Seth Lewis's Blog, page 6

Some Of My Favourite Bluegrass

I grew up in the hills a couple of hours south of Nashville, in the heartland of country music. The radio played songs like Imagine That and Where The Green Grass Grows, but I never imagined that I would end up living in a place where the grass is as green as it is here in Ireland. I also married a girl from the mountains of Virginia, and her family helped me discover a world of music where the grass is not green—it’s blue. Bluegrass is a part of my cultural heritage (with deep roots in traditional Irish music as well), and my love for it has only grown with time. So today I’d like to share my favourite bluegrass tunes with you.

First up, a fantastic singer who blurs the line between country and bluegrass. It’s always a pleasure to hear Alison Krauss, and even better when she sings this tribute to her grandfather. I want a simple love like that, too:

It’s rare to find a band that consistently combines excellent musicianship with excellent lyrics, but The Arcadian Wild does it all. Here’s a series of songs from them called “Principium”—four songs that beautifully tell the story of our creation, fall, and redemption:

You don’t always need a singer. Here’s some great bluegrass from a true master, Béla Fleck:

The singing is good too, though. One of the things I love most about bluegrass is the harmonies. I’m With Her does them exceedingly well, as in this song:

Chelsea Moon and the Franz Brothers have done a couple of hymn projects including many of my life-long favourite songs. This one is a song I loved growing up, but you hardly ever hear it anymore. Does that make me old? I don’t know, but I love this version of Trust and Obey:

Nickel Creek is well-known for good reason, although this is one of their lesser-known tracks. I like the music, though, and I also like the twist in the lyrics at the end:

Last but not least, Julie Miller sings my favourite version of a fantastic song:

If you made it this far, you probably appreciate bluegrass, too—what songs would you recommend? I’d love to hear them. 

The Cost Of Greatness (a poem)

Can you bear the cost of greatness
In the kingdom of our Lord?
You can’t buy it with your money
Or take it with a sword

Will you let yourself be overlooked
And measured as the least?
Can you bear to serve the tables
For the others as they feast?

Let your patience be called weakness
Let your love be misconstrued
Let them scorn your sacrifices
And speak evil of your good

Can you give away your rights
Without demanding recognition?
Quench the thirst of enemies
While they reload their ammunition?

Plough your years into the soil
Till your neighbour’s garden blooms
And keep on being generous
When everyone assumes
That the credit for the good you’ve done
Is everyone’s but yours—
And when they say your work’s in vain
Still keep a steady course

Can you offer up forgiveness
To the ones who’ve done you wrong?
Can you bend your neck into the yoke
And still lift up a song?

The climb to heaven’s greatness
On the pathway of our Lord
Is a climb that takes you downward
To his unending reward

“Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be your slave—just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”

– Matthew 20:26-28

What Does God Listen For?

Have you ever considered all the things you hear in the course of one day? This morning, I heard birds singing outside, and the voices of my family. I heard the coffee machine and the clink of plates and cutlery at breakfast. Right now, I’m hearing the noise of construction above the ever-present sounds of traffic and the occasional gust of wind. I haven’t even had lunch yet. There will be plenty more to fill my ears before this day is finished.

Have you ever considered all the things that God hears? The creator of sound waves hears the unceasing worship of angels before his throne. He hears the swirling wind of Jupiter and the ice that melts on Mars. He hears beyond what is audible to us—the ultrasonic songs of katydids and the footsteps of aphids. He hears beyond the limits of location—every rain drop, every lightning bolt, every asteroid, every pinging dolphin and rumbling tectonic shift, everywhere, all the time. And I thought I had a lot to take in.

