This world is loud.

Where are You now, God?

I've seen passion. I’ve seen goodness. I’ve seen God’s grace.

It exists. Sometimes it’s hard to find in the midst of all the darkness in the world, and sometimes it’s hard to recognize. But I promise it’s out there.

Often, I ask myself, “Where are You now, God?” I have such a hard time seeing Him sometimes. All I can see is the brokenness of the world. All I can see is the pain of my brothers and the weariness of my own heart. All I can see is how messed up society is.

So I look in the most Jesus-y places I can think of, figuring He must be hanging out there. I look in the church, in worship services, in Bible studies, in youth group activities.

And then I still can’t find God and I freak out a little bit. If God isn’t here, where the heck is He? He’s gone forever. We’re all doomed.

That’s the initial reaction.

I don’t see God’s love where I expect it to be. All I see are smiling plastic deacons with firm handshakes who can’t remember your name. I see mouths forming the words, “Good morning” beneath eyes full of judgment, and an upturned nose right in the middle. I see eighty-thousand different translations of the Bible, made so anyone’s simple mind can understand it, but causing more confusion than anything else. If we can’t trust the Bible to say the same thing every time we open one, why do we even call ourselves Christian? I see people singing the same songs over and over and over and over and over – until the songs finally lose all meaning.

But if you glance back up at the first thing said, I have seen passion and goodness and the grace of God. You might be wondering then, where is it?

I’m finding God in different places, and I’m feeling His love the strongest in places where it’s not expected. Worship seems natural in different settings, and things considered “Christian” or labeled “praise” seem fluffy and less honest and real.

I’ve seen God’s love in a laundromat in downtown Canton. I’ve seen it in the honesty and raw emotion of a song performed simply by a guy with a guitar. I’ve seen it in the gathering of friends, reading Scripture, singing songs, and sharing what’s on their hearts. I’ve seen it in the hospitality of young men, who open their home and their arms to their friends and community. I’ve seen it at Roadhouse Monastery, at Dueber House, and at Logan House. I’ve seen it in the determination and positivity of people in desperate situations. I’ve seen it in the encouragement to follow dreams given by those who have already realized theirs. I’ve seen it in the fervor for missions – missions in Skid Row, in Native-American reservations, in third-world nations, and in Canton, Ohio. I’ve seen it in concern and care for friends by friends, and in listening ears and enveloping arms and encouraging smiles and words of wisdom. I’ve seen it in the souls of authors laid out on paper. I’ve seen it in the souls of musicians breathed out into the air through their songs.

I have found God in places beyond the sanctuary. In songs not sung by a worship team. In people not on a church staff.

My God is alive, and he is living among the poor and the weary. He is living among the hopeful and the passionate. He cannot be contained. He cannot be boxed in.

When asking “Where are You now, God?” we must simply open our eyes a little wider. We mustn’t look toward the conventional, comfortable places. God is not hiding behind the pulpit, and He isn’t sleeping in dusty hymnals in routine worship services. He is living and moving, out in the world, and His love is alive.

Desperate are the destitute,

the broken, starving, poor.

Yahweh, Yahweh!

come their breathless cries

between gut-wrenching wails of despair.

And we sit in suburbia,

comfortable in oblivion,

as our impoverished neighbors

grow weaker and weaker.

Their malnourished bodies

lie under our tables,

where we fill up our bellies

wishing charity were cheaper.

We take creative liberties

with what it means to give.

“So sorry, we’re too busy.”

The excuses reach their ears.

And they strain to listen closer

for a whisper from a Savior,

but their senses just aren’t strong enough.

It’s only us they hear.

So we think the problem goes away,

as it’s covered by our cushiony style of living.

We shrug off the needy, and look the other way.

It’s better to avoid the discomfort than start giving.

Their hungry, vacant stares are haunting.

We struggle to avoid their gaze.

We throw them crumbs so they’ll leave contently

toward thinly masked, inviting graves.

We feel them look at us through sunken eyes,

and hold out their trembling, skeletal hands.

We turn our heads quickly, slip a dollar in the offering

to tell everyone that we’ve done what we can.

Then we gather up the rest of our healthy income

and set it aside for a rainy day

to add to our pleasure, and mask any pain,

because as long as we’re cozy, everything is okay.

Dying are the destitute,

our neighbors, weary and weak.

But we’re confident they will be fine

and we pray

for the poor every evening at dinner before we eat.

Broken are the suburbanites,

the strong and happy crowd.

We follow routine,

but we don’t hear God’s plea

through the voices of the needy.

We block out the sound.

Empty are the wealthy ones,

the ones who have it all.

God wake us up.

Fill us full.

Let us love.

Let us follow you into the world.