Music Without Lyrics

I’ve been slowly working through Nietzsche lately, and it’s taken me down more side roads than I expected. As I read, I try to keep an open mind. I enjoy getting to know thinkers—their motivations, their influences, the worlds they were responding to.

One of the more interesting threads has been Nietzsche’s relationship with the composer Richard Wagner. At first, there was deep admiration—a shared vision of what art could do for culture. But over time, that relationship fractured. The more I read, the more I realize it wasn’t just personal. It pointed to something deeper.

And that “something” keeps coming up the more I read—and even as I’ve been listening to what we’d call “true classics.” (Most of us know Wagner through the 'Wedding March" and "Ride of the Valkyries")

What is art actually doing to us?

When we think about music and influence, we usually think in terms of words. Lyrics carry ideas, ideas carry meaning, and meaning shapes people. But it’s been interesting to wrestle with how thinkers like Wagner—and those who influenced Nietzsche, like Schopenhauer—understood music that has no words at all.

Wagner believed music could express something deeper than language: emotion, longing, tension—even transcendence. Things words can’t fully capture. Schopenhauer went even further, arguing that music doesn’t just describe life—it expresses something more immediate and primal, something like the underlying force of reality itself.

In that sense, music isn’t just communicating ideas. It’s shaping experience. It moves the heart directly, without passing through language first.

And that raises a question I can’t shake:

If music has that kind of power, what is it forming in us when there are no words to guide it?

Wagner didn’t just compose music—he built experiences. Festivals, gatherings, even a cultural center around his work. People didn’t just listen; they participated. It shaped identity, emotion, even belief.

I had never heard of Bayreuth before this—a music hall Wagner built that became the center of a powerful cultural movement. It’s fascinating to see how art, identity, and influence blended there in ways that went far beyond the stage.

And the more I think about it, the more I see a pattern.

19th-century German festivals. Woodstock in the 1960s. Burning Man....and yes, these bizarre "No Kings" rallies recently.

I don’t want to oversimplify it—but I can’t ignore the question:

What happens when art and cultural movements become tools for mass identity and emotional control?

At that point, it’s no longer just expression—it’s formation.

And formation isn’t neutral.

What feels like progress can sometimes be drift. Not growth rooted in something solid, but movement fueled by emotion, belonging, and shared experience—without grounding.

And it’s that loss of grounding that concerns me.

On the surface, some of what we see today can look almost silly—costumes, chaotic performances, moments that feel more like spectacle than substance. But underneath, there can also be something more serious: messages about destruction, revolution, or meaninglessness quietly woven in.

And when that happens, art doesn’t elevate people—it eventually confuses them.

I’m still working through all of this, but it keeps bringing me back to a central question:

What is shaping us—and what is it shaping us into?

Nietzsche’s famous statement, “God is dead,” is often misunderstood. He wasn’t celebrating it so much as observing what happens when a society cuts itself off from God.

And the more I read, the more I think he may have been more right than wrong.

We are not used to music without words—or are we?

When I see bizarre antics at these recent 'protests' - they have no coherent message- No Kings? The fact that they are able to proclaim the message defeats the logic of the label- but again, it isn't the 'lyrics' .... it is a discordant symphony that communicates more danger than the general public realizes.

And here comes some angry rant at me.... 3....2.....1..... These are my words and I am free to express them.

We have a lot of people living like God is Dead- their own God is their own mind.

Lat night, American Idol had it's yearly 'faith night' where contestants chose songs that expressed faith- some were overtly Christian and some were not.

On X- many praised the night...but I was also intrigued that in my 'Top Comments" feed there was a lot of anger that ABC/Disney would give that a platform.... even though it is 'Holy Week' for Christians.

So those opposed to faith night might ask me the same question:

What happens when art and cultural movements become tools for mass identity and emotional control?

