A Lovesong for the Disillusioned
Tivadar Csontvary "The Lonely Cedar" (1907)
You grew up listening to Adventures in Odyssey,
soaking down stories that taught your young heart
to swim against the current.
They told you it wouldn’t be easy to do what was right
because the world was dark and ever darker--
but you--
they said you needed to be willing to stand alone.
So you walked through the halls of a ratty high school,
wearing a purity ring and carrying a Bible,
defending your faith while the other kids laughed
because even if you were
the only one,
you would keep your eyes on heaven.
It was lonely to hope,
lonely to wait,
difficult to see beyond all this chaos.
“It’s worth it,” they whispered.
“Here is the pearl of great price.”
And your heart fluttered because
you saw how goodness was beautiful.
You decided you were willing to die for it.
They warned you about the coming evil,
the sly tricks of the devil,
the progressives and the humanists.
You were ready for all of it.
You sat through The Truth Project
strengthening your muscles with a ready defense.
You resolved to stand firm though all hell broke loose,
so you divided the values of earth from the stuff of God,
and you drew a hard line of allegiance.
“All of me, God,” you prayed.
“God, take all of me.”
You kissed dating goodbye,
read marriage books, prayed, and prayed,
and resigned again.
You studied Biblical womanhood,
waited for the wedding night, then
homeschooled the babies that came to you.
No matter how difficult it was,
you were always willing,
“All of me, God. All of me,”
because His kingdom was not of this earth,
and your eyes were on the prize.
Then you woke up one morning to a man shouting,
“Grab them by the pu**y, you can do anything.”
“It doesn't really matter what (the media) write as long as you've got a young and beautiful piece of a**.”
And God’s people said, “Amen”?
You looked round stunned.
“HERE IS THE SALVATION OF THE LORD!” they cheered,
this clanging, vulgar man
was King David, King Solomon,
a friend of the Kingdom--
lo, he was the salvation of the world.
And you stood still as a little girl
who has just been molested by her favorite uncle.
You held your empty hands out and trembled when you said,
“But here is everything you have taught us...”
They told you to shut up.
They told you that it was time to ditch the fairy tale.
They called you a snowflake and a RINO.
They said you didn’t understand anything at all.
They said you were delicate and spoiled,
they mocked you and said, “What’s wrong with you?
Don’t you know that out in the real world,
good men do bad things.”
“Grow up!” they hissed.
“The work of Jesus is dirty sometimes.”
Your knees shook as you ran from them,
and you wept as you knelt by your bed to pray.
You are weary now,
weary from a life poured out like nard on the feet of Christ,
only to be shoved back
by angry men
eager to tattoo vulgarities from a gas station wall
onto the Good Lord’s clean skin.
You have written to me quivering,
asking if the gospel was only a dream.
In your agony,
proud theologians have shoved
the equations of orthodoxy into your face,
dismissing your sorrow with a wave of a hand.
“You were never His at all!” they say,
"or you wouldn't doubt at all."
An easy answer to scratch their own itch.
But oh, you dear, tired little lamb,
let me be a mother to your broken heart.
The storm rages round and round,
and I hear your heart pounding these many miles away.
I see the strain on your face,
like a child pulled from rubble.
Come in close.
All is not lost.
Though the strong be drunk on power and on fear,
though men who claim to know God prove that they do not,
though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea;
Though its waters roar and foam,
Though the mountains quake at its swelling pride.
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
The holy dwelling places of the Most High.
God is in the midst of her, she will not be moved;
God will help her when morning dawns.
The nations made an uproar, the kingdoms tottered;
He raised His voice, the earth melted.
the Lord of hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our stronghold.
All you have entrusted was not wasted.
All you have believed was not a lie.
Heroes are only men,
only men,
only small and passing men.
So remember how our Jesus knelt in the Garden
abandoned by all friends,
how he wept with blood and sweat intermingled.
And here we kneel, too, following.
It is a holy posture to grieve so.
You have not believed too much;
the masses have believed too little.
Hold firm, then. Hold firm.
Whatever is true,
whatever is honorable,
whatever is just,
whatever is pure,
whatever is lovely,
whatever is commendable,
if there is any excellence,
if there is anything worthy of praise,
think about these things.
See your Savior high and lifted up.
He lives forever.
His name is holy.
You have been no fool to give what you could not keep
for that you could not lose.
“All of me, God,” you prayed, and do not retreat.
In the face of the very opposition you never expected,
pray it again.
I will pray it with you.