The blessed children of God through the centuries have found themselves in many impossible situations. One such journey involved watching their proud city burned to rubble at the hands of an old enemy. Then, they were rounded up — those still alive after a brutal two year siege and another eight years of desperate living — and marched into captivity. It’s hard to call yourself ‘blessed’ when that happens.
As if the devastation wasn’t enough, their captors began to taunt them on the long march to Babylon, “Sing us one of your happy worship songs!”
Psalm 127 records their broken response. “By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. There on the poplars we hung our harps, for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy; they said, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’”
I can understand that response, and if that’s where the sermon left off two weeks ago, I would have been weeping right along with them at the brokenness I see in me and around me. Has your world been burned down recently? Are you living in rubble? Do you believe in freedom as a child of God, but your life feels more like a prison? Why go on? What in the world is God doing? Could you just hang up your harp in a resigned attempt to make the music stop right now? I could.
We’re caught b
etween the now and the not yet, hanging on a suspension bridge with the God who was on one end, and the God who will be on the other. In the middle of that bridge, the tension is great. The temptation is great to jump off and end our pain, metaphorically or literally — as is the temptation to refuse the bridge, hang up our harps, sit down by the waters of how things are, and just weep as those who have no hope.
But the preacher didn’t leave me there. And I won’t leave you there either. This is the God who says his mercy is new every morning for whatever we face. This is the Redeemer who says he is for us and with us, arguing on our behalf when the enemy has us hanging our harps. This is the Spirit who breathes life into dry, scattered bones. This is the God who eventually rebuilds Jerusalem and brings his people back to the land he had given them.
Habakkuk was a prophet in Israel at the time of the Babylonian captivity. He saw it coming and boldly asked God the same questions we ask when calamity befalls. Questions like: How long must I call for help, but you do not listen? Why do you tolerate wrong? Why are you silent while your children hurt? Are you going to let this go on and on?
After the deafening questions, Habakkuk is still. He listens. His response is where the preacher left me that day, and I share it with you:
I heard and my heart pounded,
my lips quivered at the sound;
decay crept into my bones,
and my legs trembled.
Yet I will wait patiently for the day of calamity
to come on the nation invading us.
Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
and no cattle in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
I will be joyful in God my Savior.
The Sovereign Lord is my strength;
he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
he enables me to tread on the heights.
For the director of music. On my stringed instruments.
(Habakkuk 3:16-19, the final sentences of the book)
Habakkuk wasn’t one of the captives who hung up their harps that day. He was busy writing a symphony of praise for stringed instruments. May God help us remember
his saving deeds as we feel the decay that creeps into our bones when the news is bad. May the Sovereign Lord be our strength to tread on the heights and our joy as we do, holding onto our harps and making music, even if it must be in front of our tormentors.
(The writer thanks Aaron McCarter, pastor of Maryville Vineyard Church, Maryville, TN for this timely and powerful word from God for the people of God.)
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