Twice more in 2021 I had
the privilege of preaching at First Presbyterian Church SLC. These sermons were
each part of a series—the first called “Immerse Beginnings” where we studied from
the first five books of the Bible (known as the Torah or Pentateuch), and the second
from our Advent series looking at different characters in the biblical
Christmas narrative. Both sermon texts are about people at the crossroads. And
both stories point to the near-unbelievable reality that Christ desires to be
in, with, and through us in all things.
Where the Rubber Meets
the Road (Numbers 13:25-14:4) Imagine this: you were
born in the land of Egypt, a slave born of slaves—the most recent generation of
Israelites to serve the mighty pharaohs. As a child, your parents and
grandparents told stories of a different kind of life. They spoke of a God who
once called to their ancestor, Abraham, and promised him that his people would
come into an abundant land that he would give them as a gift. They said that
this promise was repeated over and over to Abraham and to his son, Isaac, and later
to Isaac’s son, Jacob. Then, one day, you hear
of a man named Moses—a fellow Israelite once raised in the Pharoah’s household.
He’s returned to Egypt claiming to hear this God’s voice from a burning bush. He’s
demanding that Pharoah let your people go into the wilderness and worship this
God of your ancestors. Before you know it, this
God demonstrates his power throughout Egypt. There are rivers of blood and
plagues of gnats and frogs. The onslaught hardens Pharaoh’s resolve until one
day, after sacrificing a lamb and spreading its blood across your doorframe,
you wake up to wailing and screaming. The Egyptians hand you gold and beg you
to leave. Moses leads your people out of Egypt, and the power of this God
called Yahweh parts the Red Sea so you can walk through on dry ground. You go to Mt. Sinai, where
Moses found the burning bush, and the sky above splits with lightning. You hear
God’s voice in the stormy clouds. Moses goes up onto the mountain for forty
days and receives instruction for how this new nation—your people—are to live
under the rule of your Savior God. And once again, you are reminded of this Promised
Land, the land that Yahweh will give you. As you walk through the
desert, you wake each morning to sweet wafers on the ground. The priests are consecrated,
offerings are made at the newly-constructed tabernacle, and water comes forth
from a rock. Some of your people rebel and complain along the way, but God continues
to lead you nevertheless. Finally, you come to the border
of the Canaan—the land “flowing with milk and honey” that was promised. You
wait encamped for another forty days as leaders from each of the twelve tribes
of Israel are sent to spy out the land. When they come back, they bring back fruit
larger than you’ve ever seen.They talk
about the land’s abundance and goodness. But ten of them also say, “There are
giants there.We cannot hope to take it.”
Only two of the spies, Caleb and Joshua, are adamant: “We can take the land. Yahweh
is with us.” The cities are fortified.
The people are strong. Your army is outnumbered. But Yahweh has promised to go
ahead of you and give your people this land.What will you do?
Christ in You (Luke 1:26-38) Now, imagine this: you
are a fourteen-year-old Hebrew girl, recently engaged to be married to a
well-respected man in a small Galilean village called Nazareth. You’ve led a
simple life thus far—the kind that’s expected for a child of your age and
culture. You’ve learned the customs of a keeping a home, obeying your elders, and
following the Torah given to the ancient prophet, Moses. You say your daily prayers
to Yahweh, even as the once-great Israelite nation of your people is under
Roman occupation. For the most part, you and yours are left alone. But one night, walking
back toward your home, mind lost in the fear and excitement of this marriage to
come, a bright light fills your eyes. A heavenly being of almost indecipherable
form appears in front of you and speaks with a voice that’s both intimate and
terrifying: “Greetings, favored one. The Lord is with you.” You are paralyzed at this
arrival. You’ve heard of heavenly messengers in age-old stories, but how could
this possibly be happening—here, of all places, and to you, of all people? Your
feet refuse to move, and words catch in your throat. The angel speaks once
more, reading the troubled expression on your face: “Do not be afraid, for your
have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a
son, and you will name him Yeshua—Jesus. He will be great, and will be called
the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his
ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his
kingdom there will be no end.” Most High. David. House
of Jacob. You know these names, but can barely comprehend them now. But the
baby catches your attention. You will conceive, the angel said. But how? You
have never been with Joseph, and won’t be until the marriage is official. That
is the only way this happens. Every girl knows this.Every girl prepares for this. You finally find your
voice: “How can this be?”It comes out
in almost a whisper. The Holy Spirit will make
it so, the angel says.You will carry
the Son of God in your body, and bring him into the world. God desires to
reveal himself, in human form, in you. Gabriel's form stands
gloriously before you.Your hands shake
and you take a deep, bated breath.What will
you do?