God hears everything. But psalm 34 tells us that there is one thing in particular that his everlasting ears are listening for:

“The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous,
 and his ears are attentive to their cry…
“The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them;
 he delivers them from all their troubles.” – Psalm 34:15 & 17

Out of all the innumerable sounds in heaven and earth, God pays special attention to the voice of his people. Psalm 34 is not simply a theological statement of this fact—it is the personal testimony of David, when he was a fugitive running for his life. He celebrates his own experience of God hearing his cry for help:

“This poor man called, and the Lord heard him; he saved him out of all his troubles.” – Psalm 34:6

What does the God of the universe listen for? The cry of a poor man in desperate need. David was not making an eloquent prayer to God in a beautiful temple, highlighting his successes and accomplishments in God’s service. He was simply crying out for help to the only one who could save him. And he was heard. Because out of all the sounds in creation, the ears of our Father are attentive to the cries of his children.

A Sycamore Tree, A Car Crash, And God’s Provision

In Luke 19, a short tax-collector named Zacchaeus climbed a sycamore tree to see Jesus as he passed through the crowd. He did see Jesus. Even better, Jesus saw him. Then Jesus stopped and spoke to him, and went to his home for dinner, and Zacchaeus was never the same from that day on. I’ve heard this story since I was a child, but I’d never thought too much about the sycamore tree itself until my friend Brian directed my attention to it. Did you know that sycamore trees in Israel can live for hundreds of years? And the one Zacchaeus climbed must have been fully mature if it was big enough to hold a grown man (a short man, granted) and allow him to see above other people’s heads. To be there for that particular moment of need, that tree must have been growing for decades, at least, and possibly longer. 

When we think of God’s providential provision for his children, we often think in immediate terms—the unexpected financial gift that comes on the day the bill is due, the odds-defying recovery, or the new job starting right when the severance pay ended. These kinds of immediate interventions are marvellous. They should lead us to praise and give thanks to the God who gives them. But we should also be ready to see that many of God’s provisions are prepared for us long before our needs arise. Remember, God is above time. He invented it. If he wants to, he can plant a sycamore tree in exactly the right place 100 years before the man who needs to climb it to see Jesus is even born. Is it any less miraculous if God begins his provision a century in advance? I don’t think so. And he can do the same kind of thing in our lives as well. 

My friend Brian, who pointed the sycamore tree out to me, said he started noticing “sycamore tree” provisions in his own life after his son Silas was in a terrible car crash. In the days and weeks that followed the accident, Brian and his wife Amisha started noticing that God’s provision for them often came through relationships and events that had been set in motion long before their specific needs arose. Before Silas was born, God had inspired Amisha to train as a nurse, little knowing how her degree would eventually help her own child. The nurse who had trained her later became the patient care coordinator for the entire hospital, and she was the one on duty when the accident happened, ensuring that Silas received the best possible care in the best possible time. Six months before the accident happened, Silas had started dating the granddaughter of the county commissioner. The commissioner told his friend, the CEO of the hospital, that Silas was receiving care there. The CEO came to see Silas, and Amisha was able to share one of the greatest needs of the children’s hospital with him. The CEO quickly took steps to correct the issue—steps which will help many paediatric trauma patients in the future. Later, a friend of a friend made a key phone call that helped Silas get in to the recovery programme he needed, just when he needed it. His recovery is progressing well, and in each of these cases and many more, Brian and his family saw God’s provision for their specific needs happening through means and relationships that were already in place. Like the sycamore tree was prepared in advance for Zacchaeus, God laid the groundwork to provide for my friends long before their need arose.

In Isaiah 65:24, God says, “Before they call I will answer; while they are still speaking I will hear.” Isn’t that encouraging? He knows our need before we do. He is already ready to provide the answer, before we even know what to ask. Ephesians 1:4 tells us that salvation itself—the greatest provision of all, for our greatest need of all—was prepared for us “before the creation of the world”. If God can work that far in advance for our deepest need of all, he can certainly have an answer ready for any other need we face. You can bring your need to him, today, however big, however small. And look around: there may already be a “sycamore tree” prepared for you. 