Which then leads me to a a better question:

Because art and cultural movements can become tools for mass identity and emotional control- what anchors should we cling to that allows us the greatest opportunity for love, understanding, prosperity, and peace?

And this is where I believe the Christian gospel excels and has no real rival.

Things to ponder on Holy Week.

Is Art Lost?

(Some early thoughts while reading Nietzsche)

I’ve just started reading Nietzsche (biography and works), and already I feel like I’m being pushed—not just intellectually, but personally. 

I have had early introduction to the man- his sister- misunderstandings... etc.

But I took a rabbit hole to read a little more about the relationship of Nietzche and Wagner.

Nietzsche talks about Richard Wagner, this larger-than-life composer who tried to bring everything together—music, story, visuals—into what he called “Gesamtkunstwerk”- a “total work of art.” The goal was something immersive, almost sacred. Not just entertainment, but something that could restore depth and meaning to culture.

At first, Nietzsche believed in him. 

But later, he became disillusioned. Not just with Wagner as a person—but with what his art was actually doing. It started to feel like the experience was powerful… but disconnected. Emotional, but not grounding. Impressive, but not transformative.

(So I find an early disillusionment in life is when a hero shows he is human, our discipleship leaders are flawed humans- and it feels almost like a betrayal. But we have to be careful when we project too much hope in any human- if you are looking for hypocrisy, you WILL find it.)

And it is an over-simplified symbol- The 'divorce' of the philosopher and the artist is representative of a current cultural crisis....

Because I wonder if we’re living in a version of that now: Is art lost? Or maybe losing?

That might sound dramatic. We have more art, more content, more access than ever before. Everything is sharper, louder, more immersive. Entire worlds can be created on a screen..

I don’t leave most things thinking about them days later. I don’t carry them with me the way I used to. It’s like I’m impressed in the moment—but unchanged afterward. I scroll endless choices on streaming services and it is like one big “blah”.

We’ve pushed art so far—more effects, more intensity, more spectacle—that maybe we’ve overloaded something in ourselves. Our sense of wonder. Our ability to suspend disbelief. Our capacity to be moved.

It’s like everything is trying so hard to get our attention that nothing really reaches us anymore.

And I don’t think the problem is creativity- I think it’s disconnection.

When art detaches from meaning, it has to rely on intensity. And intensity doesn’t last. It fades. It has to keep escalating. And eventually, we stop feeling it the same way.

So I’ve been trying to put words to what I think is missing.

The best way I can say it right now is this:

Belief-Immersed Art.

Art that doesn’t detach from meaning or purpose.
Art where everything—story, sound, image, emotion—is aligned toward something deeper.

Not just immersive… but grounded.

Because the most meaningful experiences I’ve had with art weren’t the most technically impressive.

They were the ones that felt true. I know we are losing the idea of truth... but we also know it is there, whether we admit it or not.

And maybe that’s the tension I’m starting to see, both in Nietzsche and in our culture:

What happens when art becomes powerful… but untethered?

Could that be a clue to the growing irrelevance of Hollywood?

What makes movies- plays- music- pictures meaningful?- All of the elements allow the story to touch deeper. We don't finish an artistic experience and say, 'those were impressive wires and computer chips'- we are impressed with it as a story it resonates somehow in the soul.

BTW- this INCLUDES our studies and theology.... These are not conventional gadgets to take out play with and put away. They go beyond the mind, soften the heart, and get us into the story of the God of Victory and Love. This is not a cold test tube tale, it is a drama, full of conflict and courage- love and healing, hope and joy. 

And what would it look like to create something that doesn’t just capture attention—but actually reaches the soul?

I used to worry that we are losing a generation who no longer wants to think- but in some way we would even be worse off if we lost the ability to feel!

Nietzsche once wrote, “j’aime l’art comme pouvoir”—I love art as power. That’s a sobering thought. We tend to treat art as entertainment, something to pass through quickly, without considering its influence. But art is not passive. It forms us. It shapes perception, stirs emotion, and quietly reinforces what we come to see as meaningful. If art truly carries that kind of power, then the question isn’t whether it affects us—it’s whether it’s rooted in something worth believing.