It’s been a hell of a
year, right? (Or should I say nearly two now—can you believe it?!) I’m pretty sure that at the start of 2020 none
of us thought to ourselves, “I wonder if we’ll get hit with a global pandemic this
year that’ll stagger the economy, isolate us from our loved ones for months, and
cause us to wear masks everywhere and hoard rolls of toilet paper because they’ll
be sold out at Costco…”
It’s easy in some ways to
look back and make jokes (and we almost have to for our own sanity these days),
but in all seriousness this whole experience has been terribly hard.I know so many folks have lost their jobs and
their homes.I know many of us have
struggled with fear, loneliness, and general fatigue.I’ve literally sat in hospital ICU rooms with
people who had to make decisions about taking their loved ones off of
ventilators due to COVID-related illness and complications—not to mention the other
hundreds of thousands who got sick but made it through. I think this must be
why there’s so many psalms of lament in the Bible.God knows we need to rage and question and cry
sometimes. And yet, we’ve
returned once again to a season of Thanksgiving.What has that been like for you this year? Difficult, I imagine.But perhaps in some ways more meaningful…?It certainly has for me. A year or so ago, a
pastor friend of mine challenged his congregation to make a regular practice of
gratitude.It’s something Scripture
encourages over and over:
“Sing
praises to the Lord, O you his faithful ones, and give thanks to his holy name.”
-Psalm 30:4
“O
give thanks to the Lord, for he is good, for his steadfast love endures
forever.” -Psalm 136:1
“…give
thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for
you.” -1 Thessalonians 5:18
Not to mention, if you do
an online search for “the science of gratitude,” you’ll find that dozens of
institutions have researched how the practice of gratitude contributes
physically and emotionally to the well-being of our lives. So, taking that to heart,
I started making a semi-regular habit of journaling about what I’m grateful
for.As it turns out, there has been
a lot in this past year.In the spirit
of fostering collective gratitude as much as collective grief, I wanted to
share a few that I’ve written down:
For my husband… he is the best human and
companion I could ever ask for (11.9.20)
For the people who are doing the hard work for
racial justice (11.12.20)
For heaters that allow us to do safe family
dinners outside in Jen and Ty’s carport (11.13.20)
For opportunities to preach at MOPC and in Richfield
(11.18.20)
For Matt bringing me coffee in bed (12.8.20)
For getting my first COVID vaccine shot!
(1.6.21)
For warmth and a safe place to live (2.17.21)
For my parents and the ways they love me and my siblings
(2.19.21)
For my CPE group and all the insights and wisdom
that come out of our time together (3.3.21)
That I am learning to accept limits and boundaries,
to have grace, to be vulnerable and genuine, to listen well and not always “fix”
but sit compassionately with pain… even my own (3.31.21)
For hugs from my dad and laughs with Jess all
weekend (4.26.21)
For a walk with the dogs yesterday with Karina
and Sher (5.30.21)
For my amazing job at FPC and all the great
people there (7.23.21)
For the friends we have and the ones we have yet
to make (7.27.21)
For our D&D group and having other adults in
the world who love to just PLAY (8.20.21)
For the peace that comes with trusting God and
knowing that where I am in this moment is exactly where I’m supposed to be
(8.30.21)
That Matt and I have enjoyed 9 wonderful years
of marriage! (9.23.21)
For fall weather and yellow leaves (10.29.21)
For the love of God and all the ways he blesses
my life with gifts—seen and unseen (11.30.21)
There have been many, many
more… and it’s good for my soul to look over them from time to time.It reminds me that even in the stress of the
last twenty-one months, God is still present and giving me many reasons for joy.I hope you’ve found that to be true as well! I’d love to hear what you’re
season of Thanksgiving has been like as well.What are you grateful for this year?
Three months ago, I was
preparing to take a Stated Supply Pastor position in a small town in central
Utah.That is, until a few details
failed to work out and it unexpectedly fell through.I wasn’t sure how to feel about it or what
was going to happen next.It was all a
bit of a shock.I had just finished my
Master of Divinity degree and been certified “eligible to receive a call” by my
ordination committee.It had seemed like
the next right step… until it wasn’t. Then, less than a week
later, I got a voicemail from the Associate Pastor at First Presbyterian Church
in Salt Lake City (a former mentor in my ordination process) asking if I’d like
to come work with her at the church as a Pastoral Associate.Not a called position, only temporary and
part-time, but a chance to do pastoral ministry in a historic church with
incredible pastors and staff and a committed congregation.It was as if God winked at me and said, “Did
you really think I didn’t have a plan?” I’m pretty sure I danced
like a fool in my kitchen that afternoon.
