Still Falls the Rain…

Today is New Years Eve. The year 2020 is about to become 2021, again reminding us that time does not stand still. Time continues to move on. Through pandemics, through economic crises, through natural disasters, time doesn’t stop. Humans keep growing older, and the universe keeps slowly dying. 2020, to most, has made this truth evermore clear. Our world is fickle; humans are frail; and suffering is ever present. And, even though suffering seems more present in 2020, I can assure you that as long as time keeps moving forward, so will human suffering.

Today is New Years Eve. The year 2020 is about to become 2021, again reminding us that time does not stand still. Time continues to move on. Through pandemics, through economic crises, through natural disasters, time doesn’t stop. Humans keep growing older, and the universe keeps slowly dying. 2020, to most, has made this truth evermore clear. Our world is fickle; humans are frail; and suffering is ever present. And, even though suffering seems more present in 2020, I can assure you that as long as time keeps moving forward, so will human suffering. 

These are the things that my mind thinks about, when I have the morning to myself. As I was thinking to myself, I sipped my warm, black coffee and watched the Pacific Northwest rain fall on the field across the street from my home. And, as I watched the winter rain softly drizzle down, I was reminded of a poem by Dame Edith Sitwell, “Still the Rain Falls.” 

Dame Edith Sitwell penned “Still the Rain Falls” during the Bombing of London in 1940, which was one of the darkest years of the 20th Century. The Second World War was raging and the German armies were conquering every town, city, province, and country their infantry, tanks, and artillery marched on. Economies were in crisis, and most Europeans feared for their lives daily. It was in this year of extreme darkness, Sitwell penned this beautiful poem.

Still falls the Rain—

Dark as the world of man, black as our loss—

Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails

Upon the Cross.

The poem starts with Stidwell exclaiming that the world is still dark as ever. Using the imagery that each year after Christ’s crucifixion is yet another nail in the cross, another year of suffering. We as humans keep suffering, we keep perpetuating evil and experiencing its effects. Her poem could easily be modified to say, “Blind as the two thousand and twenty nails, Upon the cross.” 

Two stanza after, we read:

Still falls the Rain—

Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man’s wounded Side:

He bears in His Heart all wounds,—those of the light that died,

The last faint spark

Now, Stidwell reflects on the Christian understanding of God and salvation. Christianity believes that God actually became man to save his creation. While all other religions talk of mankind ascending to God, in Christianity, God lovingly descends to humankind. God, who is eternal and outside of time itself, becomes a human being and is put to death for our sake. This death of Jesus Christ offers forgiveness and remedy for both the evils we commit and the evils we experience. Stidwell exclaims, “Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man’s wounded Side;” she is making the point that humans are still evil and still suffering, so we still need the blood of Jesus. We still need God. 

Then, in the final stanza Stidwell writes from the perspective of Jesus saying:

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man

Was once a child who among beasts has lain—

“Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee.”

 

It is Jesus who gives us hope by loving us. God born as a human baby, born in a manger surrounded by barn animals. God who was timeless entered time; God who was infinite became finite; God who spoke creation into existence cannot speak; God who sustains all things, cannot feed himself; God who knows all things cannot even think for himself. 

This is God’s story. 

God loved us so much that he became like us, was born like us, lived like us, suffered like us, and died like us. But, unlike the rest of humanity, Jesus Christ resurrected from the grave, scars and all, to prove that suffering will have an end one day. This is the beauty of Christianity. It assumes that humankind, no matter how hard we try, cannot conquer sin, suffering, and evil. But,it offers true hope, because we have a God who was willing to suffer with us and for us. So, because of Jesus, we can have hope and salvation from this simultaneously beautiful and miserable world. 

2020 showed us that suffering isn’t going anywhere. And, the only thing that gives me hope for this next year is that I have a God who became human and suffered with me. A God who suffered and died to give me real life; a life that is better than our current reality. If I hope in anything else, a better year, money, good relationships, popularity, perfect health, these will all fail me someday. So, even if I get cancer, experience financial ruin, lose a loved one, or experience the pain of death myself, I can proclaim with Dame Edith Stidwell, “Still falls the rain,” and still my Jesus loves me! 

20 Years

John Francis Elliot, my father, died twenty years ago on this day:

 

Where were you at my soccer games?

Where were you at my high school graduation?

Where were you when I graduated college with honors?

Where were you when I joined my soul with my wife in marriage?

Where were you?

 

Where are you for mom?

Where are you when the Patriots game is on?

Where are you to offer me advice on my marriage?

Where are you when I have my anxiety attacks, because I think I’ll die young?

Where are you?

 

Where will you be when I call mom to tell her Stephanie is pregnant?

Where will you be when I hold my firstborn child lovingly in my arms?

Where will you be when my children ask, “Why is there no Grandpa Elliott?”

Where will you be when I have questions on how to be a disciplined yet gracious parent?

Where will you be?

 

These questions haunt me,

my soul cannot find rest

These questions go unanswered

though my mind knows the truth

These questions keep me up at night

my body is tired

 

God where are you?

Where were you to comfort a confused toddler?

Where are you to quench my anxious heart?

Where will you be in the hour of my death?

 

I hear a voice

It questions me

 

Where were you when I created the earth out of nothing?

Where were you when I breathed divine life into humanity?

Where were you when my Son experienced the pain of death at your hand?

Where were you?

 

Where are you when the earth quakes?

Where are you when the waters rage?

Where are you when the winds terrorize?

Where are you when kings and politicians war?

Where are you?

 

Where will you be when I come to judge the world?

Where will you be when I destroy sin, death, and the devil forever?

Where will you be when I melt the elements and rebuild the earth anew?

Where will you be?

 

Triune God, I know that no man can thwart your will

I know that life and death are in your hands

I know that you are present with me now.

 

Father, I know that you direct all the ways of man

Eternal Son, I know you will judge the living and the dead

Holy Spirit, I know that you are the seal of the resurrection and eternal life in God

 

Triune God, I knew you with my intellect

but now my heart knows your presence

Cause my soul to love your Word

Cause my heart to walk in daily repentance

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Paradox of Death

A child of five years I was

Sitting, waiting, confused.

People whispering in hushed tones;

People crying with sorrowful mourns.


“Where’s mommy?” I asked.

No response.

No one wanted to answer. 

No one did answer.


A child of five I was;

Lifted up, looking at, and wondering why

Everyone was watching daddy sleep.


“Why is daddy sleeping?” I asked.

No response.

I touched his face;

I kissed his cheek.

He was cold.


“Why is daddy cold?” I asked.

Finally, a response:

My mother’s eyes flowing with tears,

“Daddy’s not sleeping, Peter.”


I didn’t understand;

I couldn’t understand

What was happening.


A man of twenty-two years I am

Sitting, thinking, contemplating.

I think to myself;

I cry.


“Where’s God?” I ask.

No response.


A man of twenty-two years I am;

Looking up, crying out, and wondering why

Good men die young,

Why evil men live long.


“Why is my dad dead?” I ask.

No response.

I see his face;

I hear his voice,

But he is gone.


“Why is my father, a good man, dead?” I cry.

Finally, a response:

God’s hand wiping my tears away,

“Your dad’s not dead, Peter.

He’s only sleeping.”


I understand what has happened,

It is the paradox of death:

They are not sleeping; they are dead.

They are not dead; they are sleeping.


In loving memory of John Francis Elliott, beloved husband, father, and brother. I miss you Dad.