Lent Day 10: One Thing I Ask

Grapevine window, Union Presbyterian Church, Endicott, NY, ca. 1907

One thing I ask of the LORD; 
   this I seek:
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 his temple.
~Psalm 27:4

From the first time I heard this psalm (sung, as I mentioned yesterday), this was the portion that grabbed my heart and gave it a squeeze. I don't know whether that was before or after I experienced my very memorable call to ordained ministry (it involved an Amy Grant song, a drive on Route 128 outside Boston, and an interview with the first Protestant woman minister I would ever meet). I believe that, for most of my life, I've felt this call, but there were many roadblocks. The chief of these was that it seemed to be a call outside the church I loved, in which I was nurtured, where I learned my faith, and where, for years, I served.  Fourteen years passed between that call and the day of my ordination.

So, what is the psalmist referring to? Specifically? They are singing of the temple in Jerusalem-- the first temple, which scripture and tradition tell us was built by Solomon, the son who succeeded David on the throne. David had wanted to build the temple, but God had sent David an urgent message via the prophet Nathan: this was not David's work to do. It would go to his successor. 

The temple was considered the literal home of God on earth. The holy of holies--the space which contained the Ark of the Covenant--resided in the temple. The presence of the Covenant was connected with  the presence of God in the wilderness sojourn when Moses conferred with God on a regular basis. Now, it was in the most sacred space--accessible to humans only one day each year, when the high priest would enter to make offerings on behalf of all the people, for the forgiveness of their sins.

To be in the temple was to be near God. Elsewhere, the psalmist sings, 

For a day in your courts is better
   than a thousand elsewhere.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
   than live in the tents of wickedness.
~Psalm 84:10

All God's covenant people were called upon to travel to the temple as frequently as possible, to make offerings and to experience the great festivals there, the greatest of which was Passover. To this day the traditional ending of the Passover seder is, "Next year, in Jerusalem,"in every home where it is celebrated. Love of the temple wasn't reserved for the anointed priests; all God's people loved the temple. All God's people desired to be near God.

It's hard for those of us in mainline Christianity to relate to this deep love of a single place of worship. Muslims understand it, they who are called to Mecca each year. Latter Day Saints have a greater understanding of it, as they have a their most beloved temple in Salt Lake City, Utah. Roman Catholics probably have a closer understanding, with Vatican City as the home to the Pope, their great spiritual leader. 

We love our churches, but we don't consider any of them the sole locus of God on earth (nor do Muslims or the LDS or Catholics).  We do, however, understand that when we gather, the body of Christ is present, because we are that body. In our churches we can and do experience the presence of God. We experience it in one another. 

But God has been set loose on the earth. God is everywhere, and we can also experience God's presence in a blazing sunset, in the deep darkness of a forest, on the summit of a mountain, or gazing upon the first crocuses in our garden or savoring our first cup of tea or coffee. We can experience the presence of God in soul-stirring music, in the hand of someone offering us comfort, in the bonds of love with other human beings. God is everywhere--thank God! 

God is Love.

 

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 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?"