Lent Day 14: Longing for God

 O God, you are my God; I seek you;
    my soul thirsts for you;
my flesh faints for you,
    as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.
~Psalm 63:1

Image courtesy of Todd Bolen

Here's the God's honest truth (which, I hope I am sharing on a regular basis, and not only when I make an announcement about it): I didn't post yesterday for a number of reasons. In no particular order: I had an unexpectedly extra busy day; I was experiencing a lot of physical fatigue (new work-out-swimming routine, which, along with Daylight Savings Time, is kicking my butt); and--probably the biggest reason: I couldn't connect with any of the lectionary passages for yesterday. Well, not until late enough that I knew my brain would be useless if I tried to write something coherent. 

And then, today, voila, God and the daily lectionary present me with my favorite psalm, one that I have mostly memorized because I pray it so often. Actually, I sing it. I sing it when I am using my PCUSA Daily Prayer Book for morning prayers, and I sing ig in my head when I am lying in bed at night, especially when I am struggling with sleep. 

The psalm has a title: A psalm of David, when he was in the wilderness in Judah. 

I love the stories of David, a flawed human who nevertheless captures our imaginations at every turn. I know a bit about David, but I had to Google "when was David in the wilderness of Judah"? And the answer was: He was in the wilderness of Judah twice; once when he was fleeing from King Saul, and once when he was fleeing from his son, Absalom. 

Reading that was a like a punch in the gut. 

Scholars believe the more likely context was the latter. David was fleeing his son.

David was fleeing Absalom because... the sins of the father are visited on the children, as scripture reminds us. In other words, the family system was broken, and it went all the way back to David's taking and raping the married woman Bathsheba, followed by David's arranging for Bathsheba's husband, Uriah, to be killed, in order to cover up her pregnancy by David. The prophet Nathan told David God's response to all this: "Now, therefore, the sword shall never depart from your house, for you have despised me and have taken the wife of Uriah the Hittite to be your wife."  Or, as Eugene Peterson elaborated on it in The Message,

"And now, because you treated God with such contempt and took Uriah the Hittite’s wife as your wife, killing and murder will continually plague your family." ~2 Samuel 22:10

The enmity between David and Absolom emerged because David never punished his other son, Amnon, who had raped his half-sister, Tamar. Absolom was avenging his sister and trying to take the throne from his father, who he deemed unworthy of it.

Knowing the background of this psalm--that it wasn't simply written in the context of one of his many wars or battles, but most likely in the context of his flight from his own son, which he had brought about by many actions and inactions over many years--has shaken me. But also it makes me love the psalm even more.

David is in more than one kind of wilderness. He is in the wilderness of Judah which, truly, is an inhospitable environment for life. But he is also in the wilderness of his soul. He is using his physical hunger and thirst to connect to that deeper and more devastating wilderness, where he isn't sure God is still listening. He is longing for the old, familiar connection, in which God and he were on easy terms, David freely speaking and singing his praise and devotion to God, and God, in turn, continually inspiring him to more and more beautiful songs of praise.

For me, this psalm is a psalm of deep comfort. I call out and I trust that God hears. I understand that this may not be everyone's experience, and I remember times when it might not have been mine. But today, I am grateful for the beauty of this psalm, and for the reminder that God is listening. And today, I grieve once again the texts of terror* that are about both Bathsheba and Tamar, and remember: one of the things that makes scripture so important, and so holy, is its willingness to tell us the truth, even about our heroes. 

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

* Coined by scripture Scholar, Phyllis Trible, author of Texts of Terror: Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives.

Lent Day 9: A Lent Memory

 

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
    whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
    of whom shall I be afraid?
~Psalm 27

This psalm is rich with memories for me. The first and most present memory is of singing a number of different versions of this psalm when I was in the choir at Saint Ignatius, the parish church at Boston College. I remained a member there after graduation, and sang in the choir until my family relocated to the Binghamton area in 1990. One setting, by Tim Manion, stays with me to this day. You can find it here.

The other memory I associate with this psalm is a much earlier one. When I was in fifth grade I came down with a fever and a virus (I didn't eat potato chips again until college, and that's all I'll say about that). My mother kept me home from school for three weeks. 

