If you want to know what God wants you to do,
ask Him, and He will gladly tell you,
for He is always ready to give a bountiful supply
of wisdom to all who ask.
–James 1:5, The Living Bible
I am a member of the Sirius/XM satellite radio nation, and have been for some time now. My brother was the one to introduce such programming to me years ago when he was a cutting edge listener and I a channel switcher between songs to avoid the commercials. Eventually I purchased a car with the service and I’ve been a devotee ever since.
I particularly like how I can hurry out the door and listen to the same international news feeds I was watching on my TV while getting ready at home. I also like the fact that with one stoke of a preset button I am catapulted back to the 70s, where the sounds of James Taylor, The Rolling Stones, or the Bee Gees take me to a time when I was a teenager and music filled my world. My parents would say it was constant and loud back then. I would say it was essential and expressed the sentiments of my generation.
We have stereo wars in my car, on occasion, when my husband takes his place behind the wheel. He likes the 70s station but can’t get enough of channel 14, featuring bluegrass. Up goes the volume and his fingers briskly strum the wheel, for he is an amateur banjo player when he’s not helping Navy pilots avoid hitting birds. A few measures into the song and he’s on stage instead of driving north on State Route 20. He’s particularly fond of the fellow who shares banjo strumming techniques on Sunday mornings as we make our way to church.
I can usually manage two songs or 10 minutes of instruction. Then I’m pleading, along with anyone else riding along with us, “Channel 7! Channel 20! We need a break!”
On Tuesday of this week I called out this same protest as I headed
into town while listening to a smuggled audio feed from Iran. On it I heard the sounds of hurried footsteps, women screaming, children crying in utter terror, shots fired, and men hollering in Farsi. It was raw, unfiltered, and painful. I felt so completely helpless I reached over to quickly change the channel, but the strains of “You’ve got a friend” could not displace the sounds in my head.
I pulled into a parking lot to wipe my eyes and pray. Then I asked the million dollar question: What can Whidbey Islanders do to affect any kind of change in a country embracing a world view, history, political system, religion and culture so different than ours?
I thought of the verse in James. If you want to know what God wants you to do, ask Him.
Let’s take God up on His offer. Let’s harness the power of a praying people and ask God the tough questions: What ARE we to do? How are we to pray? What explanations are we to give our children? How can we work within our churches and the various international aid agencies? What are we to say when communicating to our government officials and friends throughout the world about our view of this kind of suffering? What are we to be blogging, tweeting, posting?
To ask the questions we must step away from XM radio and CNN. Instead, let’s walk the beach. Open our sacred books. Pray with a friend. Meet over coffee. Dialog on Facebook. Take sail. Hop on a swing. Read our grandchildren bedtime stories and pray over their tiny, nodding heads that we love so tenderly.
