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 18: The Burning Question, and My Answer

I feel like I've never read Psalm 39 before now.  I know I have, but it feels brand new to me.

It's a little drama unfolding.

I said, ‘I will keep watch over my ways, 
   so that I offend not with my tongue.
‘I will guard my mouth with a muzzle, 
   while the wicked are in my sight.’
So I held my tongue and said nothing; 
   I kept silent but to no avail.   ~Ps. 39:1-3

I'll be good.

I'll be quiet.

I'll watch this damned mouth of mine. (Especially in front of those no good so-and-sos.)

I'll put it in a muzzle, like an unruly animal who can't be trusted not to bite.

But I did, and then look what happened.

My distress increased, my heart grew hot within me; 
   while I mused, the fire was kindled
      and I spoke out with my tongue:
‘Lord, let me know my end and the number of my days, 
   that I may know how short my time is.
‘You have made my days but a handsbreadth,
      and my lifetime is as nothing in your sight; 
   truly, even those who stand upright are but a breath.
‘We walk about like a shadow
      and in vain we are in turmoil; 
   we heap up riches and cannot tell who will gather them.  ~Ps. 39:4-7

I take back what I said-- the part about the "little" drama.

This is actually The Big Drama. The Existential Question. The psalmist can't hold it in any longer.

What is this life?

How long have I got?

Just let me know.

I know my life is not forever, and frankly, it's feeling like it's going to be pretty damned short. A handsbreadth. A little puff of... what? Can you (You) even see it?

Your good people, God-- yes, I'll be bold and say, I'm one-- we are but a breath.

We walk around like shadows, and don't know whether anything we do will amount to anything at all.

Who will benefit from my life? Will anyone?

On this morning on which the grief of those around the world and those in this country feels heavy on my heart, I'm going to speak to the psalmist.

I'm going to speak to anyone who is wondering whether their life matters.

Your life matters.

You are precious.

You may be in pain this morning. I am so sorry. I know there are people in your life who want to help and hold you in your pain.

You may be a victim of violence or a victim of your brain's particular neurological makeup.

I am sorry. I know what you are going through is excruciating.

I implore you to seek help from someone you trust.

I beg you to do the hardest thing you can possibly do: reach out through your pain to another.

Let yourself be held through this. Let yourself be loved through this.

You are precious.

You matter. You are irreplaceable. You are loved.

You are loved, and not just by me.

You are held in a web of love that may be invisible or imperceivable to you.

I believe with all my heart it is there.

You are loved.

If you feel hopeless today, if you are sad you woke up this morning, if you are having thoughts or making plans about self-harm, no matter what time it is, no matter how bad you feel, you can call this number.

Call 1-800-273-8255.

You are precious.

Your life matters.

Lent Day 16: Hiding in Plain Sight

It's amazing, what's right in front of you, all the time, and yet, you don't see it.

Let me re-phrase that:

It's amazing, what's right in front of me, all the time, and yet, I don't see it.

This is particularly true for me in terms of the objects, decor, and general place-ness of things. Some things strike me powerfully; those I notice. Example: I adore the ceiling of Union Presbyterian Church, the church I serve as pastor. It is the perfect "nave," in that it truly looks as if someone had taken an old sailing ship and inverted it for the purposes of creating a sanctuary ceiling. I noticed it the first time I stood in the sanctuary, fresh out of seminary, as the gathered Presbytery heard my statement of faith and examined me for ordination. That was more than 15 years ago. It still gives me joy each and every time I look at it.

But it took me until two years ago to realize that the reredos in the church I serve forms a cross. I had simply never noticed. (To be fair, I sit and stand with my back to it every Sunday, so I haven't had the opportunity.... oh, never mind. I an not particularly visually observant. I am more tuned in to how things feel, and how they make me feel. I can tell you our sanctuary feels to me exactly like what its name implies: a place that is at once holy and safe. Sanctuary.

For the past 16 days I've been reading/ praying the Lenten offerings for Morning Prayer in the Presbyterian Church (USA) Book of Common Worship. And each day I've read the opening sentences of scripture. And this one didn't "strike" me until today... though I've seen it, and, allegedly, read it each day:

Show me your way, O Lord,
that I may follow in your truth.
Teach me to revere your name,
and my whole heart will praise you.    
~Psalm 86:11-12 

(Tr.: Evangelical Lutheran Church in America)

The prayers I'm praying each day are chosen for Lent, a time when Christians are called back, when God asks of us (and Jesus asks of us) to turn back to God. I think the assumption that we've turned away is a reasonable one: That's the nature of the human. While there's a very strong phrase for it, made popular by CalvinISTS, the general gist of it is original sin.

