Dear Friends,
Why me? Why us? Why here? Why now? Why, God?
Have you gotten to this point yet? In this time of social distancing, or, more appropriately, physical distancing, have you cried out your plight, cried out our plight? Have you found yourself crying out to God? I certainly have. Crying out to God is a natural response. That comma in “Why, God?” is not a typo.
Life feels overwhelming these days. In this time of physical isolation from beloved family, long-trusted friends, the neighbor next door, and fellow church members, we can’t even give or receive a comforting hug. Why haven’t we figured out a way to give hugs despite being separated by six feet?
We have so many things to mourn, and our lists, both individual and communal, keep getting longer. Our situation isn’t new; we’ve suffered epidemics and disaster throughout the centuries, but this is significantly different. Never has disease spread so quickly, literally around the world, with all the social, emotional, psychological, and financial fallout that has engendered. Having circumnavigated the Northern Hemisphere, the coronavirus is quickly moving South, to Africa and South America. It has influenced our individual lives and our communal lives, and even after the virus is conquered or gone, it will continue to do so in ways we can’t yet begin to comprehend. Literally nothing in our world will ever be the same.
Our Psalter reading for tomorrow, the Fifth Sunday in Lent, is Psalm 130. Please settle back and slowly read this short psalm of eight verses. Every indication is that it was meant for liturgical use. If your translation is like my NRSV, this psalm is defined as “A Song of Ascents.” It is thought that this psalm was used as liturgy as worshippers climbed the mountain into Jerusalem and the Holy Temple. With that in mind, it becomes clear why this psalm is cited by our Lectionary for this Fifth Sunday in Lent. It places us squarely in self-examination during our annual forty-day ascent with Jesus into Jerusalem.
This is a psalm of lament, which is a universal reality for us all. There’s a strange comfort in such a psalm of mourning. It assures us that we are not alone. Others, even from as long ago as the time of the psalms, join us as we cry out our laments in this particular time of sickness, economic crisis, and social and cultural devastation. How difficult it is to abandon the arrogance behind our smug assumptions that in these modern times, we’ve conquered pestilence and tragedies like those of the past. In truth, we are no different from other people of faith from ages ago as we begin to recognize the timeless reality of the human condition.
Lament is thus both universal and timeless. Forty-two of the 150 psalms, just under 30, are either individual or collective laments. “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord” reads the first verse of Psalm 130. Because so much of this psalm is in the first person, scholars classify it as an individual lament, which would be a personal cry, rather than a cry from the community. The classic example of an individual lament is Psalm 22, which, unlike our psalm for today, is four times as long and lists numerous specific woes that are shared with God.
But see how the personal, individual lament of Psalm 130 ends. The last two verses refer not to the individual of the first six verses, but to all of Israel. And after the cries and lamentations of those six verses, these closing verses shine with the assurance of hope for all of God’s people. How poignant it is that this year’s lectionary includes this compact psalm of such depth and power, especially in light of our current catastrophe. Just as it was for the Psalmist, our lament today is heart-rending and heart-felt, and it’s both individual/personal and collective. Like the psalmist, we fervently pray that God will be “attentive to the voice of my [our] supplications” (verse 2) in these perilous times.
In lament psalms, the psalmist cries and then passively waits. We all cry, especially these days. And we all cry out to God: “Why, God?” And then we wait, a passive time when we open ourselves to try to discern God’s presence in our desolation.
Psalm 130 gives us the means to wait, but actively, rather than passively. As verse 7 tells us, “Hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is great power to redeem.” We wait in hope. There’s more for people of faith than simply to lament and wait. There is the active, sustaining, redeeming power of hope. Please know, my friends, there is always reason to hope because we are blessed by a loving God who walks with all people in God’s creation, with people of faith, like us, and with people who are unknowingly buoyed by our faith.
Hope is the foundation of our shared ministry, and it is an active, dynamic, and powerful response to our present situation. Indeed, hope is built into the fabric of our being. Our powerful hope can ignite healing and restoration for us and our wider world.
We live the hope that is the fruit of our faith. Some of us are crafting protective masks; some faithfully check in with friends, either in person (with all sorts of precautions) or via phone, text, and email; some buy groceries for neighbors; others maintain an active schedule of volunteer work, adapting to new situations but still getting the job done. These are the ways we give hugs, despite being separated by at least six feet!
And then there’s the best of all ways to give hugs and to actively embody our hope: we pray.
Thanks be to God for the gift of hope, especially in these difficult times, and for the power of prayer.
Let us pray together.
Our souls wait for you, O Lord, more than those who watch for morning. Help us to sleep this night in peace, trusting that you will awaken us with refreshed hope. Help us to turn our hope into action so that we may be reminded of your steadfast love. Through Jesus, the radical affirmation and embodiment of your love, we pray. Amen.