If God is good, might we then hold blessing and lament in balance?
If we are slaves to the expectations of self-actualization, then we are predestined for the prison of our own blessing one fine morning, and on the dawning of the second day, are laid lower than coal mines, than the suffering souls of Hell. That’s the secret.
It is the stringing together of tiny metals that make the tambourines purchased by exotic dancers and church planters. They are weapons to those who mourn, the infernal joy in the jangle of brass. “We are all dying;” that is the mourners’ lament. They speak truth’s corpus.
We are the line-straddlers, most of us. True, some live in lands of tambourines, others in Lamentations, but those are fringe followers. The rest of us bend low by the cypress knees and recite, and recite, and recite “we believe we shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”