And talk about being
overwhelmed by grace!These last three
months have been amazing… I’ve learned so much
about the ins-and-outs of daily, practical ministry. I’ve met many wonderful
and passionate people. I’ve been able to lead
worship, events, and volunteer trainings. I’ve had meetings with
intelligent, prayerful church members who care deeply about the life and health
of our community. I’ve sat on the floor
with preschoolers drawing and talking about God’s creation, and at tables with
college students processing transitions. I’ve preached several
Sundays. I’ve been offered ridiculous
amounts of affirmation and encouragement. And every time I go into
the sanctuary, I’m struck by how awesome it is to look at our beautiful stained-glass
windows. Regardless of what
happens next, what’s been happening now is a gift. As I love getting to
study and preach, I’ve made a habit of posting my sermons here (for wisdom,
interest, feedback… whatever folks would like to make of them).In the thick of it all I’m three sermons
behind, so rather than post the entire things, here are some teasers and major
thoughts from Amos, Ephesians, and Genesis: True Worship (Amos 5:21-24) Imagine someone showed up
in the middle of your Sunday worship service and said, on behalf of God:
“I despise
what’s happening here.
I take
no pleasure in your religious holidays and celebrations.
I won’t
accept your confessions or your thanksgivings.
Your
liturgy and your sacraments mean nothing to me.
I refuse
to listen to your songs or your prayers.”
What would that be like?How would you respond? We’d likely feel shocked,
and even offended.We might wonder,
“Well, what the heck are we doing here?” or we might tell ourselves this stranger
is clearly of unsound mind and dismiss them outright.But if we could take it at face value, what
would it mean that God hated our worship? This is exactly what the
people of Israel had to wrestle with when the prophet Amos showed up in their
temples (see Amos 5:21-23).He was sent
to warn them that God wasn’t at all pleased with the way they kept up their
religious rituals but were trampling on the poor.The priests and landowners thought they could
get rich, scheme people out of property, and walk all over their neighbor while
still appeasing God… but God wasn’t having it.Instead, he said,
“Let justice roll down like waters, and
righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”(Amos 5:24)
The problem wasn’t that
the Israelites’ rituals were wrong—it’s that they were empty.It was hypocrisy.To worship God and then oppress your
neighbor is to miss the point of worship altogether, because love of God and
love of neighbor go hand-in-hand, as Jesus said (Matthew 22:37-39). True worship, on the
other hand, changes our hearts and compels us to act with justice and mercy
toward our neighbor.To see those who
are marginalized and oppressed.To treat
everyone with dignity as children of God.True worship doesn’t change God for our benefit, it changes us for
God’s benefit—so that we can love Him and love others in the way that he does.
Members of the
Household of God (Ephesians 2:11-22) As Christians read the
Bible today, we recognize that the story within is our story. We claim it because ultimately, it is God’s
story and we have been adopted into his family in Christ. The Apostle Paul points
out, though, that unless we come from a Jewish heritage, this wasn’t always the
case. There was a time when we Gentiles
stood outside the covenant promises of God—outside the family. And this distinction between who was “in” and
who was “out” caused a lot of contention.
Jews and Gentiles treated one another with contempt, disregard, and even
violence. Sound familiar? We humans still love
to draw dividing lines between who is in and who’s out. We see or hear people of different
backgrounds, experiences, political persuasions, or faith traditions and we
treat one another with contempt. We
disparage one another in person, online, and in the media. Accusations are made, wars are fought, and we
continue to be mired in hostility. But then, Paul uses 5
very important words: “But now in Christ Jesus.”
“But
now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the
blood of Christ. For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into
one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.”(Ephesians 2:13-14)
Do you believe it?It sounds too good to be true.Even when we desire to be one family and we
come together in worship, we’re all still broken humans with rough edges… and
when we rub shoulders with one another, it can still hurt. The idea of being one
family without hostility is still as radical today as it did when Paul wrote
this letter.But now in Christ Jesus,
it’s a reality whether we like it or not.There are no individual Christians.We are now “members of the household of God” being joined
together as a holy temple to the Lord (v. 19-22).Jesus is our peace.Welcome to the family.
