If I speak with the tongues of men and angels, and if I didn’t have love…?
I’d be a cheap hunk of metal bashed until 2am by a guy too old to play Lower Broad for tips. Even if I were an expensive crash played at measure 168 by a trained crasher with the symphony…up close where the clang goes on, it’s still loud…and it rings the ears and vibrates up to your now numb elbow.
If I learned to speak the tongues of men…not of church but of real flesh and blood, ‘I love you’ would cease to be just a repetitive incantation. Sans love, it’s a whistling against the night, a trying to convince yourself and no one all at once. But with love it becomes more…a higher note that rings true through every darkness.
And if I somehow managed to speak as angels do, then wouldn’t we all be afraid? To speak about Love as a person, would this messenger of flesh spoil the message?
My spirit is willing, but my flesh is all too willing to be weak.
These days, I’m more ‘clanging cymbal’ than ‘greatest of these.’ I’ve heard the Spirit call and heard the babbling tongues, and I know the truth and value of words prophetic. But the Good Book tells it true: it ain’t jack without love.
There is a secret the angels know about love. It’s loud and fierce and passionate in its crashing.
But there’s more to love…and cymbals.
Put your ear close to a cymbal’s edge. Now tap gently…and you’ll hear the purest low rumble. Shocking to hear this roll of tone from what normally is brash. It’s the sound of a thousand Tibetan monks chanting on a mountaintop…the sound of God Almighty singing the world into existence. It rings for what seems like days, finally fading like an echo of Spring on a cold winter day.
Cue the soft music, and get ready for the turn.
Nope. Not today.
Just this. I want the crash AND the ringing roll. But if I’m just a cymbal, then you’ll need to bend an ear to my edge.
That’s where you’ll hear Love.