I don’t have a clean answer yet- to be continued……

Spring break will be a little bit on the Appalachian Trail and a few days in D.C.- good time to get away, read, pray, and ponder....

Curse the Thorns

This idea began during my Hebrews study a few months back (actually last fall).

The thoughts re-appear when I get tired and when the curse of thorns makes me curse the thorns.

In other words..... time for some rest and rain.

There are certain images in Scripture that don’t just appear once—they echo. You see them early, then again later, and by the time you reach the New Testament, they’ve taken on a deeper weight. Thorns are one of those images.

Hebrews 6:7–8 has always struck me because it feels both simple and unsettling at the same time:

"For land that has drunk the rain that often falls on it, and produces a crop useful to those for whose sake it is cultivated, receives a blessing from God. But if it bears thorns and thistles, it is worthless and near to being cursed, and its end is to be burned." (ESV)

When you read this, the imagery just carries me to Genesis, the parable of the sower, and so many other parts of the Bible.

The first time we see thorns in the Bible is in Genesis 3, right after the fall. God tells Adam that the ground is now cursed because of sin, and then He says something really specific—"thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you." Before that moment, work was beautiful, restful, useful- never in vain. Afterward, we now have a major problem What once produced fruit now fights back.

So thorns aren’t just a farming problem. They’re a sign that something is wrong at the root level of creation. They’re a reminder that sin doesn’t just affect us internally—it spills out into everything.

Fast forward to Jesus, and He picks up that same image in the parable of the sower. He talks about seed that falls among thorns. At first, it grows. There’s life there. But then the thorns rise up and choke it out. And He explains it in a way that hits uncomfortably close to home—the cares of the world, the pull of wealth, all the competing desires of life… they crowd out what God is trying to grow.

That’s when it shifts from being about soil to being about the heart.

The problem isn’t that nothing is happening. It’s that too much is happening. There are other things growing alongside the Word, and eventually those things win. Not with a sudden blow, but slowly, quietly, over time.

And then you come to the cross, and something happens that almost feels too intentional to miss. The soldiers take thorns—those same symbols of the curse from Genesis—and they twist them into a crown and press it onto Jesus’ head.

Cruel- But also deeply symbolic.

The curse that entered the world through sin is now being placed on the head of the One who came to redeem it. Jesus doesn’t just deal with sin in the abstract—He steps into its consequences. He wears them.

Look at the Genesis 3 curse- pain, sweat, blood, thorns

Now look at Jesus on the cross- pain, sweat, blood, thorns

So when Hebrews talks about land that produces thorns being near to a curse, it’s not speaking in a vacuum. It’s pulling from a story we’ve already seen unfold.

The rain falls on both fields. That part is important. God’s grace, His truth, His patience—it’s not scarce. It comes again and again. The difference isn’t in what is given. It’s in what is produced.

That’s the part that sits heavy. When I see WHERE this verse shows up in Hebrews, it is a dangerous warning... one of those passages that shake you to wake you. It is where theologians grapple with a question of perseverance. 

Because it means it’s possible to receive and still not respond. To hear and still drift. To be exposed to grace and yet slowly allow other things to take over.

So that becomes a heart cry when I feel weary and distracted —"Help me learn to curse the thorns and drink the rain."

If the thorns represent everything that chokes out life—distraction, compromise, misplaced priorities—then "cursing" them isn’t passive. It’s a decision. It’s choosing not to make peace with what’s killing growth. It’s recognizing that some things in my life don’t need to be managed—they need to be uprooted.

But at the same time, there’s the other side of it: drink the rain.

Because this isn’t about trying harder in our own strength. The rain is still falling. Grace is still being given. God is still at work, still speaking, still calling us back. The question is whether we’re actually receiving it in a way that leads to fruit.