God’s Rescue Plan
Begun (Genesis 12:1-5 & Galatians 3:6-9) The first five books of
the Bible are called the Torah, the “teaching” or “law” of God.But rather than being just a series of rules
and regulations, the Torah tells the cosmic story of creation and its
aftermath. In Act 1 of the
narrative, God creates the heavens and the earth, populates the land and seas,
forms human beings in his image, and sees that it is good.The first humans live in perfect relationship
with their Creator. Act 2 follows shortly
thereafter with human rebellion and the beginning of sin.Humanity decides not to trust God and instead
wants to decide for themselves what is evil and good, and we quickly see the
harmful and violent consequences of their actions. After sending a global
flood and allowing humans to spread out on the earth once again, God finally institutes
Act 3—his rescue plan for creation—through a man named Abram and his wife,
Sarai.The pivotal point takes place in
Genesis 12 through a call, a promise, and a response. God calls Abram (later
renamed Abraham) to “leave your native country, your relatives, and your
father’s family, and go to the land that I will show you” (v. 1).And while this may have sounded terrifying to
Abram—to leave his home and entire support system—God also yolks himself to
this call with a promise:
“I
will make you into a great nation.I
will bless you and make you famous, and you will be a blessing to others.I will bless those who bless you and curse
those who treat you with contempt.All
the families on earth will be blessed through you.”(vv. 2-3)
In this moment, Abraham
decides to trust God and responds to the call with obedience.He leaves everything he knows, steps out in
faith, and heads in the direction that God showed him. And God does indeed
bless him.While the story is brutally
honest about how broken Abraham’s family continues to be, they nevertheless
grow into nations and kings… and from the line of Abraham finally comes Jesus. Jesus is the
culmination of the Rescue Plan—our ultimate blessing.Through him, all families on earth have been
forgiven their sin and invited back into right relationship with their
Creator. The moral of the story
here is that when God calls, there is always a purpose; and whatever he
promises, he always performs.He
is worthy of our trust—so don’t be afraid to step out in faith with
whatever it is that his Holy Spirit is calling you to today.
During my unit of CPE at
St. Mark’s I spent a lot of time in hospital rooms, but also with my peers and
supervisor in group sessions twice a week.We each processed our experiences of chaplaincy in detail. As it turned out, we ended up talking as much
about our own stories, flaws, and fears as we did the patients.It was enlightening and terrifying.But it taught me another important lesson
when it comes to vulnerable conversations… It’s easy for other
people’s baggage to get caught on your own baggage. I definitely hadn’t
expected this going in.I’d done a fair
share of processing my own emotional and spiritual baggage before this
internship began—learning about my personality, my strengths and weaknesses,
how my childhood experiences with addiction and divorce and being the oldest
child shaped my coping mechanisms and social habits, etc.I thought I had a pretty strong sense of who
I was… enough to “keep myself out” of the conversations with patients and just
focus on them. Big mistake. The truth is: no
matter how hard we try, we bring our whole selves—baggage and all—everywhere we
go, including conversations with other people.As I wrote in “Lesson #1,” everyone
has a story, and our stories shape who we are (in both good and bad ways).When other people’s stories remind us of our
own, it impacts how we feel and how we’re able to respond. One of the most formative—and
informative—exercises we did as part of our CPE group work was called a “verbatim.”Each of us, several times over the course of
the internship, wrote out word-for-word (as best we could recall) a spiritual
care conversation we had with a patient during our clinical hours.We then brought these verbatims to our group
and spent an hour evaluating each one together.The patient remained anonymous, but we noted in the written assignment:
-Some basic demographic information,
-Our first impressions when we walked in the room,
-Our thoughts and feelings throughout the
conversation based on the verbal and nonverbal interactions,
-Our assessment of the individual’s spiritual
care needs, and
-How we thought we “did” as spiritual caregivers
(our strengths and areas of growth).
That final evaluation of
ourselves also included a reflection on how we related to the individual or
their story, which turned out to be a major factor in the quality of the
conversation!For instance, the first
patient I wrote out a verbatim on was a woman that reminded me significantly of
my mother.As I processed the conversation
with my supervisor and group, they helped me see that the ways I interacted
with her—including the topics of conversation I leaned toward or away from—were
heavily influenced by how I relate to my mom.Despite my best intentions in keeping the conversation focused on this woman,
I indirectly channeled my own assumptions and habits based on my own experience,
which (to my later disappointment) kept me from engaging in certain ways that
may have been helpful and healing.To
their credit, my group was incredibly gracious and supportive, but we didn’t
hold back on one another.I went from
feeling like “I did a pretty good job” to “you’ve got to be kidding me—how did
I not see that?”
Since that experience
(and many others like it), I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on the reality
that my history has affected me in the past, but is also still affecting
me now in ways I might otherwise prefer to ignore.No matter how much work we’ve done to grow
through our experiences, they still have an impact on how we relate to the
world—“who we are” in relationship to other people—for better or worse.None of us can truly be an unbiased third
party. And the best response to
that is not to “try harder, stupid.”That goes back to “Lesson #3” about how burying our baggage or
pain is ultimately damaging.You won’t
being able to receive others’ thorny personalities and stories any easier by
pretending your own thorns don’t exist—they’ll just get tangled on one another
regardless.BUT we can learn to
have grace and make space.
