Singing in the Dark

by Ginny Owens

  We live in a broken world. God wants our hearts to see and grieve that brokenness. To take it seriously and petition Him about it. To plead for healing, whether it seems on the horizon or not. And to seek His face … until our lament becomes praise.

  End in Praise

  In Psalm 22, as in so many other psalms, David moved from crying out in agony to erupting in praise. According to his song, the Lord had not hidden His face from him but had heard when he cried to Him (v. 24). God Himself had given David the strength to praise Him before the great congregation, and David insisted that they praise along with him. He then declared that all the world would join in (vv. 22–31).

  This could be one of those cases when, as David poured out his heart, the Spirit of the Lord finally whispered to him, igniting joy. Or it could be that David chose to praise before anything good happened.5 Either way, by the end of his lament, David was exuberantly declaring, “They shall come and proclaim his righteousness to a people yet unborn, that he has done it” (v. 31 ESV). You and I must often think and pray our way to praise too.

  My cousin Christi also taught me much about the practice of praise. In every part of her storm, she thanked the Lord for the small things. The time with her kids and husband. The hours of napping and streaming worship services. “Sometimes it may feel like you can’t possibly find something good in a bad situation,” she wrote in a blog, “but I remind myself right away that my huge loving God who created the universe and every detail of how my brain works, promises us that all things work together for the good of those who love Him, and I do love and trust Him through this situation.”

  Christi’s praise exploded over everyone she met. She was full of praise, whether with the little old ladies receiving cancer treatment next to her or backstage at concerts where she told her story to artists whose music had inspired her. Christi shed tears and shared stories of God’s goodness. Though she was fighting a fierce battle with brain cancer, she continually found new reasons to praise God.

  I’m not as quick to praise as Christi was. I like to rehash my woes to God many times before celebrating His goodness. Because of my tendency toward anxiety, I’ve had to learn a path to praise that I can continually take. I’ve found much help in another lament, Psalms 42 and 43.

  As the psalmist poured out his woes and longings to the Lord, he stopped three times to preach to his own soul, “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God” (42:5, 11; 43:5 NIV). It’s as if the lamenter was saying, “I don’t feel this now, but I know it’s true. So I will speak what my mind believes until my heart catches up and explodes in praise.”

  When we gathered for Christi’s going-home service, the church was packed with more than a thousand of her friends. We cried as we read some of her beautiful writing. We thanked the Lord for her life, and we praised God for the hope that we would see her again.

  But why? Why was Christi’s writing not sappy and superficial self-comfort? Why was our praise in the midst of our tears real? How can thinking people hold the view that hope transcends the sorrow of death?

  The Bigger Story

  The Lord promised David that, no matter what, His steadfast love would never be taken away from him—his kingdom would last forever (2 Sam. 7:15–16). But David’s descendants turned away from the Lord. God Himself lamented His people’s hardened hearts. Through the prophets, He lamented their sin and even the consequences they must face because of it. He promised to send a suffering servant, a despised and rejected one, acquainted with grief. This servant would be pierced for sins, and by His wounds many would be healed (Isa. 53:3–5).

  When Jesus came into the world, many people, even His disciples, expected He would be their earthly king, delivering the Jews from Roman rule. On many occasions, He expressed to His followers that this was not how it would go down. But they forgot or dismissed the suffering-servant portion of Isaiah’s text.

  The night before Jesus’ death, the disciples had no idea what was coming. But Jesus knew. In the garden of Gethsemane, He lamented to Peter, James, and John, “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me” (Matt. 26:38 ESV). They slept while He cried to His Father three times for the curse of sin and death not to be His to carry. But surrendering His will, He said, “My Father, if this [cup] cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done” (v. 42).

  The curse of death was His to bear. There was no other way. David received relief from his enemies and vindication after being mocked. But Jesus, God’s Son, was mocked and a crown of thorns thrown on His head (27:27–31). And God was silent.

  Then Jesus was crucified, and the soldiers cast lots for His garments, just as David prophetically lamented (v. 35; Ps. 22:18).6 The religious leaders scorned Him and said, “He trusts in God; let God deliver him now, if he desires him” (Matt. 27:43 ESV; Ps. 22:8). But unlike in David’s psalm, there was no deliverance from heaven—only silence. Then, as Matthew tells us, “about the ninth hour Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, ‘Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’ that is, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’” (Matt. 27:46 ESV; Ps 22:1).

  David began his lament with those words. Jesus stepped into death with those words. Separated from His Abba, Jesus cried out in agony. Not because of the horrific pain of crucifixion and imminent death, but because His beloved Father did not answer, allowing Jesus to “experience the full force of the meaninglessness of the fallen world.”7 Our lament can end in praise because Jesus’ lament did not. The Lord did not come near but let Him carry our sin to His death.