Here is how my mother took care of us when we were sick: She set us up in the living room, which was right next to the kitchen, where I imagine she spent some time during the day. WE lived in an apartment over the family business, a liquor store, and occasionally she went down to help my dad as well; we had an intercom in the kitchen to communicate with one another, so I had quick access to both my parents, just in case. 

My mom made the couch up like a bed, with sheets, pillows, and blanket. She brought my food in there, a lot of jello at first, but eventually toast and the like. (BRAT diet! Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, and Toast). I remember watching a lot of television, including reruns of "That Girl," and I saw the first weeks of "All My Children" ever broadcast. 

I don't know why I was kept home so long. I do remember being content to lie down all day long, which probably means I was sick. I know the fever lingered. But I honestly don't know what was going on, except my mom was worried about me. 

I think she was a little scared. Here's how I know this: As Ash Wednesday drew near, I complained to my mom about the fact that I couldn't got to church and receive ashes. (I asked. She refused. I cried. I was that kid.) She didn't say much about it, but when Ash Wednesday came, she went out for a little while. She returned home with a small envelope that had some ashes in it, and she placed them on my forehead.

I was thrilled. I remember thinking how wonderful this was, and how cared-for I felt. I know I slept afterward. 

When my mom took me to the doctor to get the all-clear for me to go back to school, she surprised me by having him pierce my ears, which I had been begging for since I was about six. 

As for the fear, the psalm says it all, I guess. The Lord is my light and my salvation. Of whom shall I be afraid? 

Lent Day 6: Calling Upon God

I call upon you, for you will answer me, O God
   incline your ear to me; hear my words.
Wondrously show your steadfast love,
  O savior of those who seek refuge
  from their adversaries at your right hand.
Guard me as the apple of your eye;
   hide me in the shadow of your wings.
~Psalm 17:6-8

When have you called out to God for help? Were you suffering? Frightened? Angry? Confused? Feeling under attack? Feeling lost? Feeling as if your world was falling apart?

We have all felt some or all of the emotions above, so it's a good thing there's a Book of Psalms right in the middle of our Bibles. John Calvin described the psalms as "a complete anatomy of the human soul," and said we can find every single human emotion in there. 

Psalm 17, a Psalm of David, was written when the psalmist was, indeed, feeling under attack, or maybe was, literally so--it has the feel of a battle psalm. It's called a "Psalm for Deliverance from Persecutors," so it sounds more like a political battle than a military one. But it could also be a "battle" about reputation, rather than position. 

Whatever its need, whatever its purpose, there are phrases here that apply to almost any situation in which we are crying out to God, "HELP!" (Ann Lamott has a wonderful little book about what she calls the three essential prayers: HELP, THANKS, and WOW! HIghly recommend.)

First, that hope against hope that God will actually hear us, that we are not crying into the void. I call because you will answer me, the psalmist sings, not without reason, because, apparently, they know what it feels like when God does indeed answer.

The plea for an experience of God's wondrously steadfast love, which means--the psalmist has felt that, known that before. A memory of grace. A recollection of blessing. An instance when God's presence felt so amazingly near, we could hardly breathe for the joy of it, and all the world felt like love.

The name given to God: "O Savior of those who take refuge from their adversaries." The psalmist is so confident of this, they use this saving action of God's as a name to describe who God is, essentially. God is savior. God gives us refuge.

And then, the delightful request: Guard me as the apple of your eye. I grew up hearing the phrase, "the apple of my eye," and knowing it meant being truly cherished. I suppose I heard it from my parents, and, like an apple could be, it sounded sweet and delicious. But I didn't honestly know what it was until I was much older. The apple of your eye is your pupil. Of course we have a strong instinct to protect it--imagine when something is hurtling toward your face, even something like an autumn leaf in a gust of wind. But the phrase means: someone you love, dearly, and would protect at all costs. 

We are the apple of God's eye. Scripture tells us that God is love, and there are reminders of that love scattered throughout its books and prophecies and letters. When we are ready to call HELP! it is good to remind ourselves, as the psalmist does here, of God's wondrously steadfast love for us. It is good to ground ourselves in that love, no matter what challenge or loss or attack we are facing. God is love. We are the apple of God's eye.

Lent Day 9: Uncertainty

I just had some blood drawn for my triennial (ahem) physical. Everything's gonna be fine, fine, fine.