My friend Brian said, “God’s providence is always at work to provide for his children and to bring himself glory. If we will pay close enough attention, we will see sycamore trees all around us that will enable us to praise him in the midst of the storm.”

The Maker (a poem)

A long time ago the prophet Jeremiah said, “Ah, Sovereign Lord, you have made the heavens and the earth by your great power and outstretched arm. Nothing is too hard for you.” I’m not a prophet, but today I have a poem for you on the same theme:

The Maker

He stretched out the heavens
And lit up the stars
He flung out the Milky Way’s
Spiralling arms
And will we imagine
His own arms are weak?
Or fear there’s an enemy
He can’t defeat?
The Maker of rocks is
More firm and secure
Than Everest’s foundations
More perfectly pure
Than water in Eden
More faithful and sure
Than sunrise and twilight
And he will endure
Past all of the ancient
Immovable hills
The hills he abundantly
Graciously fills
With life—in all of its
Wild variety
Antlers and feathers
And berries and trees—
And will we belittle
The Maker of these?
Or think the inventor
Of eyes doesn’t see?
Or somehow,
Ridiculously,
Disbelieve
That what he has promised
Is what he’ll achieve

What Makes Our Town (Or Any Place) Great

What makes a town or a city a great place to live? There are many factors, of course, from cost of living to amenities and natural beauty and so on, but there is one factor that surpasses them all. This was pointed out to me by a man who has been dead for some time, G.K. Chesterton. He wrote about what makes cities great in his often surprising and famously thought-provoking testimonial work, Orthodoxy. Using Pimlico as an example—a village in central London which must have been dire in Chesterton’s time—he says:

“Let us suppose we are confronted with a desperate thing—say Pimlico…. It is not enough for a man to disapprove of Pimlico: in that case he will merely cut his throat or move to Chelsea. Nor, certainly, is it enough for a man to approve of Pimlico: for then it will remain Pimlico, which would be awful. The only way out of it seems to be for somebody to love Pimlico: to love it with a transcendental tie and without any earthly reason. If there arose a man who loved Pimlico, then Pimlico would rise into ivory towers and golden pinnacles; Pimlico would attire herself as a woman does when she is loved… If men loved Pimlico as mothers love children, arbitrarily, because it is theirs, Pimlico in a year or two might be fairer than Florence. Some readers will say that this is a mere fantasy. I answer that this is the actual history of mankind. This, as a fact, is how cities did grow great… Men did not love Rome because she was great. She was great because they had loved her.”

Chesterton’s point is sound. Cities and towns (or nations, for that matter) do not rise in glory and beauty by random chance. They rise because they are loved freely and unconditionally by the people who claim them as their own. This is exactly what I see in the town we live in now. Carrigtwohill is not a big town (although it is growing). It doesn’t have a beach, or cliffs, or even a Supervalu (yet), but it has something else which is far more important: it is loved by its people. I’ve never seen a community work together as broadly, and as closely, as our community does. For example, there’s a small army of volunteers here who recently developed a comprehensive plan for the future of Carrigtwohill—for improved supports for those in need, for greater economic development, for the provision of parks and recreation, and so much more—and now, with the full support of the community, they are working to implement it. They don’t do this because it’s their job. They do it in their free time, because they love our town enough to work for it. The problems don’t put them off—they motivate them to find solutions, because they love our town too much to leave it as it is. The benefits don’t make them complacent—they motivate them to grow our community stronger and healthier and better than ever. This kind of love is not based on what Carrigtwohill is, or isn’t, right now. I’m convinced that many of these people (my neighbours), will love our town no matter what it is, or what it becomes, through good and bad and progress and discouragement. They love Carrigtwohill freely and unconditionally, simply because it is theirs. And that’s what makes our town such a great place to live.