When you notice that someone’s
behavior or stories are making you uncomfortable or hitting raw nerves, let that
show you where you still have work to do in addressing your ownbaggage…
and then learn to practice self-compassion. Give yourself permission
to feel whatever’s coming up in those moments.Ask yourself what’s behind it.What
assumptions did I make about that person?Why did that comment make me angry (or sad, or scared, etc.)?Why did I feel like I needed to react in that
way?Who taught me to believe whatever I
just said? Be gentle with whatever
you discover.Then, even if there’s more
to work through, your ability to identify and be compassionate with yourself in
whatever is coming up will make it much easier to receive whatever the other
person is bringing to the table. I realize that could sound
overly simplistic, but it’s not.It’s
hard to be fully aware of yourself when you’re trying to keep your focus on
someone else.But it can and does make a
difference.I’ve still got a long way to
go, but it certainly has for me.
Since the start of
January when my chaplaincy internship at St. Mark’s Hospital began, I’ve been
in a process of reflection about how we as humans relate to one another—and particularly
how we deal with grief and pain. There were
some wonderful “lessons learned” through that experience, and hopefully they’ll
be as helpful for you as they have been for me.
If you’re interested in
Lessons 1-3, please click here, here, and here
(respectively). And without further ado... Lesson #4: Showing up is more
important than knowing what to say. You know the situation that’s
implied here, right? Someone lost a loved one. Someone lost a job. Someone got a bad
diagnosis. Someone got divorced. Someone is suffering with
depression. Someone’s kid just got
incarcerated. Someone’s humiliating
secret just got shared... That kind of situation. I heard about a lot
of these from patients in hospital rooms.
Even if it had nothing to do with why they were there, they needed to
talk about them anyway. And it’s nice
when someone shows up to listen or pray or help process. It’s possible that this
lesson’s phrase may not be new to you, but perhaps the practice of the phrase
still is. Some individuals are loving
comforters by nature (these people are saints—don’t take them for granted), but
many of us struggle when the people around us are in pain. We may feel sad or awkward. We don’t know what that person needs. We don’t know what to say. We don’t know whether to acknowledge the elephant
in the room or try to make them feel better about it or avoid it altogether. We don’t know if it’s rude of us to be happy
or “normal” around them. We worry about
saying the wrong thing, so we choose to stay away. We “give them time” or “let them have their
space.” We don’t show up. Let me tell you a little
secret: that kind of avoidance speaks more to your discomfort than it
does to their suffering. I’m not judging anyone
here, by the way. I do the same thing all the time. I’d rather people think of me as a kind and
thoughtful person so if there’s a chance that I’m going to accidentally offend or
burden someone, it’s safer to save our interactions for circumstances that are
more predictable. At the very least,
it’s easier for me. But it’s precisely that ease
that makes it very lonely for the person who is experiencing the pain. I can tell myself it’s about them, but odds
are it really isn’t. Unless they’ve
specifically asked for space or time, it usually means a lot to people to know
that someone is willing to sit in the boat with them and ride out the storm. We humans are relational creatures. One of the first things God said is, “It
is not good for the man [or humans in general] to be alone” (Genesis
2:18). Don’t kick yourself if
you’ve messed this up in the past. I
think it’s safe to say we all have, and still do. And over-bearing concern (the other
end of this spectrum) doesn’t help a lot either. It’s not your job to fix
them or their situation. Seriously,
not your job. Empathizing to the point
of taking on someone else’s pain is not going to help them. It’s just going to make them feel like they
need to comfort you and that’s not theirjob. You’re not their Savior. That’s Jesus’ job. But please, when you see
someone you love—or even someone you know—who’s in pain or struggling with something,
don’t walk in the other direction. Just
show up... even if you don’t know what to say. And in case you’re really
bothered by that and are looking for some pointers to keep in your pocket, here
are a few suggestions: Please DO NOT say:
“Everything happens for a reason,” or
“It’s all in God’s will.” Even if
this is part of your theology, it is not what they need to hear right now.
“At least… [fill in the blank here].” Looking on “the bright side” will not help
them work through their pain; it just encourages them to bury it.
“Just give it time.” While the expression “time heals all wounds”
may carry some truth, they’re still in this moment when it still hurts. Acknowledge that instead.
“You’ll get over it.” No, no, no, no, no. People don’t just “get over” things. But they can learn to incorporate them into their
larger stories if given the opportunity to do so.
“Let me know if you need anything.” This one may sound surprising (and there may
also be times for an exception), but in general, when you say this, you’re
putting the burden on them to reach out for support if they need
it. The truth is, they do need it. And by showing up before being asked you’ll
be doing a lot more good.
