Lent Day 3: Refuge

Because you have made the Lord your refuge, 

    the Most High your dwelling place,

No evil shall befall you,

    no scourge come near your tent.

~Psalm 91:1-2

Oh, that it were so.

Our eyes offer us evidence that this is not the case, day after day, year after year. We watch as refugees stream out of Ukraine... or Guatemala, or Syria, or Darfur, or Bosnia... and we know that, just statistically speaking, there are people of faith among them, deep faith in a God of their understanding. There are people who have spent their lives trusting in God's providence and protection, and teaching their children to do the same. 

And yet their homes have become the battlefields of the powerful, and their only safety lies in running, far and fast.

(Just to be clear: I have no wisdom, zip, zilch, about the situation in Ukraine. For that, go read Tom Nichols in the Atlantic, and Heather Cox Richardson on Facebook or by subscription. Also, pray.)

Even so, I delight in this psalm. I sing heartily every time "On Eagles' Wings" is our hymn in worship, and I believe every word of it to be true.

Yes, I have just said two contradictory things. That's because:

There is more to refuge than physical safety. On Friday, my Daily Prayers remind me to be thankful for "the presence of [God] in my weakness and suffering," and that is my refuge.

There is more to God's protection than a magic shield from falling bombs. God's protection looks different for different people, in different places: for me, it is a hedge against despair in desperate times. (I know this is a privilege, and probably reflects my privileged status as a white woman with financial stability and a good network of support. I acknowledge this.) I do not know why some suffer and others are able to avoid suffering, but I know it has nothing whatsoever to do with worthiness or holiness.

There is more to faith than God not letting anything bad to happen to me. Sometimes the deepest faith is forged in the crucible of the deepest suffering. (And sometimes, it is not. This, too, I acknowledge.)

There's an old story (I've probably told it here, on this very blog) about Saint Teresa of Avila. Wikipedia's thumbnail bio tells us that she was "a Spanish noblewoman who was called to convent life in the Catholic Church. A Carmelite nun, prominent Spanish mystic, religious reformer, author, theologian of the contemplative life and of mental prayer, she earned the rare distinction of being declared a Doctor of the Church" (meaning, she made a significant contribution to the church's theology... to this date, only four women have been given this distinction).

Anyway, the story. Teresa was traveling by donkey between convents, and was somehow knocked off her donkey. She landed in a puddle of mud and injured her leg. She prayed the equivalent of, "God, how could you? And what lousy timing." (Remember this. This is a prayer. You get to pray like this.)

God replied: "That is how I treat my friends."

To which Teresa replied, "No wonder you have so few of them."

There's another hymn we sing in church (though, admittedly, less frequently than "On Eagles' Wings"), courtesy of the Taizé Community. "Nada de turbe." Its lyrics are a prayer of this same St. Teresa:

“Let nothing perturb you, nothing frighten you.
All things pass. God does not change. Patience achieves everything.”

There is more to refuge than physical safety. 

There is more to God's protection than a magic shield from falling bombs.

There is more to faith than God not letting anything bad happen to me.