  David felt forsaken. Jesus, in the mystery and miracle of the cross, was forsaken. Darkness came. The temple curtain was ripped in two. The earth shook. Only broken hearts and dashed hopes remained. And God was silent. Until the third day, when light broke into darkness once and for all.

  “The lament of Good Friday was answered three days later with the empty tomb. The greatest injustice in history became the greatest display of divine mercy. Tragedy became triumph. Lament was the voice in between.”8 His death led to resurrection. The darkness Jesus faced led to our eternal hope and light.

  As D. A. Carson said, “Here is the undoing of death, the destruction of sin; Christ’s resurrection is the firstfruits of the mighty resurrection that will mock the death of death and inaugurate a new heaven and a new earth.” And the Christian gets to live his life by this resurrection power.9 God answered David’s cry and our cry by allowing His Son to be the despised and afflicted One in our place (Ps. 22:24).

  But, oh, the joy when He was raised to life! David called all nations and future generations to praise; Christ delivered the nations by the power of His blood. Hebrews 2:9 expresses the glorious news: “We see him who for a little while was made lower than the angels, namely Jesus, crowned with glory and honor because of the suffering of death, so that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone” (ESV).

  Hebrews tells us that not only did Jesus taste death for us, but He now also sings to God together with us, just as David sang: “I will tell of your name to my brothers; in the midst of the congregation I will sing your praise” (Heb. 2:12 ESV; Ps. 22:22 ESV).10

  This means we can sing even in our deepest sorrows … because death has been overcome. Even when we are hopeless, we can trust that hope is endless. The One who faced ultimate sorrow and death and conquered them sings to us and with us. Even in the darkness, our hearts can echo Christi’s song: “How can I keep from singing His praise? I can’t. He is such a good God and He loves us so much!”

  Your Song of Lament

  Take some time today to write your song of lament. What currently has your heart aching? What do you long for the Lord to make right? Write your song about it, inviting Him into the midst of your pain. It’s okay to leave things this way, waiting for the answer of His comfort. But you can also practice praise, speaking what you know is true until your heart embraces it. Here is a song to inspire y
our creativity:

  We will sing, we’ll sing in the darkness

  With Your light, Your light here among us—

  Let our voices rise

  Through the trials of the night.

  We will sing of Your great love—

  Sing of Your great love.11

  Singing God’s Song

  Sometimes we don’t have the words to pray—especially when things are difficult. Let’s memorize these words from David so we can call on the Lord in this way: “You, O LORD, do not be far off! O you my help, come quickly to my aid!” (Ps. 22:19 ESV).

  Let’s also memorize Jesus’ comforting words—words Christi texted to me during the last days of her life: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33 NIV).

  Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your graciousness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Don’t worry about anything, but in everything, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.

  Finally brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable—if there is any moral excellence and if there is anything praiseworthy—dwell on these things. Do what you have learned and received and heard from me, and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.…

  I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I find myself. I know how to make do with little, and I know how to make do with a lot. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being content—whether well fed or hungry, whether in abundance or in need. I am able to do all things through him who strengthens me.

  Philippians 4:4–9, 11–13

  Chapter 9

  A Song of Inner Peace

  Singing Contentment

  As a kid, I was the ultimate worrywart. My three greatest fears were nuclear war with Russia (a side effect of being a child of the eighties), the possibility that during a storm I’d be struck by lightning in my bed (inspired by a horrific tale from my elementary school science teacher), and the possibility that my mom wouldn’t return safely from wherever she’d gone and we’d be stuck with the babysitter for the rest of our natural lives.

  Such enormous woes for such a small human.

  Mom always encouraged me to lay my burdens down and go play outside. I did notice that my neighborhood cohort seemed to be carefree, so I strove to keep my worries to myself, playing ferociously in an attempt to drown them out. Still, they droned on.

  Music helped me process the thoughts racing around in my mind. Working out songs on the piano brought peace like nothing else did, and I began composing my own lyrics and melodies to reason through my fears.

  I often found myself singing that Jesus was always there, even when I was feeling anxious or alone. This truth would work its way into my soul as I wrote. I’d begin with a verse about some situation that was weighing down my young heart, and I’d instinctively move into the chorus with hope that the God who is always faithful would come to the rescue. I would come away from my writing time with a song that overpowered the noise in my mind.

  How do you overpower the noise in your mind? What is your secret to finding inner peace and contentment? Our culture says we will find them when we look deep inside ourselves and surrender to the personal truth waiting there.

  I’m not convinced. I am, at my core, a mass of inconsistencies and contradictions—a ball of joy and anger, courage and nerves, love and hate. My level of peace depends largely on how much sleep I got, what I ate for dinner, and how I feel I’m measuring up to everyone else. Though I know the value of hearing out my inner voice, I would be a fool to let it prescribe my path. How about you?