Probably.

There's a forecast today for snow tomorrow. Six to ten inches, and 40 mph wind gusts! 

Of course, I remember when a "6" to 10" inches" forecast turned into 26"--or was it 42"? No one's really got it figured out just yet.

The past two years (almost to the day, now) have been a lesson in living with uncertainty, and it turns out it is hard. I remember when our congregation went into lockdown the week of March 15, 2020, assuming we would be back in church by Easter. While we worshiped together last Easter (2021) in our congregation's cemetery, Easter 2022 will be our first celebration of the resurrection in our sanctuary since Sunday April 21, 2019. 

The early months of lockdown were probably easier for me than they were for many others. I was fully engaged in learning how to create worship for a new medium (for me), for the online viewer. I was also engaged in figuring out how to Zoom and use MS Teams, not to mention learning how to successfully record at home and then send those recordings to our Media Manager. (Pro tip: what Apple calls a "vintage" laptop is probably not going to do the job.)

I did well during a period of uncertainty because I had specific, engrossing tasks geared towards an important outcome: keeping a congregation connected and spiritually fed during a time when it was not safe to gather in groups. 

Not everyone had that experience. I have witnessed the struggles of families in which a parent suddenly became their child/ children's teacher, with or without a teacher on Zoom, and I have heard stories about how excruciatingly hard that was, or how dispiriting, or even how impossible. I have seen young adults thrown into an unstructured, anxiety-filled time that was detrimental to their mental and physical health, and other young adults trying to do essential jobs, for inadequate pay, at great personal risk. I have witnessed some retirement-aged adults become withdrawn and isolated as the pandemic dragged on, and ebbed and flowed with seasons of severely heightened danger alternating with moments--but only moments-- of, "Oh hey, it's over! Back to normal."

Everything's gonna be fine, fine, fine.

At times of uncertainty, people of faith have some resources at our disposal. For one thing, we have a great prayerbook right in the middle of the Bible: the Book of Psalms. I will repeat here my very favorite quote of John Calvin:  

I have been accustomed to call this book, I think not inappropriately, “An Anatomy of all the Parts of the Soul;” for there is not an emotion of which any one can be conscious that is not here represented as in a mirror. Or rather, the Holy Spirit has here drawn to the life all the griefs, sorrows, fears, doubts, hopes, cares, perplexities, in short, all the distracting emotions with which the minds of [human beings] are wont to be agitated. 

Having an emotion? There's a psalm for that. The psalm appointed for this Sunday is particularly wonderful.

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
of whom shall I be afraid?  ~Psalm 27:1

Uncertainty is so often about fear or anxiety. The chief difference between these two for me: Fear is about something specific. Anxiety is undifferentiated and global, because the "danger" feels so unknowable. Pandemic time has seen an enormous increase in anxiety-- in late 2020 people reported anxiety to their health care providers at a rate 62% higher than the previous year. 

The psalms can meet us in our state of anxiety, and, without giving us empty assurances about the specifics ("everything's gonna be fine, fine fine"), can nevertheless give us a sense of a firmer ground beneath us. "I believe," the psalmist sings, "I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living." The "goodness of the Lord" is on plain view for us if we take care to look for it. I think of the people volunteering at food pantries. I think of the health care providers who never signed up for such a time of testing, but who nevertheless persist. I think of the people of God who are brokenhearted over a war nearly five thousand miles away. I think of the people who shovel for their older neighbors, and I think of the people who offer the shovelers hot cocoa or coffee.

I don't think everything is "fine, fine, fine." But I believe we can see the goodness of God, and that gives us a counterbalance for otherwise uncertain times. 

Today, for me, that is enough.

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.

Lent Day 25: Psalms of Lament

The nuns, singing psalms.

I've been telling whoever will listen that I think "Call the Midwife" is one of the loveliest depictions of Christian faith I've seen on TV or in movies. Now, granted, that's probably connected to my childhood romance with the idea of becoming a nun-- a Poor Clare, inspired to do so after reading a memoir by a member of that order. But it's also because the faith of the nuns-- and some of the lay midwives--is what motivates them to help the poor women of London; it's what informs their startlingly progressive feminist advocacy. for women and their children. And, often, an episode includes a scene of their singing psalms in the chapel that just about brings me to tears.

