Call It Like It Is.

I closed my eyes to better feel the drum beat reverberating in my chest.
The throng of voices resonating off the warehouse walls, hundreds of hearts vibrating to the same rhythm.

I smiled to myself as I thought of the quiet worship of last week. So different, both rich.
Rich also, the comforting smell of strong coffee, this time from the cups of friends on left and right.

Between the coffee, music, poignant sermon, and Eucharist, there was a whole bunch of awesome. But one thing in particular stuck with me.

A few words from Paul in the book of Acts.

“Yet he did not leave himself without witness, for he did good by giving you rains from heaven and fruitful seasons, satisfying your hearts with food and gladness.”

He said this to the people of Lystra.  A people who named the Giver of Good with titles like Hermes and Zeus.

Yet he did not leave himself without witness.

This kept reverberating off the walls of my heart long after the music stopped.

It didn’t matter that they used names like Demeter or Apollo to give credit.  It didn’t matter that they were getting the name wrong.  At the end of the day; rain and bounty and satisfaction and joy came from I AM.

When I don’t have the language. The times I don’t take notice, He is still giving testament.  Witness of his love. His good-doing. He is forever giving evidence.

I took the dog for a walk to spend some time listening, desperate to hear.  Instead I found myself barking to stop the barking and hopelessly day dreaming.  [Which is where I usually find myself.  Not the barking, but the day dreaming part.]  I wasn’t hearing anything, my mind too busy running around frantic and starry eyed like the dog at the end of the leash.

Until, I saw it.
Witness.

Fresh green leaves.  Twisting in the breeze and evening sun.
There was one of those slow motion movie moments and I felt the vibration in my ribs.

Yet he did not leave himself without witness.

Even if I wouldn’t have seen it.  The Beauty would have still occurred.

It was by the kisses of my nephew and the heavy eyelids of my little niece.
It was across the sun lit sidewalk over a cup of peachy-tea with pen in hand.
It was in the sharing of vulnerable lessons and freckling cheeks.
It was on the beige table holding sandwiches and pickles and long overdue catching up.
It was through live melody and poems of hope and healing accompanied by guitar.
It was under huge maps and late night laughter in chairs and a purple couch.
It was God.
Bearing witness.

“Even with these words they [Paul and Barnabas] scarcely restrained the people from offering sacrifice to them."

After explaining that all the good was from The God, the Lyconians still attributed the miracles to the names of Hermes and Zeus.  They were given the language, given name.  And they missed it.

I want to Name this.
I want to call it like it is.

Let’s not miss the witness.