  If contentment doesn’t come from within, where do we find it? Those of us who have been Christians for a while will instinctively say it’s supposed to come from knowing and resting in Christ. But if we’re honest, we don’t do this so well. Our era of high-stress “get all you can” living leaves us wanting, with little time and space for cultivating contentment.

  The apostle Paul had much to say that can help.

  From his prison cell, he wrote to the Philippians, insisting that peace was possible, regardless of circumstances. And he declared to them that he had learned the secret of being content in every situation (4:12). Though this portion of Scripture is not a song, per se, we know that Paul often sang, even in prison (Acts 16:25).

  I imagine Paul singing about the secret to true peace and contentment from his jail cell. And if he could sing such a hopeful song from such a dark place, surely he can teach us how to do the same. As we open Paul’s meditation in Philippians 4, I will also share how this passage has taught me to find peace and contentment.

  When Life’s Noise Reaches a Fever Pitch

  Years down the road, I began to understand how Paul’s practice of singing the truth of Christ in every circumstance was the secret to peace in any place. But in the meantime, although my music helped, the noise around and inside me was always louder than my songs of hope. The peace they gave me was short-lived, soon overwhelmed by my worries.

  By middle and high school, my fears had moved from nuclear war to the kids cursing at my cane and me in the school halls and my self-imposed pressure to succeed at cheerleading and track. (Yes, I ran track and was a cheerleader, often the top of the pyramid. I had a sighted running partner for most races, and I memorized specific techniques for doing jumps as well as the steps of the cheer routines.) I ran varsity track for five years, but I had an overpowering sense of dread before every starting gun went off, and I finally gave it up.

  I began to stress over schoolwork after a teacher told my mom that though I wasn’t the smartest kid in class, my work ethic made up for my lesser intelligence.

  And though I loved music most of all, whenever I performed in front of an audience, I felt like I might throw up. Every time, I’d promise never to put myself through such agony again.

  When I signed a record deal and began a new life of full-time travel, my anxiety came along for the ride. A couple of turbulent flights early on resulted in years of pre-trip sleepless nights. And during the early seasons of road life, singing in front of strangers was always accompanied by an extreme case of nerves. As a homebody and an introvert, new venues and new people every day exhausted me. After a few shows in a row, I’d find myself running out of words during conversations with kind fans or the friendly concert promoters hosting me, which brought on yet more anxiety.

  Other aspects of work caused worry too. A well-meaning member of my record label staff told me early on, “Ginny, the only time your blindness is really noticeable is when you’re onstage. We have to fix that.” The words reverberated in my mind as I worked with performance coaches to figure out a way to not appear blind.

  Also simmering in my mind was the understanding that, in order to remain successful, I’d have to keep releasing hit radio singles. I knew these realities were part of the life I had signed up for, but that didn’t make them any easier to swallow. Somehow, I continued forward, singing about the hope, freedom, and peace I had found and knew were possible for everyone. But the words I was singing were being overpowered, drowned out by the noise in my mind.

  After several years of sleepless nights and relentless anxiety, I reached out for help. A counselor and good friend insisted I go see a doctor to talk about whether I needed something more than willpower and prayer. After a long chat about my years of chronic worry and my current anxiety about work, the doctor prescribed a sleep aid and antidepressants.

  Being able to sleep again was glorious, and the other medication took the edge off, but the underlying unrest lingered.

  Finally the noise inside me reached a fever pitch. My life sounded more like a melancholy country or emo ballad than a song of hope and
peace. A relationship ended and left me reeling. And when Rocketown Records, my label, closed its doors, I chose to venture out to find my way as an independent musician.

  Most disconcerting of all was my mom’s breast cancer diagnosis that I talked about in chapter 3. Since I had a job that could be done from anywhere with an airport and since my brother, JD, a Marine Corps officer, was stationed overseas, I moved home to be with Mom during her surgery and treatments.

  After Mom was finally declared cancer-free, I returned to Nashville and jumped back into writing, teaching, and traveling. But I couldn’t turn down the volume of anxiety’s noise, no matter the dose of meds or number of prayers.

  Peace in Any Place

  During that time, I began to dig through the Bible with a new resolve to unearth words of hope. I discovered a call from the apostle Paul:

  Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (Phil. 4:6–7 NIV)

  The weight of Paul’s words struck me. Don’t be anxious about anything? Was that even possible?

  I read further and found this: “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want” (v. 12 NIV).

  I knew Christianity claims to offer peace and contentment in the midst of life’s chaos and crazy, but as I read these words, I realized I had forgotten or had perhaps never known what that deep peace felt like. I had believed that peace was for someone like Paul but not for me.