And sometimes that process isn’t comfortable. Pruning never is. Letting go of things that feel normal—even things that feel necessary—can feel like loss. But Scripture keeps reminding us that God’s goal isn’t just activity. It’s fruitfulness.

That’s where this whole thread leads. From Genesis to the parables to the cross to Hebrews, the question stays the same, even if it’s asked in different ways:

What is growing in our lives?

Not what are you exposed to. Not what have you heard. Not what do you agree with. But what is actually being produced?

Because in the end, the field never lies.

And yet, even here, there’s hope. The same Jesus who wore the thorns is the one who calls us back when we drift. The warning in Hebrews is real, but it’s not disconnected from grace. It’s meant to wake us up, not push us away.

So the prayer behind the song is simple, but it’s not easy:

Don’t let my heart grow cold. Don’t let me drift away.

Teach me to hold the line. To walk the narrow way.

Not by ignoring the thorns, but by dealing with them.

Not by refusing the rain, but by receiving it deeply.

Because I don’t just want to avoid the curse.

I want to become something that actually bears fruit.

"If I can learn to curse the thorns and drink the rain."

Song link: Curse the Thorns

Where Do We Go When the Light Fades Away?

There’s a question that quietly hangs over our age, even if we rarely say it out loud:

Where do we go when the light fades away?

For centuries Western civilization lived with a shared framework of meaning—moral boundaries, transcendent truth, and the assumption that reality itself had an order we didn’t invent.

But something changed.

Many today celebrate the idea that we have finally thrown off the restraints of the past. We are told we are free now—free to define truth, free to construct identity, free to determine our own moral path.

But beneath the celebration, there is a growing sense of unease.

Because when every voice becomes its own authority, something strange begins to happen: the ground beneath us starts to move.

A Warning from an Ancient Book

The Bible describes a similar moment in Israel’s history. The book of Judges ends with a haunting summary of the culture at that time:

“In those days there was no king in Israel. Everyone did what was right in his own eyes.”
— Judges 21:25

At first glance, that might sound like freedom. No king. No authority. Everyone deciding for themselves.

But the stories leading up to that verse tell a darker story—violence, chaos, moral collapse, and communities unraveling.

The problem was not simply political leadership. The deeper issue was the loss of a shared moral reference point.

When everyone becomes their own authority, there is no longer a common compass.

Nietzsche’s Madman

In the 19th century, the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche wrote a famous parable that feels eerily relevant today.

In The Gay Science, he describes a madman running into a marketplace carrying a lantern in the daylight, crying out:

“I seek God! I seek God!”

The crowd laughs at him. Many of them already believed God was irrelevant.

Then the madman delivers a shocking declaration:

“God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.”

But the point of the story is often misunderstood. Nietzsche was not celebrating this moment.

He was warning about its consequences.

The madman continues:

“What did we do when we unchained the earth from its sun?
Whither is it moving now?
Are we not plunging continually?”

Nietzsche saw something coming that many people around him did not yet recognize: if the foundation of transcendent truth disappears, the moral and philosophical structure built on top of it cannot hold forever.

In other words, once the sun is gone, the darkness eventually follows.

Freedom Without Form

This is where the Christian philosopher Francis Schaeffer spoke with remarkable clarity.

In his book How Should We Then Live?, Schaeffer argued that Western culture was gradually embracing what he called “freedom without form.”

People wanted absolute personal freedom—freedom from moral limits, freedom from inherited truth, freedom from external authority.

But Schaeffer warned that freedom without form cannot sustain itself.

Without a structure of truth to guide it, freedom begins to collapse inward.

When every individual becomes their own source of truth, society does not become more stable—it becomes more fragmented.

Soon the question shifts from “What is right?” to “Who has the power to decide?”

And that is when freedom slowly begins to disappear.

