the tragic, old song of Stanford and Orlando

Last week? It's as if I'm there. There at that Stanford court case with my mouth hanging wide and my blood boiling. Hearing the tumbling words of someone so wrong, and someone so wronged.  My heart sounds in my ears. 

This week? It's as if I'm there. Watching a maimed humanity tumble-flood the street outside that Orlando bar. Hearing the audio recorded by some trembling hand. The end of bodies. The flight of so many souls. My heart sounds in my ears. 

I hear these stories every time I click the radio. See them every time the tv pings on. Read them on every front page. I feel the inestimable loss. The outrage of both of these tragedies. Hear the inevitable what could have been helped? The why here and now? The how do you pick up what is shattered beyond repair? And l think: this is an old, old sound.

This is not a new song.

Since Eden man chose the lyrics to this melody. Falling soft from the jagged-edge jaw of a serpent, we ignored their poorly gilded evil; happy to catch them up as our own: 

Has God? Is God? Surely not. 

We would have none of our Creator and His way. None of the perfect. None of being made in an image other than ourselves. None of that glory. 

And as soon as humanity took up this song, it took up murder. Rape. Incest. Adultery. Slavery. Lying, stealing, coveting...every imaginable violence. We took by force all that was created good and left it to bleed out. Became addicts to what leeches our feeble best and feeds our worst. We hate, and lust, and imagine all sorts of wickedness continually. We lust because we do not have. We kill and desire more blood. We fight and war. We smirk thinking we've trumped our Creator. Has God? Is God? Surely not. 

But we can't shake the inevitable counter melody; the loss and pain entwined in our seeming victory. This nagging obbligato of what could have been helped? and why here and now? And how do we pick up these pieces?  
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We hear this old song behind the recent tragedies: I will use you because it will pleasure me. I will mow you down because I want to. I am my own divinity; it is my right. And this triumph song? This i am my own god? Will always become a funeral dirge. The old chord progression of death/passed on all men/for all have sinned. We shake our fist at God and find ourselves bruised bone-deep in the heel. In choosing our own way, we've chosen our destruction. 

Yes, the details were new. The rape location became the filthy backside of a dumpster. The Orlando weapon? Unusual in its effective brutality. But the song has not changed.

It is an old, old sound.
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And I wonder, at what point do we wake up to this? Realize that weapon reform, and stricter laws, or heavier punishment, or more education is not the answer? These may mute evil for a moment; pause the music. Delay the refrain of death. But they cannot crush silent this twisted melody on continuous repeat. 

Only the One who gave us life can deliver us from the body of this death.  

And it's only when we turn towards our Maker than we can be remade. That we know the full healing of His finished work. Of His bearing all our broken, gilded evil in His own body and that cross. But it will mean a change of lyrics. A humble song of God has. God is. And I am not. To a truly this is the Son of God come to take away the sin of the world. Come to take away my sin. 

There is no other salvation from the tragic, old song of these last two weeks. 

Beth