Please DO say
instead:
“I don’t know what to say . . . but I’m
here for you regardless.”
“I
know this sucks, and I love you.”
“It’s
okay to be sad/angry/confused/numb/[whatever it is that they’re feeling].”
“Do you want to talk about what happened? (And,
if not, that’s okay, too.)”
“Here,
I brought you food. Would you like me to
stay? If not, I’m happy to drop it off and
check in again some other time.”
This is not an exhaustive
list, but somewhere to start. If you’ve been
in a tough situation and have other “please don’t” or “please do” suggestions
to add, you are welcome to share them.
It’s always helpful to hear it from someone who’s been there. And if you’ve been subject to loneliness or painful
comments by others in your time of grief, please forgive those of us who’ve
made your difficult situation harder. We
know not always what we do. But we love
you still.
“For if they fall, one will lift up the other;
but woe to one who is alone and falls and does not have another to help.”
If you’ve never been to Utah before, here is my shameless plug that you should
come visit. Seriously. Northern Utah, southern Utah—it doesn’t
matter. You either get incredible
mountains or gorgeous red rock canyons.
It’s all beautiful. See for yourselves:
Lake Blanche in the Wasatch Mountains
Angel's Landing in Zion National Park
This
is our second time living in Salt Lake City; and while I miss Washington and
everyone in it so much, it’s always a treat to be less than 20 minutes
from 4 different ski resorts and 30+ different hiking trails. And it’s in that context that when I was invited
to preach at First Presbyterian Church in Logan, I chose Psalm 8 as the text
for the sermon. I’ve edited it a bit
(writing and speaking have their differences), but here was the Word for the
day…
*****
If
you were to take a Bible and flip it open right down the middle, odds are that
you would probably land yourself in the book of Psalms. This book is a wide collection of poems,
songs, histories, and laments that the people of Israel used in their worship. It is basically the prayer book of Judeo-Christian
tradition. There
are several different forms of psalms in this book, but one of the most
predominant (along with prayers for help) are hymns of praise. And the first of these praise hymns that
we find in the book is Psalm 8 (also called a creation hymn), which goes
a little something like this: 1O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all
the earth! You have set your glory above the heavens. 2 Out of the mouths of babes and infants you have founded a bulwark because of your foes, to silence the enemy and the
avenger. 3When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you
have established; 4what
are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for
them? 5Yet you have made them a little lower than God, and crowned them with glory and
honor. 6You
have given them dominion over the works of your hands; you have put all things under their
feet, 7all
sheep and oxen, and also the beasts of the field, 8the
birds of the air, and the fish of the sea, whatever passes along the paths of
the seas. 9 O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all
the earth! When we look at this
psalm, there are two important poetic features we should take into account to
start. Why? Well, because I’m a nerd who finds the
technical literary aspects of Scripture fascinating (and this is my blog so I can
call attention to whatever I want 😉). But more importantly, it’s
because understanding some of the elements of Hebrew poetry in the Psalms can
give us not only a deeper appreciation for how beautiful they are, but also insight
into what the psalmist was trying to convey in the poem itself. And that can help us interpret the significance
and meaning of the psalm for our time and place. So, poetic device
#1: the inclusio. Psalm 8 starts with an
emphatic shout-out of praise to God: “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic
is your name in all the earth!” And (you may have
noticed) this is the same way the psalm ends.
Verse 9 repeats: “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic
is your name in all the earth!” This
repetition is a handy device in Hebrew poetry called an inclusio. What it means is that the first and last
verses “include” or “bookend” the rest of the text. So the whole poem begins and ends—and contains—praise
for the majesty of God “in all the earth.” Notice
the psalm doesn’t just say “in all of Israel.”
It says, “in all the earth.”
This stakes the claim that Yahweh (who is called “the God of Israel”) isn’t
just the God of one nation, but the God of all the nations. He isn’t just one God among many that
deserves praise, but the only God—the Creator God, the Lord, the one who
rules over everything that has been made from “above the heavens” to “whatever
passes along the paths of the seas.” Look out the window at whatever landscape
surrounds you. The God who created that
is the God we’re praising in this psalm.
Here
in Salt Lake City, I can see the Wasatch Mountain range right outside my door. Just two weeks ago, I was on top of Grandeur
Peak with a 360-degree view in every direction.
We miss that beauty most of the time—take it for granted, even—but the ways
in which creation echoes the majesty of God is exactly what the psalmist is
calling attention to in this psalm. It’s
so important that he (or she) says it twice, at both the beginning and end of
the song: “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all
the earth!”
