28. Don't be deaf. But don't be silent, either. And don't send me down into the pit. Not the pit. Where there is only deafness, as it were, and silence. No one talking. No one listening. This is many people's reality of "God." Which is a bit like the guys who honk their horns at intersections when a woman passes through the crosswalk, expecting the "pursued" to say, "Oh, look! A honking guy behind the wheel of a car! I think I'll marry him and bear his children!" You can't scream in God's face and expect him to listen. You can't turn a deaf ear to the music of life and expect God find you a great seat for the show. It just doesn't work that way. And one of the dynamics unleashed by this psalm is the notion that the reality of God is a partnership. Lightning actually *doesn't* strike. Rather, together, we walk down a road of life, listening. Lack of faith is all about setting up expectations that can't ever be met. Stop honking, moron. All your obnoxious noise is ruining the scene.
29. Speaking of music. How do you think about this psalm without it? God has 7 voices:
1. On the water.
4. Breaking of Cedar Trees
5. Cutting flames of fire.
6. Shaking deserts.
7. Making hinds to calve and stripping forests bare.
Okay, the 7th one is weird. Kind of apocalyptic. I'd like to hear the Arcade Fire perform this song. But you can understand the reversal of time conceived by the poet, as the disorienting affect of an overwhelming manifestation of God's power in the world. The formidable march of nature's strength leading to its relentlessly overwhelming accumulation of life that, paradoxically, leads to life in reverse. This seems destructive, but it only destroys the *accumulation* which, as it turns out, is the opposite of *peace*.
30. The Dedication of the House. I cried, you healed. You raised my soul up from Hell. In other words, suffering is temporary. Bad as it may be, nothing lasts forever. Your temper flares for a moment but life is in your will. At night I weep but in the morning I sing out in joy. God. That is so true. At least for me. How about you? How many are the nights when I escaped into sleep, the darkness alone a black blanket of comfort and the morning light nothing less than re-birth. What a miracle that it happens that way, over and over again.
Morning. Light. Gratitude.