Poetry in motion -- Psalm 22

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest."

In all its pain, in all its despair, Psalm 22 is breathtakingly beautiful. It strikes a chord when tears well up in the throat, threatening to choke else they are released. When the weariness that you feel is all but paralysing. When your best intentions and fondest hopes fail, fall flat, come short.

"I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; my mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death."

Empty.

Spent.

Broken.

Dissolved.

Parched.

Forsaken.

Verse 21b swoops in and gives me a bad case of whiplash.

The Psalmist celebrates having been heard, after such a trying time. And the remainder of the psalm is a call to praise and reverence.

But...

For every time God answers our prayers with great dramatic flair, there are surely ten times the response is understated, sometimes barely perceptible, if perceptible at all.

I wonder... is there a psalm that sits with that tension?

Lord knows many of us could come up with one.

Almost, but not quite... Genesis 17

My bible is to my left, perched precariously atop several other books. I've been wrestling with this blog post for well over an hour now. I'm starting to get frustrated. I have a meeting in a little over an hour, I'm ready for dinner, and I have lots to do once I finally get home. But this is, more or less, beside the point. I glanced at the text and happened to misread one piece of one verse. The text reads: "I am God Almighty; walk before me and be blameless. And I will make my covenant between me and you, and will make you exceedingly numerous." What I read -- "walk with me..." I had an image of a Very Important Person squeezing in some face time as she hurried from one engagement to another, perhaps trying to seal the deal. Indeed, in a manner of speaking, that is exactly what God is doing with Abram-soon-to-be-Abraham. God outlines what he intends for Abraham, and stipulates what he is asking in return. True, "walk before me and be blameless" lends a different flavor. It requires worship and devotion, a measure of loyalty. Almost, but not quite.

A life giving proposition -- Mark 8: 31-38 and Mark 9:2-9

The pastor yesterday began his sermon with a joke. And I laughed, maybe a little louder than is appropriate. Oh well. The joke, roughly paraphrased: A chicken and a pig are walking down the street. They come upon a diner with a sign in the window -- "Eggs and Bacon -- $2.50" The chicken remarks to the pig, "You know, that's really a great deal!" The pig answers, "Speak for yourself... for you it's $2.50, for me it's a life giving proposition!"

This joke seems to work with this passage in Mark, as well. Jesus is talking about some fairly uncomfortable notions -- namely, his own impending death, which is to follow humiliating suffering. But he doesn't stop there. He mentions that after three days, he will rise from the dead. This makes Peter more than a little nervous, and he lets Jesus know. And Jesus lets Peter know. Boy, does Jesus let Peter know: "Get behind me, Satan!" He chastises him bitterly for being too caught up in this world, when he really needs to be setting his sights beyond.

And then, Jesus really puts it all out there: "If any want to becomes my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it." Jesus wants us to be all in. Go big or go home. It's truly a life giving proposition.

"With you I am well pleased" -- Mark 1:9-15

I love the story of Jesus' baptism. The heavens opening up, torn apart... the Spirit descending as a dove... peaceful but powerful, so powerful.

"You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

To hear those words... to know that you are loved. To know that someone is proud of you, proud of who you are, and who you are becoming.

And then... to be cast out into the wilderness by the same Spirit. Forty days.

What happened to "beloved?" What happened to "well pleased?"

"It might be hope" -- 1 Peter 3:8-22

1 Peter was written to a group of new converts to Christianity in the geographical region of Asia Minor. These folks would likely not be having an easy time of things. Christianity would have been very suspect at the time, a threatening and unwelcome intrusion. The author encourages his charges to "have unity of spirit, sympathy, love for one another, a tender heart, and a humble mind." Now, I find myself thinking about all of the churches I have been a part of through the years. And I find my self smiling, maybe even laughing. These tend to be high aspirations for us! So many of us are not altogether convinced of the unity of our individual spirit, let alone in concert with anyone else. Sympathy, love, tenderness... it sounds simple. But it's anything but. And a humble mind... Granted, my time is spent on a college campus so my perception might be skewed just a bit. It's hard to be humble when you are trying so very hard to be confident, competent. There is a constant tension between not wanting to admit to all you still need to learn, and demonstrating that you are in fact adept at navigating those waters you have already waded into.

We fast forward a few verses and we see, "Now who will harm you if you are eager to do what is good?" If we are honest with our selves, I tend to think the answer to that question is, "Plenty of people!" Doing the right thing can be perceived as threatening by those who are so much more accustomed to doing what ever they feel like doing. Ultimately, the author gets this, and suggests that suffering because you have done the right thing is actually a blessing. This is probably one of those things that people often trip over, that tends to get stuck in one's craw.

"Always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you an accounting for the hope that is in you." Given that this letter was intended for new converts, that hope would likely have been bubbling close to the surface. But perhaps for some of us today that might not be the case. Sometimes it slips away. Sometimes we forget. If we are fortunate, though, we will remember.

If I can figure out how to do it... I would very much like to share a beautiful song by Sara Groves. I found a video on Youtube... we'll see how this goes...

Remembering Rainbows -- Genesis 9:1-17

I was in 5th grade when the Children's Choir at Warren FUMC put on a production of the musical "100% Chance of Rain." Three guesses what it was about... the first two don't count. One of the props was a giant rainbow made, I believe, out of styrofoam. After the performance, the rainbow was stored for a time in the hallway between the choir room and the dining room, propped up behind racks of tables. It was a bit out of place, but a wonderful prompt for warm memories of all the fun we had doing that show. Truth be told, I can probably still remember many of the words to many of the songs... "Now the Lord was unhappy with the people of the earth, they were not what they ought to be and not what they're worth, they were mad and ugly and mean as they could be and the Lord had to clean things up as you will see..."