A Fan

There is a simple machine in our house that gives me more happiness than is really logical or reasonable. Most of the year, it lives in the attic, waiting for the summer when the house warms up and we open the windows to let the breeze in (this is the only air conditioning system we need in Ireland). To help encourage that summer breeze inside, we take down the fan from storage and turn it on. I enjoy turning on the fan more than I can sensibly explain to you. I guess you could say I’m a fan of it. The sound of the motor and spinning blades resonates with something deep inside of me, which is strange, I know, but the breeze dusts off long-past memories of summer days and the places I used to spend them. In that mental swirl there arises an old and comfortable happiness, intangible but very real, and I can’t help but smile. 

I remember as a child, lying on the floor in the heat of Alabama, taking turns with my brother speaking into the back of the fan and laughing endlessly at how it changed our voices. If you’ve never tried that, you should. I remember lazily looking up at the ceiling fans on the porch, trying to track their blades and basking in the comfort they provided. I remember the noisy window unit air conditioner fan upstairs in the house my wife and I lived in when we were newly married. It clattered away all night, keeping us cool, and I grew to love the noise of it along with the rest of that crooked, leaky house, because of the life we made there, together. Maybe these are some of the reasons I love the sound of a fan so much more than the fan itself logically, reasonably deserves. After all, there’s a lot more to life and living than logic and reason alone. The longer we live on this earth, the longer the list becomes of things that are entangled with our experiences and memories, things that grow to mean more to us than the simple sum of their physical parts would suggest. Maybe that’s because everything about this world, and our life in it, and our own selves, means more than the simple sum of physical parts would suggest. God made life rich and deep, and I’m a fan of it.

I’m sure I’m not alone. Are there things that resonate this way with you?

Independent Power

Election seasons are always a rollercoaster, but being in America this summer during this particular presidential cycle has set a new record in my personal experience of political drama. The stakes are high, and the surprise plot-twists have been coming thick and fast. The news stories and ensuing commentary are non-stop, a constant reminder of how much raw global power is wielded by the American president. Whoever wins this election will command the world’s most powerful economy, military, and government. Their power will be massive, by virtue of the structures they oversee. It is a power granted by the people of America through democratic mandate, and executed through millions upon millions of civil-service employees, soldiers, and law-enforcement officers. In other words, it is a power that is dependent on others, contingent on the collective power of the people supporting them. This is how power works. The most powerful among us are those who are able to channel and control the collected power of others most effectively. On our own, we are small. We are created, finite beings, with limited strength. No matter how strong an individual may be, the collective force of millions working together will always be stronger. With one notable exception.

Consider the power of God. Unlike human power, God’s power is not contingent. The Bible tells us that he does rule over structures—over armies of angels and all the nations of earth. But unlike human rulers, God does not derive his power from these structures. On the contrary—the structures derive their power from him. He spoke our entire universe and all things into existence with a command, including every lesser power that has ever been or ever will be. If every other structure and force in the universe disappeared tomorrow, God’s power would remain, undiminished. This is why God can make promises in a way that no politician or emperor on earth has ever been able to—he is fully able to overrule every opposing force in the universe he created, without needing any help from anyone else to do so. The combined power of every nation and military on earth is laughable in comparison to the Maker of all things (Psalm 2:4). When God promises to act, there is literally nothing that can stop him from doing exactly what he says he will do (Daniel 4:35). When he says he will bring perfect justice for every wrong ever committed (Matthew 16:27), he means it. When he says he will provide complete forgiveness for all who come to him through Jesus Christ (Ephesians 1:7), he means it. When he says he will build his kingdom on earth (Daniel 2:44) and work all things together for good for those who love him (Romans 8:28), and generously provide an inheritance that “will never perish, spoil, or fade” (1 Peter 1:4) for his children, he can do it. And no one can stop him. 