When the Light Fades

We may not carry lanterns through marketplaces like Nietzsche’s madman, but many people today feel the same unease he described.

The old moral landmarks seem to be disappearing. Institutions that once provided stability feel uncertain. Even the idea of truth itself is often treated as negotiable.

So the question returns:

Where do we go when the light fades away?

The answer may not lie in inventing new truths or constructing new moral systems from scratch.

Instead, it may require rediscovering something older—something that was never ours to create in the first place.

Because if the light did not originate with us, it also means its source has never truly disappeared.

The real challenge is whether we are willing to look for it again.

My attempts to capture this in a song-

So this is my 3rd time and in some ways I feel like it keeps failing- maybe too philosophical-

1st try: The Madness

2nd Try: Lamps in the Light

And they didn't quite work...

so I turned it more into a story.

3rd try- The Lantern Man

The song Lantern Man (A Parable) pushes this question one step further.

In the story, a man walks through a small town carrying a lantern in broad daylight. The people laugh at him. They mock him. Some ignore him completely. To the town, he looks like a fool—an odd relic clinging to something that no longer makes sense.

But the lantern is not for the daylight.

It is a warning about the darkness.

In many ways, that image echoes the strange calling of the Old Testament prophets. When God spoke through them, they often did things that seemed bizarre or embarrassing in order to wake people up.

Ezekiel, for example, was commanded to perform actions that must have looked absurd to those watching:

• He lay on his side for hundreds of days to symbolize Israel’s coming judgment (Ezekiel 4).

• He cooked food over a fire made from dung as a sign of coming hardship (Ezekiel 4:12–15).

• He shaved his head and beard with a sword and divided the hair to represent the fate of Jerusalem (Ezekiel 5).

• At one point he was even told to pack his belongings and dig through a wall to leave the city in front of everyone, symbolizing exile (Ezekiel 12).

To the surrounding culture, the prophets must have looked strange—maybe even ridiculous.

Yet their actions carried a message: something was wrong, and people needed to wake up.

In a similar way, sharing the message of Christ in our time can sometimes make us appear just as strange.

When we speak about truth in a world that believes truth is relative…
When we talk about sin in a culture that prefers affirmation…
When we point people toward Christ as the source of life and meaning…

we may look a little like that lantern carrier in the marketplace.

Out of step, unfashionable, perhaps even foolish.

But if Nietzsche’s warning was correct—if a culture really can unchain itself from its moral sun—then the question becomes unavoidable:

Are we willing to carry the lantern anyway?

Because without a source of truth beyond ourselves, we are not truly navigating the world.

We are simply wandering through it.

And without direction, we are not enlightened—we are just stumbling in the fading light.

Send me a note- which one did you like the best?

Verse 1 In an old backwoods town Where the roads run thin and dry There’s a man who walks the market With a lantern in broad daylight. Children laugh and trail behind him, Men just shake their heads and grin, “Still searching for your God out here?” They shout as he walks in. Chorus Where do we turn when the lights burn out? When the stars we trusted fall? What still holds when the noise dies down When there’s no clear voice at all? He keeps walking through the laughter and the strain— That quiet Lantern Man. Verse 2 They say he’s been here years now, Ever since the mill shut down, Since the preacher left the pulpit And the truth left this town. One day someone asked him laughing, “What are you trying to prove?” He said, “You tore the sky from meaning— Now tell me how you move.” Chorus Where do we turn when the lights burn out? When the stars we trusted fall? What still holds when the noise dies down When there’s no clear voice at all? He keeps searching through the dust and shifting sand— That stubborn Lantern Man. Verse 3 One night when the crowd had drifted And the square was standing still, I asked him why he carried Fire against their will. He said, “Freedom without form breaks apart, It bends until it frays. Doing what is right in our own eyes Leaves us lost halfway.” Bridge “Not every truth arrives in thunder, Not every answer roars. Some restore the shape of things By whispering what matters more.” Final Chorus So where do we turn when the lights burn out? When the night outlasts the day? What still leads when the ground gives way And the old paths fade to gray? He said, “You don’t need thunder to call you back— Just a voice that stays.” Outro Now sometimes when the town goes dark And the road runs out of plan, I swear I see a lantern glow In the hand of that old man. No firestorm, no shaking ground— Just a quiet light again. Walking slow through the silent streets, That steady Lantern Man.