View of Mt. Olympus & Salt Lake City from Grandeur Peak
In
between this inclusio, there are many other themes that the psalm
highlights…
There’s the creation language of “heavens and
earth” that reminds us of Genesis 1 and 2. There’s the royal language of “Sovereign” and “majesty”
that establishes God’s rule over the earth. There’s the role of humans in having dominion
over that earth and the works of God’s hands. But without looking at the poetry of the
psalm, we could miss another important clue into what the focus of the
psalm is in the midst of these themes.
Which brings us to… Poetic device #2: the chiasm. A “chiasm” is a second form of repetition in
Hebrew poetry that’s used for clarification and emphasis in a text. The term is based on the Greek letter “chi,”
which looks like an X. And what it means
is that somewhere in the text there is a central “inversion point” where we can
read what’s been written in the text thus far… then somewhere in the middle it
hits that central point… and then the text begins to reflect (or repeat) itself
backwards with the same concepts as before but in opposite order… until what
you’re left with is a mirror image of the beginning. The two halves are symmetrical—and it draws
attention to what’s going on in the center (almost like an hourglass).
When we look at this form in Psalm 8, take
a look at what we find directly in the center: V. 1: The majesty of God (“O
Lord,
our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”)
Vv. 2-3: Elements of God’s creation (“the mouths of
babes and infants… the moon and stars.”)
Vv. 4-5: The glory of humans (“What are
human beings… a little lower than God.”)
Vv. 6-8: Elements of God’s creation (“the beasts of
the field… the birds of the air.”)
V. 9: The majesty of God (“O
Lord,
our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”) It’s us.
We find us. In the midst of the magnitude of God’s glory and
all of creation, the psalmist points us directly inward and begs the question: Who are we? Who are we, God, that you would think of
us, much less care about us? “What are human beings that you are mindful of
them?” Truthfully, humans are like tiny specks of dirt
in the middle of the vast and wild universe.
We have very breakable bodies, and an almost insignificant lifespan in
the context of history. And, if we’re
honest, we’re a little bit of a mess at least some (if not most) of the
time. There is plenty of reason for us
to have no more value than any other living thing God created. And yet… we stand at the very center of God’s
creation, having been made “just a little lower than God, and crowned… with
glory and honor.” Midway between
heaven and earth. A little lower than God
and with all creation under our feet. We start and end this psalm by
giving glory to God, and yet what we find is that, for some unfathomable
reason, God has given it back to us. One
of the reasons I love this psalm so much is that it strikes at the core of
our human identity—our relationship with God and the rest of the world. So, what does that mean then? What does it mean for how we’re intended to
be in the world? What does it look like to “have
dominion” over the works of God’s hands? How do we recognize each other as
having been crowned with God’s glory and honor… especially if we’re different
from one another, or don’t agree with what the other believes? If there is one thing that this
psalm reminds us, it’s that God is Sovereign over all of creation, but that he
has also set us in the center of it and that what we do with that unique
position matters. The problem with being the broken
human beings that we are is that we’ve had a tendency to take this glorified
role and abuse it. Our “dominion” has
turned into control and exploitation rather than the love and care and
stewardship that it was intended to be.
We see this in our relationships—in the ways humans constantly fight
with one another. And we see this
in the way we’ve mistreated the rest of creation and we are now finding
ourselves in an environmental climate crisis.
We clearly have not lived up to the honor and dignity that this role
assumes. Sometimes I just want to throw my
hands up and say, “I don’t know, God… I don’t know how we can make such a mess
of things. I read this psalm of praise
and I’m baffled by it. Remind me again… What
are human beings that you are mindful of them?” You and I may not feel
powerful, but this psalm reminds us that we are in the midst of the praise of
God (in the middle of the inclusio) and at the center of creation (the
crossroads of the chiasm). We have been
gifted a ridiculous amount of power for good and evil in this world… but how
do we stand in that holy place in the way that God intended? In verses 5 and 6, the psalm says:
“YOU have made
humans a little lower than God,
and crowned them with glory and
honor.
YOU have given them dominion over the works of your hands;
YOU have put all things under their
feet.”
What this tells us is that before we can even consider the
work that is ours to do in the world, we have to consider the One who gave us that
work in the first place. Before we can stand in right
relationship to one another and the rest of creation, we have to stand in right
relationship with our Creator. He is the one who has
crowned us with glory and honor and calls us “Beloved.” If we don’t know where we stand
with God…what our identity is as his Beloved… and what our worth truly is in his
eyes, we will abuse the rest of creation trying to define that worth for
ourselves. If we try to determine our
identity from anything less than God, our concern becomes how those people and
things serve our need, and not the other way around. But, as this psalm says, when
we recognize that our identity and glory comes from God, we can humbly receive
it. We can stand in this place that’s
midway between heaven and earth, and we can reflect that glory and honor out
into the rest of the world and say, “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is
your name in all the earth!”