I'm singing the psalms myself these days, first thing in the morning. I've been using the new Presbyterian Book of Common Worship Daily Prayer book during Lent. It includes (as did the old one) eight different "psalm tones" for chanting (as well as helpful markings on the psalms themselves). These are simple to learn, and each is to be used with a particular kind of psalm:

1. [That Word We Don't Say In Lent]
2. Praise
3. Lordship
4. Salvation History
5. God's Law
6. Trust
7. Penitential
8. Lament

Every psalm is marked with suggested psalm tones (though you could actually use any tones with any psalm). But the psalms are, of course, paired with the tones that reflect the psalm content.

The psalm this morning was Psalm 126, and I turned to it and found it was marked "Tone 8." Lament.

That's not right, I thought. This is a psalm of praise, or maybe salvation history.

When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion,
    we were like those who dream.
Then our mouth was filled with laughter,
    and our tongue with shouts of joy;
then it was said among the nations,
    “The Lord has done great things for them.”
The Lord has done great things for us,
    and we rejoiced.
                                      ~ Psalm 126:1-3

Clearly, this is s psalm remembering a moment in the history of God's people that gives evidence of God's goodness.

"The Lord has done great things for us, and we rejoiced!"

But I sung the psalm using Tone 8 anyway, just to see what happened.

What happened, was the rest of the psalm:

Restore our fortunes, O Lord,
    like the watercourses in the Negeb.
May those who sow in tears
    reap with shouts of joy.
Those who go out weeping,
    bearing the seed for sowing,
shall come home with shouts of joy,
    carrying their sheaves.
                                       ~ Psalm 126:4-6

A psalm I've read, and of which I've sung numerous other settings (including, of course, "Bringing in the Sheaves"!), turns out to be a cleverly concealed appeal to God for rescue. It's a psalm of lament, only, instead of the lament beginning and the praise ending, the praise is offered up front.

And then we sing, "Restore our fortunes, O Lord," and we sing it in a minor key.

We are sowing our fields with tears, O God... might we reap with shouts of joy?

We are weeping-- weeping, when we go about our tasks, our washing, our cooking, our planting...

But we trust-- even now, we trust-- that we will return in joy.

Lent Day 14-15: Done

I couldn't do it yesterday. I kept thinking, "Later!" And then, I finished my newsletter articles at 10:45 pm, after a wonderful and challenging meeting that was all about our congregation's financial health... and I was done.

Done!

Not even the energy for an episode of my new TV crush, "This Is Us." (I know. I'm three years behind. This is how I do TV. I never catch up.)

... Let alone the energy to bring myself into the presence of scripture with the intention of writing something intelligible (or even... ok).

But it's ok. It really is.

... for you, God, have been my help,
    and in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy.
My soul clings to you;
    your right hand holds me fast.   ~ 63:7-8

In those moments when we are done, we can be done. In those moments when the tank is utterly empty, and is running on what is only the wistful memory of fumes, God our Helper steps in...

[Side note: I know I want this to be more spiritual reflection than bible study, but.... I yam what I yam, as Popeye said... The word for "help," or "helper" in Hebrew is ezer. This is the same word that is used in the second Genesis creation story, the one in which God seeks to make a "helper" for the lonely human. That helper is the woman, and then, for the first time, woman and man are differentiated. But the word "helper" is used in scripture, almost exclusively, for God. God is our first, and, of course, greatest, helper. Womankind, behold the royal nature of what it means to be a "helper." It is a God-infused and noble role. There is no sound biblical argument that it implies otherwise.]

I can find it so hard to rest in the care of my Helper. I don't believe I am alone in that. Last night I hung on, on the computer, because my newsletter stuff was already 6 (gulp!) days late, and that's just wrong. And in a fit of-- well, of knowing that next week looks much the same, I got a start on the Wednesday midweek bulletin.

You know how it goes. We get into a mindset that it all depends on us. (I mean, some stuff does. I'm the only one who can write my newsletter article.)

When does that start? When do we get the message that we are responsible for All of It, and buy into it? Even as a pastor of a church, that is a false understanding of what it means to serve in my role. There are always other companions in this work, and I'm at my healthiest when I realize it.