WISDOM from Proverbs 9

This post/song was inspired by a devotion last night from Dr. Scott Redd.....

We now come to the last of the introductory passages before the listing of individual proverbs. Proverbs 9 sets the stage with two feminine personifications: Wisdom and Folly.

Wisdom builds her house. She hews her pillars. She prepares her table.
Folly lounges at the door, loud and seductive, offering what is stolen.

Caught between them stands the simpleton — the unformed, the inexperienced — really a personification of us all. The question hangs in the air: do we grow up into life through maturity, or do we drift downward into destructive traps?

Proverbs 9 reads almost like a scene.

It is as though you open the book just to read a line — thin paper trembling under lamplight — and instead of silent ink, the page begins to speak. Two voices rise from the text.

One stands where the high stones meet the sky. Her table is set. Bread laid open. Wine poured clear. No rush in her voice. No hidden claim. “Come and eat. Leave your simple ways. Walk in understanding.”

The other leans where the alley bends. Honeyed laughter. Silver promises. “Stolen water is sweet. Secret bread is pleasant. Come inside. Just close the door.”

Both sound like a friend.

And the simple one stands at the crossing of stair and street, no crown, no scar, no chosen name — only hunger. Which way will he go?

There is a third character here as well: the scoffer, the mocker.

Verses 7–8 sober us. Correct a scoffer and you invite abuse. Reprove him and you injure yourself. There is a hardness here beyond simple immaturity. This is not the inexperienced soul who can be formed — this is the one who resents formation itself.

So how do we discern when someone has crossed from simple to scoffer?

I wrestle with the same tension when I consider Jesus’ command not to cast pearls before swine. At what point does continued correction become harmful rather than helpful?

First, discernment itself is a fruit of pursuing wisdom. As we grow in godly wisdom, we gain the skill of recognizing when a heart is teachable and when it has become entrenched. There comes a moment when loving persistence turns into enabling hardness. At that point, wisdom may require withdrawal.

Second, we must trust God’s regenerative power. Even if we misjudge the moment, God does not lose those He intends to redeem. Salvation is not finally secured by the precision of our discernment, but by the sovereignty of His grace.

Finally, we fast and pray — especially when the mocker is someone we love. A child. A friend. A spouse. We have all seen those who seem defiant almost from birth. Not honest questioners. Not open wanderers. But hardened, cynical, darkened by resistance. In those cases, continued argument may only deepen callousness. It can be more loving to step back and plead with God to do what only He can do.

Sometimes that pleading is painful. You watch a world begin to crumble. You pray for a flicker of softness. And you leave condemnation where it belongs — with God alone.

But most of us are not fixed scoffers. We are the simple — still forming, still choosing.

And Proverbs 9 returns us to the table.

Look at the parallel pleas:

Lady Wisdom: “Come and eat my bread and drink my wine.”
Woman Folly: “Stolen water is sweet, and secret bread is pleasant.”

Two meals. Two invitations. Two ends.

One road runs slowly upward into life.
The other slips quietly downward — deep in the realm of the dead.

Both sound appealing in the moment. Both promise satisfaction. Only one sustains.

So we pause and remember the true bread and the true wine.

Christ has set a table as well. Not stolen. Not secret. Not hidden in darkness. Openly given. His body. His blood. Life offered freely to the simple who will turn and come.

The question of Proverbs 9 is not merely theoretical.

Who do you want to dine with?

Song: Deep in the Realm of the Dead (Proverbs 9)