelief I see? My thoughts are all wrong, and I am unsafe.

I remember especially those days when unbelief, skepticism, and liberal interpretations of Scripture were the only thing that made sense. And I was terrified. Dread sense, terrifying logic! Why did these lies make sense in my soul? I must be undone. And the gavel kept sounding.

The right thoughts and the right feelings, right thoughts and right feelings, and I will feel safe.

God's judgment is something that I must avert. Perform, be enough, to make yourself safe.

Hands on metal, hands on metal, a mouth going hungry, a mouth going hungry, the right thoughts and feelings, the right thoughts and feelings, and I'll make myself feel safe.

My soul makes its boast in the Lord.

I am not made safe by my hands on metal, my mouth going hungry, or my right thoughts and feelings.

I am saved.

Passive. Note. Passive.

I am saved, rescued, redeemed, counted righteous by God my redeemer.

I am saved by metal in hands, metal in hands, as he yields his hands up to be nailed and split and crushed. For me. I am saved by metal through hands, metal through hands. I praise the Lord my righteousness.

I am saved through a mouth full of food. A mouth full of bread. A broken body offered up. "I am the bread of life . . . And the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life." I am saved by feasting. I am saved by feasting on Christ. I praise the Lord my righteousness.

I am saved by the Son of Man lifted up. I am saved by looking, by seeing and believing. How often I fight with the serpents that slither, that come and they bite. How often I fight and build me a wall to waylay the serpents, the thoughts, that come and they bite. And the bronze snake has been raised, silent and waiting. The Son of God hangs on nails, suspended in air, silent and waiting. I am saved by looking upon the Son who's been raised.

My hands on metal,

    Metal through His hands,

My mouth without food,

    His flesh as my feast,

My right thoughts and feelings,

    And the Son of God nailed to a tree.

My soul makes its boast in the Lord my salvation.