Amen to that.
Photo credits: Lake Blanche (here) and Angel's Landing (here)
My CPE (i.e., chaplaincy)
unit at St. Mark’s Hospital ended a month ago.
It’s amazing how much time has already flown by. That said, I’m pretty sure these “lessons” I learned
in the process will stay with me for the rest of my life. Some of them are harder than others, and they
may resonate with you or not—it’s okay either way. For previous posts,
please see:
Here is my lesson #3… It’s okay to acknowledge
pain. Physical pain. Emotional pain. Psychological and relational and spiritual
pain. Even cultural and historical
pain. They exist and they matter. If I pricked you with a
needle, you’d feel it—and it wouldn’t be pleasant. That’s because you’re a human being in a surprisingly
resilient, but also squishy and mortal body.
And you can’t always control what happens to that body. The same is true with
your mind and emotions. Sure, you have
the power to respond to the thoughts and feelings that crop up in day-to-day
life, but you can’t always control when and how those thoughts and feelings arise
in the first place. They just do. And many of life’s experiences are painful. Some of them are even traumatic. “Trauma” is the
Greek word for “wound.” It refers to physical
injury to the body, but can also be used to describe other types of woundedness. For example, verbal abuse from a parent can
cause psychological trauma to a child.
Or rejection by one’s religious community can amount to spiritual
trauma for a person of faith. We may
think of “trauma” as a too strong a word for most circumstances (I certainly
did before this experience), but it happens to apply to a lot of situations,
and rightly so. Traumatic
experiences, big or small, have the ability to embed themselves in our lives in
ways that can affect us years down the road. If you can remember a painful comment someone
said about you fifteen years ago, that remark was traumatic. It stayed with you. And it deserves to be acknowledged and
healed.
Let me be clear: if I could flip a magic “off” switch and
never again experience pain, I would. Who
wouldn’t? But we can’t. We might try—and, in fact, I think
most of the time we do try—but I don’t think it’s helpful in the long run. In fact, I’m convinced that denying our pain
and pretending everything is fine is inevitably damaging, for at least three
reasons: First, it doesn’t
actually reflect true human experience.
Everyone feels pain, period. Denying
it robs us of the opportunity to connect with this facet of our shared
humanity. Our particular pain is unique,
but the experience of pain is universal… and it may as well be something that brings
us together. Second, we often use
coping mechanisms to numb our pain, and the effects of those strategies eventually
wear off. You finish all seven
seasons of the show you’ve been binge-watching.
You hit the bottom of the ice-cream container. You can only give 110 percent at work for so
long before you run out of steam. Even
the “good” distractions (like compulsive exercise or volunteering) have their limits,
and the more sinister ones can lead to serious addiction and behavioral health
struggles. I became even more aware in
CPE that my strongest coping mechanisms have historically been self-criticism
and perfectionism. Like I said: it’s a
universal struggle and we all have our weaknesses. But they’re no real substitute for addressing
pain head on. Third, as Franciscan
priest and author Richard Rohr has masterfully observed, “If we do not
transform our pain, we will most assuredly transmit it—usually to those
closest to us.”[1]This can be a hard truth to
swallow. We like to think of pain as
something we can conquer or deal with by ourselves without having it affect
others… but unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. We wouldn’t tell someone
with cancer to ignore the doctors, avoid chemo, and figure out how to resolve
it on their own. It would only get
worse. An illness needs to be diagnosed
and treated for healing to happen. The
same is true for other forms of pain: if they aren’t acknowledged and
transformed, they can fester. Suppressed
pain has the potential to lead to fear, mistrust, exhaustion, isolation, and aggression. Despite our best intentions (including “not
wanting to burden” other people), these are not a recipe for healthy
relationships. Instead, we end up unintentionally
transferring that pain to the people around us—including our spouses and family
members, our co-workers and neighbors, our friends, and our children. Even grief over loved
ones is not something we just “get over.” I visited with patients who shed tears talking
about family members who passed away decades ago. It isn’t because they were weak; it’s because
those losses were traumatic, and they didn’t often feel permission to talk about
them.
I’m not suggesting that
acknowledging pain makes it go away. But
hiding it will make it linger, and can even let it grow. Alternatively, bringing it out of the shadows
can invite our pain into a space of compassion and restoration. We don’t have to “go it alone” or “sweep it
under the rug.” (We all know those were never great solutions to start.) This lesson left me with
two lingering questions: Can
I see whatever pain I might be holding on to? And what would it take for me to bring it to light?