The rainbow is to be a mark of God's covenant with Noah, and with all of us. Never again will the world be swallowed in an all-consuming flood. It's a reminder... for us, and maybe even for God. "When I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the clouds, I will remember my covenant that is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh." God must have known that we would continue to disappoint, to frustrate, to drive to distraction. Just like my friend who has a picture of her little boy on her desk at work (okay, chances are I have several friends with pictures of their sons on their desks... this particular friend talks about how that picture serves as a reminder of the importance of her job, when she might perhaps otherwise be persuaded to say something she might regret). It is good to be reminded of the promises we have made. Particularly promises meant to be kept. Are there any other kinds, really?

That tune you can't get out of your head -- Psalm 25

The Asbury Class at FUMC in Girard OH is a phenomenal Sunday School class. It is the class that my mom attends, and I always enjoy going with her whenever I am in town. They begin each class with singing... they've even compiled their own song book! I love how they make requests by the number, and others seem to know what has been requested before even flipping to the page. Just like we used to do in Second Grade, when Mrs. Bishoff would read to us from "Where the Sidewalk Ends." (My favorites? 58, 160 and 27 in case you were wondering.) Anyway... Would that I could remember the number of the particular song that is on my mind at the moment. Suffice it to say that it is based upon Psalm 25, with minor liberties taken for purposes of phrasing: "Unto thee O Lord do I lift up my soul. Unto thee O Lord do I lift up my soul. O my God I trust in thee, I trust in thee. Let me not be ashamed, let not my enemies triumph over me." The only way I can really convey the tune is to say that it is joyful, almost infectious, and one could almost succomb to the urge to add a "cha cha cha" to the end.

Of course, as I encountered Psalm 25 today, it was to the tune of that Sunday School staple. But I found myself at odds with the tone of the melody, in contrast to what could just as easily be read as painful pleas, impassioned entreaties, solemn prayers. Maybe the fact Lent us upon us has something to do with that. Or the fact that is seems such a personal psalm, filled with vulnerability and want. It depends upon, and trusts in, God's grace, whether quiet or loud and noisy.

Last night there was a rather unfortunate typo in the bulletin for the Ash Wednesday service. It was in the responsive call to worship -- "Who redeems your life from the grace..." I was puzzled at first, then realized it was probably supposed to be "from the grave." The 'c' is next to the 'v,' after all. Here's the thing, though... grace has always been a huge theological stumbling block for me. I can explain it to someone else. I certainly believe in it. I just have a hard time wrapping my mind around the whole something for nothing, nothing you can do to earn it, or lose it. So, in a way, there have probably been times when redemption from grace might feel appealing, might even make sense.

And in the spirit of asking questions, and leaving others unanswered... that's all she wrote today.

"Some remnant of Hosanna" -- Ash Wednesday

I began this blog well over a month ago. This is my second post. You do the math. I wish I could say I was surprised, but the all too simple truth is that sometimes it is difficult to give even our best intentions their due. That being said, Lent is all about our best intentions. It is about creating a space for all that is possible. It is about paying attention in a different way.

As a piece of my Lenten practice this year, I am going to recommit to this project. (The cursor can be a cruel taskmaster, as it blinks with an unrelenting insistence as I try to decide whether that is the end of the sentence, or if there is more to be said. As I place a period, I ponder placing two more, ellipsis marks to alert the reader of my wandering mind. And I opt for parenthesis instead...)

Today I thought I would share a meditation I wrote a few years ago. Tomorrow, I'll dive in to the scriptures. Which is what I said I was going to do. Over a month ago.

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"Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return." It's all very impersonal, very bleak... even hopeless, really. Especially in the wake of the trying times we all know, we turn to our faith searching for signs of promise, crying out for comfort. And then, Ash Wednesday greets us with the inevitability of our mortality and the certainty of our sin. Again -- bleak, impersonal, hopeless.

Yet, even in the midst of such somber, sober realism, hints of hope, tiny peeks of promise endure. In a poem entitled "Ashes," Ann Weems writes, "... I felt the cool smooth finger of ash upon my forehead, ashes from last year's palms saved for this holy time. I wondered if there might still be some remnant of Hosanna! lingering in the ashes." Indeed, the gentle fingers which trace the sign of the cross upon expectant foreheads today belong to the same hands which will offer bread broken and wine poured on Sunday. The very soot that smudges our forehead whispers of the coming of Easter. The God who firmly reminds us of our finitude today graciously offers us eternity tomorrow.

Frederick Buechner suggests the observation of the forty days of Lent represents a spiritual tithe of sorts. We devote roughly a tenth of our days to embarking upon challenging journeys in the wilderness. We ask ourselves difficult questions. We question easy answers. We wait. Who among us enjoys waiting? Waiting may bring excitement and apprehension, eager anticipation and dull dread. It may be pregnant, full of promising possibility, or it may be stagnant, reeking of discarded opportunity.

A few short months ago, we waited. We prepared our hearts for a journey to Bethlehem. We peeked through the slats in the stable, hoping to catch a glimpse of a newborn baby said to be our savior. And now we wait again.. We prepare our hearts for a sojourn in the woods, a majestic parade on a lowly donkey, a meal shared with dear friends, an all night prayer vigil, and a brutal execution. And then we will wait for three more days...

I once heard Lent described as a liturgical red light -- stopping us in our tracks, forcing us to come to grips with the challenging truths of our faith, to come to grips with the frightening dissonance of who we are, and who we were meant to be. As Buechner concludes, "It can be pretty depressing business all in all, but if sackcloth and ashes are at the start of it, something like Easter may be at the end." Amen.