See now that I, even I, am he; there is no god beside me. I kill and I make alive; I wound and I heal; and no one can deliver from my hand. (Deut 32:39)
The musician Sufjan Stevens has a new album out, Javelin. And, like all Sufjan fans, I have a lot of opinions. But here’s the deal: the editor here tends to send back articles heavy on my personal impressions and light on imputed righteousness! So, before I go any further, let me get something off my chest. The reviews of this album are surprisingly on the mark. Javelin is good. And if you’ve ever liked Sufjan, you will like this album. And herein lies a little object lesson: the church does not need to rob the world’s vocation. Life is full of arenas that are God-pleasing in the simple fact that they are aimed toward the neighbor’s benefit. Christians don’t need to run around stitching little crosses on this and that to make the world fit for the kingdom of God. Creation is capable of turning on its own God-given courses. God has seen fit to run the world in a surprisingly secular manner.
But enough about that. I’m still sore that my winsome musings aren’t in higher demand. And anyway, there is something unique Christians have to say. And what’s more, it is the sort of speech that is Mockingbird’s bread and butter. Plus, it’s something Christians are commissioned to say. And most importantly, it’s something you won’t hear anywhere else.
Some astute reviewers have compared Javelin to Blood on the Tracks, Bob Dylan’s 1975 breakup album. And once again, the reviewers are on the mark. But calling Javelin a breakup album isn’t quite right.
If I could add a little nuance, Javelin is a breakup album, but it’s a breakup album that begins on the first good day after a breakup. You know, the day that always comes as a surprise. The good day you never thought you would see during the post-breakup doldrums.[1]
In other words, Javelin is not an album about endings. It is an album about resurrections. Javelin is about that always unanticipated life that is born from messy finishes. Javelin opens with a breath. But, given the content of the album, I can’t help but wonder if it’s not really a gasp—a gasp that comes from the first startled breath of resurrected lungs.
Over the album’s ten tracks, Sufjan delves into all the nooks and crannies of his relationship. Yes, there are bright spots here and there. But on the whole, the album rides the descent of the lost love.[2]
The thing, though, is that, given such a morose subject matter, Javelin is not a gloomy affair. On the contrary, Javelin is surprisingly uplifting listen. Sufjan’s albums can be, well, a lot. But Javelin isn’t. And it’s not just the brief runtime, either. No, there is a buoyancy to the album. And it’s a lightness that can only come from finding to your surprise, the dead end has given way to the onramp of the resurrection.
You and me, Sufjan, and my editor, we are, all of us, traveling a dead-end road, and it’s called an immortality project. This endeavor can play out in our romances. And it can play out in our desire to articulate the faith with cultured references and eloquent comments. But in the end, it can play out in any other number of ways. At its core, an immortality project is just an attempt to hold your life together by your own power.
But it goes without saying that it isn’t working. All it takes is a death, the cooling of passion, or a stubborn editor to stop you cold. And when something like that happens, your better angels will turn tyrannical every time. Suddenly, the power you thought would prove your worth turns on you and points the accusing finger with deathly force.
This is never a pleasant experience, but Christ, by his cross, has bent this power to his own purposes. In Christ, death is now the gateway to eternal life. And nowhere is this better captured on Javelin than the penultimate track, Shit Talk.
The track is a surrender. Sufjan candidly sings, “Our romantic second chance is dead.” But instead of ending, the song takes on new life. Sufjan finishes the couplet with the twist, “I buried it with the hatchet.” And then, the music begins its “Sufjan-ian” crescendo.
That mercy is not a bid to repair the relationship, though. Rather, it’s the kind of reprieve that can only be extended when you can no longer try to force your vision of how life or love ought to go. The song ends with Sufjan declaring, over and over again, that he will always love his former paramour. But he can only say this because he already admitted he can no longer look at them.
This is the way of the cross. The Christian life is always a matter of death and life, in that order. Yes, when you find yourself in the valley of the shadow of death, it’s never a pleasant experience. But, when Christ saddles up next to you and brings the power of his resurrection to bear, Isaiah’s prophecy will be fulfilled for you. Your valley will be lifted unto the heights of Calvary itself.
And who knows what’s possible when you find yourself there? You might bury your hatchets, too. You might leave the bon mots to others and speak your heart. Or you might sing. Or maybe you’ll just laugh. Who knows? Anything is possible!
But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. The truth is, it’s not like we go through death, and then it’s new life from then on out. On this side of eternity, it’s a constant killing and making alive, a never-ending wounding and healing. We are always, simultaneously, sinners and justified. We’re never just one or the other. In other words, the best we can pull off on this side of the veil of tears are those first surprised gasps of resurrection breath.
Sure, that sounds like a modest proposal. But when you find yourself unexpectedly raised from your latest round of death, you’ll have a different perspective. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
So, how about I leave you with this: The last person Sufjan thanks in the credits of this album is Jesus. And judging by everything we’ve learned about his life lately, you can’t help but get the impression that this thank you is not pious or posturing. Instead, it’s prayer — which, as it turns out, is the very essence of those first gasps of resurrection air.
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3 responses to “The Day After the Worst Day of Your Life”
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I wish I had written this. So good! Don’t you love it when we get to witness some of our favorite musicians’ first gasps of resurrection air? It becomes one long resurrection song shared with US. The Spirit hovers and brings to life. Pure gratitude.
Wow. I read this article this morning and I’ve been thinking of it all day. And thinking of all the deaths, great and small, I experience and how Christ does indeed saddle up next to me. Thank you for the reminder. So helpful.
Thank you. I can’t stop listening to Javelin. I’ve been a fan since Illinois, but this is something else. It’s like the theme of “now and not yet”, that melancholy kind of joy, set to music.