Smothered, suppressed, gasping for breath – these are the experiences last week of a panic-attack prone and claustrophobic retired pastor. Free from scorn of church members and responsible only to Christ, I vowed I would be the social justice advocate I’ve always felt called to be. This week, though, I found my spirit depleted.
First, it was targeted political killings with grand wishes for more. This coming from the land of Lake Woebegone of Prairie Home Companion fame, of the land of 10,000 lakes with even more kind and cooperative people! Then it was 50 + starving people per day shot to death trying to get food in order to live. Then it was the shutdown of the dedicated line to LGBTQIA+ youth in the federal 988 suicide hotline. Then it was the Supreme Court’s permission to make it illegal for trans youth to receive gender-affirming care. Then it was the temptation to kill more people with bigger bombs in another Mideast war. And, again, another disheartened crisis manager, wondering how many more beautiful young people are going to decide it is too hard to breathe in this world and decide to shut down their life.
As my parents used to say, “I need some air”, for it was “too close in here”. They would solve the problem by opening a window. My opening of a window this week was to distract myself from all that was weighing heavy on me. So I swept a floor, unloaded a dishwasher, and sewed some bags for missions. I could breath more easily, but I needed more windows open, more air.
I remembered a recent radio interview of a singer who said that music was received at a frequency that transcended language. I also remembered Romans 8:26, “Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness, for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.” The Spirit, I thought, that breathed life into me and the world, the Spirit that breathed life into Christ’s followers, this Spirit could give me some space so that I could breath. This Spirit could give me some air.
The poem of Mary Oliver once again spoke to me,
“… Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang”.
And so I turned on Spotify and sang along when I could. I listened and sang to Holly Near songs I hadn’t for 35 years, like “We are a gentle, angry people, and we are singing, singing for our lives.” Where before I was singing it for other people who were singing for their lives, this week I was singing for my life. I also sang with Holly, “We will have peace. We will, because we must …”
For me, and many others, the recent events and proclamations and actions are more than simple worries. They are threats to our safety and existence. Their cruelty slices to the heart. They are panic-worthy. Yet, as people of faith, let us not allow them to smother us into silence. We must not let them block the frequency of song. No one, no thing, can prevent the Spirit from interceding on our behalf.
We need to open a window and give ourselves some breathing space. Then we can drink of the Spirit that helps us in our weakness and intercedes for us. Thus bolstered, we can sing through the worries, spreading salve to our souls and offering peace to a weary world.