“Blessed are all who take refuge in him” – Psalm 2:12 

A Thousand Miles, And A Poem

This summer I’ve driven well over a thousand miles across the southern states of America. I’m thankful for good air-conditioning, good music, good company (my family), and Chick-Fil-A. I like driving, which certainly helps, even if I have to think hard to get in the car on the side that has the steering wheel, after living in Ireland so long. We’ve been down highways through forests that seem to never end and we’ve been down country roads through corn and cotton and tobacco fields that grow outside of small towns where people sell fresh peaches and watermelons from roadside stands. Every few minutes there’s another white steeple on another red-brick church. One of them was just letting out from some kind of event, and the people were leaving with take-away boxes of food which was probably fried chicken and green beans and devilled eggs or some excellent kind of pie. I would have liked to pull in but it would have been strange for us to arrive at the end as total strangers. I don’t even know what town we were in, because I don’t have to keep track of that kind of information anymore thanks to the sat-nav. I just follow the blue line, keep an eye on how much fuel I have, and enjoy the view. Eventually, we get where we’re going.

As we’ve driven past so many towns and homes and cities that belong to so many strangers, I’ve been reminded of how big this world is and how many people like me are living in it. The road goes on and on ahead of me and splits into millions of different directions, and every one of them is the way someone drives to get home, or visit family, or step into a new opportunity. There are so many places I’ll never see, or only get a glimpse of. There are so many people I’ll never meet, or get to know. Each place and each person has their own story, and I am humbled by the sheer number of them, and thankful that God gave me a place in this world, too.

Road Trip

The tyres on the tarmac
Are the steady thrumming bass
Underneath the road trip music
As I move from place to place

Trees and towns and numbered exits
Homes and farms and advertisements
On and on and never ending
As the tyres keep on spinning

Roads go off in all directions
And I’m sure they’re going to
Places old and steeped in history
Yet to my eyes, all is new

And the blue line on the map will
Guide me on and ever onward
Though I don’t know quite exactly
Where I am
I am not bothered

I might stop and get a coffee
When the tank is close to empty
From someone I’ve never seen in
Some place I have never been

And I will reach my destination
Though the road is very long
As the tyres on the tarmac
Sing their steady humming song

The Crooked Apple Tree

Beside a country road in Ireland there are two tall pillars marking the entrance to my friend’s home, down a lane that used to lead to a massive manor house. That mansion is long gone, but the stately pillars remain as crumbling reminders of its past glories. The gravel lane between them now winds its way to the old farm buildings on the estate, which were nothing but ruined walls until my friend rebuilt them into a home. Outside, the chickens wander freely with the dogs among the garden beds and fruit trees. 

The fruit trees are old. The apple trees beside the house have grown thick with the passing years, with sturdy trunks and branches strong enough to hold hundreds of large apples. One tree in particular stands out from the others. Its trunk is still strong, but it leans precipitously over towards the ground—the result of some terrible storm that nearly toppled it. Somehow, it managed to stay halfway up. Ever since, that apple tree has lived on in its stooped position, adjusting the course of its branches to reach upwards from its tilted trunk. Some of its roots are still sticking up out of the ground. The trunk will never again be able to stand straight and tall like the others. There’s no way that tree could ever hide the fact that it has seen terrible trouble. And yet, for all that, the tree still fills up with apples every year. 

The old crooked apple tree beside my friend’s home in a restored ruin encourages me. Living in this broken world brings trouble to humans, too—sometimes serious trouble that nearly takes us under and leaves us stooped and wounded. Sometimes what is damaged cannot be hidden. Sometimes the consequences cannot be straightened out. And yet, for all that, we can still bear fruit. We don’t always have to stand straight and stately to bear the sweet fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control—the fruit of God’s Spirit, as listed in Galatians 5. These fruits can grow quite well on crooked trees. When the Apostle Paul asked God to remove his life-altering weakness, God said, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” and Paul responded with, “Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me” (2 Corinthians 12:9). His goal was not to be the most impressive, leafy, well-proportioned tree possible so that everyone would admire him—his goal was to bear the abundant fruit of God’s power at work in his life. At the end of the day, I’d much rather be a crooked tree laden with good fruit than a perfectly proportioned one with empty limbs or sour apples.