The Fence

There is a tree beyond this world

In its ancient roots this song is curled

I am the fool whose life's been spent

Between what's said and what is meant.

There is a Tree, a song from Carrie Newcomer

Most often life is lived by what is said, what is seen, what is known. This living remains but a short distance from our ears, our eyes, and our brain. Much like sitting on a fence, the choice confronts us to hop on one side or the other, to choose either what is said or what is meant. Or this can be likened to an awkward silence following a joke. The punch line falls flat when the explaining starts.

Don’t we also treat scripture like the fence or the telling explained? To fall on the side of what is said, to attempt to theorize or prove, to explain, misses the point of what is meant, that is, to do, to become, to act and so let your light shine before men. To the one we are enslaved. To the latter, we serve. And aren’t we called by a life in Christ to move from what is said to what is meant?

To be validated in this world, to be noticed, gives rise to falling on the side of what is said, to say the words, to repeat what is said, to advantage our words either to convince ourself or someone else. Temptation eases us toward this sort of comfort born from familiarity. After all, everyone else does it, why not me?

But in the hard testing God uses in our exodus from the old life to the new, when grace finds us, when His rod and staff comfort us, when He finally reigns in our heart, meaning appears. The answer to the question comes, “How shall I serve God?” Begin is the answer. Begin before meaning comes, before understanding, even after all contrary indoctrinations. By so beginning, the meaning emerges, a desire to do rather than speak washes over you. Faith no longer anesthetizes you nor grants you immunity, it compels you, grants you a freedom from and a freedom to. No longer do you live in the narrows of proving, explaining, and validating.

By doing, the homeless man becomes you, the cancer patient is you, the grieving widow, the person embroiled in conflict. You wonder about those two shoes on the lonely road. You don’t do because you see, you do because you cannot see, cannot know what God intends to make of your doing. Comfort no longer accompanies you, only stirring.

The whole of the Christian’s life is a call to transfer from what is said to what is meant. We shall all worship something, seek freedom from and freedom to. Freedom, though, never offers permission, only purpose, and freedom in Christ is the highest form, a going out from where you are to where God desires you to be—in His service. Service to God is always where you are standing—a freedom for.