A couple of years ago I caught "Big Little Lies," the HBO series based on the great Liane Moriarty novel. There's a high-powered, but somewhat frustrated-with-her-life character, Madeline Martha McKenzie, and she has a daughter, a 6 or 7-year-old named Chloe. Chloe is obsessed with music-- all kinds, she's a musical omnivore-- and she's also obsessed with finding the right music for every situation. In particular, she seems to be responsible-- she seems to have assumed responsibility-- for curating her mother's moods.

Darby Camp as Chloe McKenzie in "Big Little Lies." 

I recognized myself in Chloe. I was that daughter to my mother. It's a role that inevitably leads to stress, and then a fissure, and then a rupture, if the child is going to develop in healthy way. At some point, she will need to put her own emotional needs before her mother's.

I was responsible, at a fairly young age, for All of It.

No longer.

I am responsible for myself, and to be God's person in a world where God's love is badly needed. I am responsible in particular and intense ways to my beloveds, from my partner and children to my friends and congregants. But I am also responsible for letting God hold it all with me. I am responsible for remembering that I am not God, and for living and acting accordingly.

This means, for one thing, taking Sabbath.

Which, as it happens, I am about to do, right now.

I am responsible for remembering that God is my helper-- the most powerful, the most loving, the most understanding, the most tender knower of my faults and sins-- and for letting God in.

God's powerful right hand holds me, holds me fast.

Even.... especially.... when I am done.

Lent Day 10: Broken-Hearted and Praying into the Past

Like you, I am reeling... again... at the devastating violence in what has been known as a haven for peace-seekers, Christchurch, New Zealand. I am grieving, along with the whole world, that a white supremacist entered not one but two mosques and slaughtered people at prayer. The latest death toll I have seen is 49 souls--who, I am sure, were terrified as they were killed; but also, who, I am equally sure, are now at home with God.

That they are at home in God's infinite love and mercy does not make it all better. Not for us, here. We are left to rage, grieve, wonder, despair, hope... whatever trajectory our hearts have been flung into, they will follow.

This morning, once more, I read Psalm 27, and I read it wondering at its tenderness, at its steadfast hope in the face of real fear-- fear for the psalmist's life. And this verse pierced me:

For on the day of trouble the LORD shall shelter me in safety; 
the LORD shall hide me in the secrecy of the holy place
and set me high upon a rock. ~Psalm 27:5

But for those worshipers, that did not happen. Or maybe, it is my misunderstanding of what constitutes "safety." Maybe to die in the midst of prayer is what a devout Muslim-- or Christian, or Jew-- might hope for most fervently. I don't know.

I was in seminary in New York City on 9-11. Among my classmates, many knew or had connections to individuals who perished that day. There was much grieving, great lamentation-- as a seminary community, as a city, as a nation. There were many who sprang to action, going to Ground Zero to offer water, to staff sanctuary spaces nearby so that first responders would have a place to rest when they could tear themselves away from their task.

To the best of my recollection, classes resumed the following Monday. The first class I attended was taught by Ann Ulanov, a class in Pastoral Counseling. Professor Ulanov is a student of Carl Jung, and brings a perspective steeped in archetypes and symbols as well as science.

We did not dive into our curriculum. The professor talked quietly with us, asking us if we wanted to check in, share anything in particular, after the dreadful events of the previous week. One thing she talked about has stayed with me, and, from time to time, has given me comfort.

Professor Ulanov reminded us that God is a God beyond our understanding and imagining, and that all things, all places, all times, all people, distant past, unknowable future, all of it, are present to God simultaneously. So, we can pray into the past, since the past is ever present with God. Since we can do that, we can pray that God's love surround those who suffered and died, and trust that God hears those prayers and acts on them.

Through the years I've wrestled with this idea. Like most humans, I have a pretty linear notion of time. But I agree with my professor's description of the all-knowingness of God, and so I believe that her words on prayer make sense.

I offer it to you today, as we, as a global community, continue to take in the horrors of the week, and try to hold them together with whatever systems of faith we happen to take part in.

I believe that we have a God to whom we can pray, and that
we can pray into the past. In this way, I can find hope that verse 5 might be or become true for the people of the Al Noor and Linwood mosques. I pray that God has, indeed, sheltered his beloveds in safety, and now, has set them high upon the rock in which they might enjoy God's presence forever.

