Saturday, December 27
By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us.
—Luke 1:78
But the more that Ray Charles sang, the more people let go. It was as if someone walked through the room and announced that everything was going to be alright. Even if just for a moment, the music lifted everyone's soul and the pressures of the day were released as we all stepped out in faith that all things would be just fine.
All things will be well, all manner of things will be well, Julian of Norwich said. And with Ray and all the saints, the music of the ages reminds us that letting go and letting God is the way to live a meaningful life. We all know it. We even believe it. But when it comes to actually doing it, well, that is another matter. A difficult proposition. A great impossibility.
But if God has come to us, if God has stooped down low in the manger in Bethlehem, shouldn't our belief be easy? Proof is the great stumbling block for most of us. We want hard, cold evidence. Something more than Ray. Something more than Julian.
Needing proof is a red herring. Proof does not matter. Proof is irrelevant. For casting all our cares upon one who loves us more than we can imagine is the whole point of faith—jumping beyond proof and into something that we do not know but something that ironically brings grace and mercy into our lives. Faith and doubt mix together as a healthy combination in the exercise of letting go to let God come into our lives.
And in the healthy combination, we seek not proof but faith, hope and love. In the letting go and letting God, Ray begins to sing, we stop clutching our lives so tightly, and everyone around begins to tap a foot.
And right there in the midst of Starbucks, faith happens.
I will let go, God. I will seek beyond what I see, to encounter one I cannot comprehend. I will hope. Amen.