I wasn't always a fan. I really resisted the notion that, because an ancient set of the zillionth great-grandparents of all humanity disobeyed God, that we all inherited the same tendency. (Jews don't read the story that way, by the way.... and scripture supports their interpretation more than it does ours: God is said to visit the sins of the parents on the "third and fourth generation," but the blessings of righteousness on the thousandth generation. See Exodus 20:5-6; Exodus 4:6-7; Deuteronomy 5:9-10; Jeremiah 32:18)

It took one month of becoming a mother to my firstborn to disabuse me of that notion. Not because of my child--he was perfect, in every way. But I was not. My brokenness and selfishness brought me up short, and helped me to reconsider my position, and to understand that there was some wisdom there.

This is the nature of the human.

So, these two verses seem to me the absolutely perfect eye-opener for a Christian, not just in Lent, but every day.

I think we ought to let it, literally, be the thing that opens our eyes, and make it the first thing we see, the first thing we pray, the first thing we read, mark, and inwardly digest for the day ahead.

Show us your way, O God, that we may follow the truth.

Teach us to revere your name, that our whole heart might praise you.

And we will praise you, not only with our heart, but with our lives.

Amen.

Lent Day 13: What to Do During the Night Watches

My soul is satisfied as with a rich feast,
    and my mouth praises you with joyful lips
when I think of you on my bed,
    and meditate on you in the watches of the night... Psalm 63:5-6

In this little excerpt from Psalm 63, the composer is talking about how very satisfied they are-- the very same  one who was longing, thirsting, fainting for God in the first verse--by the mere act of thinking about God while in bed. "meditating on [God] in the night watches."

I love this psalm, but it rarely takes me more than five minutes to fall asleep. And no matter how very hard I try to "meditate on God" in bed, I just can't seem to stay awake long enough to do it.

The psalmist could, though. And there's an interesting anthropological reason for that.

Years ago I read a story in the New York Times Magazine about sleep patterns and how they have changed over the centuries. The big change came when use of electric lighting became commonplace. Prior to that, the vast majority of people the world over slept and rose according to the natural light available. Shorter sleep periods in the summer months, when sunlight is available for more hours each day, and a longer night of sleep in the winter, when the sun makes a much briefer appearance.

Here's the thing. When researchers tried to replicate this-- when they had subjects work and be wakeful according to the daylight hours available, and sleep when the daylight had ended, they found that the natural sleep cycle had people in bed for 10-12 hours per night, but not asleep that entire time. People would naturally sleep for four hours or so, then have a period of middle-of-the-night wakefulness. This lasted between two and four hours, after which the subjects would sleep again until morning.

Researchers learned that people adapted to this pattern in various ways. Some people used the wakeful hours of the night to work through problems that worried them during the day. Some people used the time to catch up on reading. Some people found the time to be an excellent opportunity for intimacy with their romantic partners.

But the vast majority of the subjects--nearly all-- reported higher levels of alertness during the day, better concentration, and greater efficiency in accomplishing tasks at home and at work.

Our psalmist used this time during the "watches of the night" for meditating upon God. This gave them immense satisfaction; they compare it to a rich feast (the Hebrew actually reads, "My soul is satisfied as with marrow and fatness"). The most delicious and most satisfying food is what the psalmist uses to describe the ineffable joy of thinking about God in the middle of the night.

Wishing you a time of good rest, sweet dreams, and the company of the one who keeps watch over you.

Lent Day 12: I Need You

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

I can feel this.

This opening verse to Psalm 63 never fails to connect with me at an emotional, almost physical level.

It's piercing, but in a good way.

I can feel the longing of the psalmist.

I can feel the deficit they feel: the parched soul, the body ready to collapse.

And I can feel that this is not idle seeking: They are clamoring, they are questing. This is not a passing-the-time-with-religion kind of thing.

Today, I feel the need.

I wonder whether you do?

What do you do when you feel this need? Soul-thirsting, flesh-fainting need...

Do you try to shake it off? Fight it off? Tell yourself, you're ok. You can do this. You can summon the power from somewhere?

Or do you admit your need? Do you allow yourself to rest in that space?

Do you allow yourself to say to God, "I need you?"

I think it's hard for some of us to admit, even of God, that we have need.

Try it today. Try to let yourself tell God: I need you.

Try to rest in your own limited humanity, to know that you are enough, and that God is more than willing, more than eager, to make up any deficit.

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.