Lent Day 9: One Thing

Another of the songs based on Psalm 27 I've taken into my heart is "This Alone," by Tim Manion (of St. Louis Jesuits fame). Please, if you don't know the piece, listen to it here.

The refrain is based on verse 4 of the psalm:

One thing I asked of the Lord,
    that will I seek after:
to live in the house of the Lord
    all the days of my life,
to behold the beauty of the Lord,
    and to inquire in [God's] temple.  ~Psalm 27:4

I learned this song as a member of the choir at Saint Ignatius of Loyola Church, on the Boston College campus. As I listen to this recording, one particular line jumps out at me, as if the writer were not only setting the psalm, but also placing it in dialogue with his own life:

"For one day within your temple
    heals every day alone."

I know this song called to me. I usually tell the story of my call to ordained ministry by talking about a particular day in the fall of 1988, an experience that was enhanced (probably, enabled) by an Amy Grant song. If I listen to these lyrics, though, I realize I had many "little calls" along the way. In high school I went on a retreat and felt a shock of recognition that there was a way of living I hadn't fully considered, or even understood yet. In college I was invited on the freshman retreat and found more of that alluring promise of abundant life. I set out to take a graduate degree in pursuit of one profession, but the degree itself-- an MA in Pastoral Ministry-- strongly suggested something else entirely.

While I was in that program I was invited to help lead a retreat for undergraduates. I wrote a paraphrase of Psalm 84 for the retreat. For the verse (10b) that reads,

I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
    than live in the tents of wickedness...

I wrote,

O let me in;
I would polish the doorknobs.

There was always a longing, insistent, and the container that seemed to hold it was my faith or church or retreat experiences.

I always felt the pang of those words, including Manion's addition one day within God's holy place "heals every day alone." There I was, a person with some friends, loving family, married to my college sweetheart, but I still resonated with an aloneness that came from fearing separation from God, alienation from God's holy places.

Augustine of Hippo wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O God, and our hearts are restless, until they can find rest in you.” I believe that is the exact loneliness described in the song:  the soul's restlessness until it finds rest in God. I don't believe being a pastor means that a person has necessarily found that particular rest; heaven knows my days are not fully taken up basking blissfully in God's presence. And no matter your occupation, it's possible (sometimes, even easy) to allow the busy-ness to crowd out that rest. (When did you last take a day off?)

That one thing... abundant life in the presence of God... if it's missing, might just be the thing that underlies all our unease, our sense that things are not quite right. The strange thing is: the more we connect with that longing, the more acute it becomes, even if we do find ourselves basking in the joy of God's presence from time to time. The very first question of the Westminster Catechism (in its non-inclusive language) suggests it is the supreme goal for each human life:

Q. What is the chief end of man?
A. Man's chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.

It's the one thing. I am-- we are-- lonely for God. God welcomes our loneliness, and uses it to draw us closer.

Lent Day 8: Off On the Wrong Foot: A Reboot

I'm looking back on these early days of Lent, and feeling I've gotten off on the wrong foot with this Lenten reading-writing discipline.  I've slipped easily into something that tends to be my default mode with scripture: I'm analyzing, I'm explaining, I'm getting technical, I'm contextualizing. And... it seems to me, that's not what my intention was with this writing. My intention was to use it to spiritual purpose. Don't get me wrong: I think that analysis of scripture can have a spiritual component, but I'm not feeling it here.

So, today, what I'm doing is asking for a reboot. As if it were day 1. From now on, instead of trying to do something like an exegesis paper, I'm going to look for a word or a phrase in which I find God, and I'm going to try to talk about that.

This morning I read three passages, including Psalm 27; the psalm was, by far, the passage that stayed with me most powerfully. (You can find it here.)

Psalms are songs, and I've sung at least four different song-settings of this psalm over the course of my life of faith. The one that has found a home in my heart is the one by David Haas, "The Lord is my Light." You can listen to it here.

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
    whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
    of whom shall I be afraid? ~Psalm 27:1

Even now, as I sit here, gazing at these words and listening to the beautiful music, I'm drawn to this idea: "Of whom should I be afraid?" There are so many things to be afraid of in this world. By virtue of my race, class, wealth, education, I am protected from so many of them. That is not true for the vast majority of people in this country or in this world. Last week I watched a viral video of an Arkansas State Senator pushing back against proposed "Stand Your Ground" legislation  Sen. Stephanie Flowers spoke, angrily, with anguish, about her fear for her son's life. She is African American.

