Abide.
Immeasurably more than all that I asked or imagined (Ephesians 3:20)—that seems to be the best way to describe the past two weeks. By the unmerited and absurd grace of God, I'm spending my summer in Virginia interning with Urban Doxology, a worship ministry that trains musicians to write songs specifically for ethnically and socioeconomically diverse church communities. We are tasked with writing the soundtrack to racial reconciliation in Richmond's halfway gentrified neighborhood of Church Hill. It's fantastic, eternally significant, divinely challenging, and intense work that I am stepping into this summer.
Each day, I create and converse with that daunting, undefinable, self-imposed Seemingly Impossible breathing down my neck. I have been asked to reconstruct lyrics and melodies for already produced songs, write collaborative raps, watch and analyze a movie about blackface, and lead worship for a congregation of people I hardly know. These things feel impossible before, during, and even after I accomplish them. By 5 p.m. on most days, I'm ready to collapse under the weight of all the difficult, beautiful, exciting, new things I learn.
And one thing I quickly learned is that this kind of work necessitates prayer, both communal and individual. At Urban Doxology, we pray before songwriting sessions, discussions and lectures, meals, and church service; I am desperate to commune with the Spirit each day here, not because I am perfect but because I know my need. For someone engaging in Kingdom work (which is every one of us, by the way), abiding in Jesus through prayer and listening is paramount.
Something that East End Fellowship (the church for which we're writing worship music) emphasizes and encourages is the daily practice of listening to the Spirit: abiding in Him, breathing Him in, and responding to His murmurs. That takes branch & vine mentality (John 15), the fundamental belief that we are not telling God how to work but that God is telling us. And more than that, that God is telling us little pieces of it throughout each day. We are always connected to our Vine. We are always nurtured through our Vine. And by our Vine, we are always sustained.
The work we're created to do, whether that be worship music-making or ministry or business or parenting, requires abidance of us. Neither a suggestion nor an option, nearness to God is the only proper prescription for our sin-crippled human hearts. Jesus warns that we will wither without Him. But if we remain in Him and His words, if we continue to tune our realities to the Spirit's intercessions, we will bear fruit and glorify the Father in our fruitfulness. These are beautiful, rich promises. However, the practice of abiding on which all of these promises hinge often feels less beautiful and rich.
This practice is messy, vague, and uncharted territory. It's a choice to listen, to step into what feels like foolishness, and spend moments dwelling in God's kingdom instead of our own. I had the privilege of leading East End in worship with a song last Sunday that says this: "It's foolishness I know, but Your foolishness is wiser than my wisest." This is the truth about listening to the Spirit and abiding in God; it's this seemingly foolish, logic-defying submission that is actually wiser than our human hearts can even comprehend. This is the practice that John 15 teaches.
God is our dwelling place. This Lord we worship is a place to which we go, not just a name we pray to or an idea we like. Jesus asks us to abide in Him like a home, like a place to which we turn and return for comfort, wisdom, and life abundant. Abide in Me, Jesus says, and let Me be your safe place. Abide in Me, and allow Me to tell you who I made you to be. Abide in Me, and I will mold you into maturity.
"Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me." John 15:4, ESV
words by Delaney Young and photo by Arianna Taralson