I don't face the same fears Sen. Flowers does, but I share her anguish for her son, and for all men of color. My fears are the fears of someone who, essentially, lives in security. I fear loss of love. I fear loneliness. These fears can be explained by psychological factors, by life experience, and, when I'm most centered, most present to myself and God, I can recognize them as just so much wheel-spinning, and let them go. At one time, I feared the loss of my livelihood and calling as a pastor, because I was planning to come out to my congregation. But even that fear was fleeting... my experience turned out to be one of love and grace.

Lent, this time in which Christians pay special attention to their walk with Jesus, this time when we seek a deeper spiritual connection with one another and with God, seems like a good time to confront our fears, and perhaps put them in conversation with this psalm/ song. We all have some fears, some times, whether there are psychological explanations or perfectly reasonable factors leading to those fears. I don't believe in a religious version of "Don't worry, be happy." I do believe that God's presence with us can help to put our fears to rest. I also believe that presence becomes more and more tangible, the more we open our hearts to God in prayer.

That's where the psalms come in. Thousands of years old, prayed by, easily, millions and millions of people over the millennia, they are God-soaked and bring us, I believe, into the presence of what scripture calls "that great cloud of witnesses." The more we allow these prayer-songs of ancient peoples to be part of the landscape of our hearts, the more our fears recede, or, at least, become "right-sized." The more steadily we pray the psalms, the more we can say (or sing), with the psalmist, "Of whom/ what should I be afraid?"

Lent Day 5: The Fierce Protection of a Motherly God

Scripture, Psalm 17, can be found here...

I'll begin with my favorite quote from John Calvin-- in fact, probably the only thing I can even reasonably paraphrase from his prodigious body of work. But I don't have to paraphrase it here; I can quote directly. About the book of Psalms, he wrote:

I have been accustomed to call this book, I think not inappropriately, “An Anatomy of all the Parts of the Soul;” for there is not an emotion of which any one can be conscious that is not here represented as in a mirror.*

The more I allow the psalms to soak into my heart, my psyche, the more I agree with Calvin.

Psalm 17 is an exquisite expression of fear combined with, and finally conquered by, trust. The NRSV titles it "A Prayer for Deliverance from Persecutors," and as the psalm unfolds, we take in images of pursuit, tracking down, surrounding. These are combined with descriptions of assaults on character, lies spread by pitiless hearts and arrogant speech.

It isn't just iron age kings who have to go through these things. I have friends...

One image from this psalm calls to me, and it's an image I first learned, not by hearing or reading scripture, but from my mother's mouth.

"You are the apple of my eye," she said.

As a child I understood this to mean something like, "You are sweet," or "You are sweet to look at." I knew it was said in love and tenderness. But it was a confusing thing to hear; it didn't really make sense (especially to a kid who probably hadn't yet taken to apples).

Here, we read it in the context of pursuit, and paired with another (illuminating) image:

Guard me as the apple of your eye; 
hide me in the shadow of your wings. ~ Ps. 17:8 

The Hebrew of the first part of the verse reads, literally, "Keep/ guard me as the apple/pupil, daughter of the eye."

In his commentary (17:7-9), Calvin notes that the eye is the tenderest part of the body. To guard someone in this way, then, is to protect them as you would protect your own most vulnerable parts.
And, it's fascinating to me (since I first heard this phrase as a mother's expression of love) that "daughter" is used here, hidden in the Hebrew-- does that mean the daughter is one's greatest vulnerability, and therefore most fervently to be protected? The image is paired with an explicitly motherly image--the mother bird's instinctive use of her wings to cover, hide, and protect her young.

For me, this psalm of David, most likely associated with one of the many battles in which he found himself, before and after becoming king, also speaks of mothers and daughters, and, in the best cases, the deep trust the daughter has that her mother will protect her in every possible way.

Because it is a psalm, it is a promise, even to those of us whose parents failed to live up to our needs or hopes, that God is steadfast and present, loving and protecting.

The love of God will not disappoint us.


*John Calvin, "The Author's Preface," Commentary on the Psalms, Vol. 1.