Psalm 13 "Lament and Worship"

         The great Jewish King David has traditionally been named as the composer of this Psalm.  However, we do not really know whether he wrote it or not.  The likelihood is that he did not, but rather that an unknown but gifted poet penned the psalm when the Jewish (or Hebrew) people were enduring persistent persecution and what seemed to be ongoing exile hundreds of years before the birth of Jesus. 

         Whoever first sang it (and it was sung because that is what the psalms are – songs of an ancient Middle Eastern tribe), whoever first sang it had a marvelous ability to tap into the deepest and most raw human emotions.  This psalm lays bare all the anguish and hurt and pain and suffering imaginable and gives permission for each man, woman, and child who heard it to say to themselves:  “Yes, I know how that feels – to be at the end of my rope.  I know what it is like to feel abandoned and to be so utterly alone.  That has happened to me – when my child died, when I was diagnosed with cancer, when I lost my job, when I was homeless, when I had to flee the bombs and mines and leave my family behind.”

         Psalm 13, which we just read, is one of the great psalms of lament – formal expressions of grief or sorrow - that we find in our Bible.

O LORD, how long will you forget me? Forever?
How long will you look the other way?

         It is right up there with the cries for help we find in Psalm 88: “You have made even my closest friends abandon me, and darkness is my only companion.” And then there is Psalm 130: “From the depths of my despair, I call to you, Lord.” And how about Psalm 22 that Jesus quoted when he hung dying on the cross:  “My God, my God, why have your forsaken me.” 

         These are the winter-like psalms for when the cold winds blow across our lives, and they comprise nearly half or more of the liturgical songs of the ancient Israelites.  These are the psalms sung when our lives ice up, and we fear that our hearts may turn to stone.  These are the poems we whisper when we feel so alone and deserted - even by God.  These are the songs we conjure up when we feel like we are one of the forgotten ones.  

      One blogger I read this week wrote, “The psalms, said fourth century church leader, Athanasius, ‘become like a mirror to the person singing them.’ The psalms reflect our deepest feelings — all of them. And sometimes those deepest feelings are not bright and cheery. David, and the other psalmists, lamented their sins. But the psalmists also lamented the tragedies happening around them. The psalmists lamented and protested the troubles of human life. The psalmists lamented their enemies — expressing anger against them to God. The psalmists knew how to lament.”

         This Psalm of lament that we just read is divided into three parts, as nearly all psalms of lament are:  protest, protection, and praise. Covenant church pastor Dominique Gilliard describes lamenting like this: “uncensored communion with God -- visceral worship where we learn to be honest, intimate, and humble before God. Lamentation is both an acknowledgment that things are not as they should be and an anguished wail, beckoning the Lord to intervene with righteousness and justice.”

         Initially then, our Psalm of lament is a protest:

How long must I struggle with anguish in my soul,
with sorrow in my heart every day?
How long will my enemy have the upper hand?

         How long will God forget?  How long will God look the other way?  How long will I have to wrestle with my painful thoughts and unending sorrows?  How long will the world be as it is and not as God would have it?  How long will the homeless have no homes?  How long will children go unfed? How long, God, how long? 

         This first part of a psalm of lament is a lashing out at the Holy One.  God, you claim to remember us, but it seems like you have abandoned us.  Prove us wrong:  such a powerful accusation and challenge – a protest against all the wrong we see all around us.

         However, our Psalm of lament is not just an accusatory laundry list of complaints.  It is a prayer.  It is a prayer cried out into the darkness, tossed into the wilderness of our lives and of our world.  It is a prayer thrown into the void, a prayer for protection from all the evil we see all around us every day – if we care to watch TV or read the newspaper.

Turn and answer me, O LORD my God!
Restore the light to my eyes, or I will die.
 Don't let my enemies gloat, saying, "We have defeated him!"
Don't let them rejoice at my downfall.

         Will God hear us?  Is there anything in the darkness out there?  Who knows?  However, tell me, would we pray if we did not trust that there was something out there, that there was someone to hear even our feelings of abandonment and our prolonged struggle? 

         Instead of throwing in the towel and giving up on God, the Psalmist tells us to keep praying, keep reaching out, keep trusting that we do not live in the best of all possible worlds – far from it.  The Psalmist assures us that God continues to embrace us - and the world – even when we shake our fist at the Divine.

         And so the Psalmist comes full circle.  In concluding his song, he reminds us of the power of hope.  The Psalmist reminds us to trust in our compassionate God – because, in the end, only love will transform our lives and the world. 

        We will not have all the answers.  We will not be all cheery, and our lives will not suddenly be like sunshine, but God will not let us down.  And that, if nothing else about our lives or our world, is worthy of our praise.

But I trust in your unfailing love.
I will rejoice because you have rescued me.
 I will sing to the LORD because he has been so good to me.

         So much a part of our Old Testament religious heritage, the ritual of lament is a worship form that has been lost in our modern-day churches.  Most of us do not like to think about pain and sorrow – either our own or that which we see in the world - well, maybe a little bit at Lent but not enough to warrant those black birds in the sanctuary trees, thank you very much.  You see, church is where many of us would like to come to be personally comforted and to be joyfully praising God and to forget what the world is like “out there” – beyond the four walls of this sanctuary. 

         However, leaving the world behind like that is impossible – and so beneath us as Jesus’ 21^st century disciples.  In this age of nonstop media, we are constantly confronted with the world’s brokenness and sorrow.  Even if you never pick up a newspaper or watch TV, you see it graphically in videos gone viral.  You hear about it in 146 character tweets. 

         As Dominique Gilliard writes, “Today, we are bombarded by an unprecedented, unceasing stream of media that exposes us to the world’s pain and brokenness as never before.

         Nevertheless, before we truly grieve one tragedy, another occurs. So in our rush to keep up with our newsfeeds, with the latest scandal, the newest tragedy, we move on before processing the trauma we have just witnessed. We move on to stay up to date -- and in part, because we believe that our minds and our hearts, like our smartphones, can hold only so much.”

         We are on a 24-hour newsfeed that takes us from hate crime to suicide bombing to yet another shooting – nonstop. Oh, how we would like to come to church and forget it all.

         And yet, the Bible teaches us almost the opposite – it teaches us to engage in some intentionally lamenting rather than, what?  Moving right along….

         Instead of being swept from one news event to the next, lament forces us to slow down and to stay engaged after the publicity, the cameras, the tweeting has moved on.  Lament keeps our eyes open to the forgotten ones all around us and our ears attuned to their weeping and muffled cries of pain that too often become like white noise in our world.  Lament focuses us on our primary calling as Christians, which, of course, is to look to Jesus as the embodiment of God’s dream for the world and so to act in order that justice can roll down like mighty waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.

         When we lament, we remember the forgotten ones – and, God only knows, we are constantly being told in the Bible to do just that.  “Remember when you were slaves in Egypt”, the newly freed Hebrew people are admonished.  “Whenever you eat this bread and drink from this cup, remember me – and all that I stand for,” Jesus tells his disciples at the last supper he ate with them before he was killed.

        Even though it may not be a pleasant experience, when we engage in the pain we see in the world around us, remembering our baptism and how God offers us the freedom to resist the evil we see, we are being faithful to the path that Jesus walks with us.

         Though we are often reluctant to embrace the narrative of lament – the stories of pain and suffering – our own as well as those of the forgotten ones throughout the world - we are called to do so – now more than ever - as faithful 21^st century disciples. 

         And so during this Lenten season as we explore the words of the prophet Amos (“Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream”), we continue to cry out, as songwriter Mark Miller has:  “How long, O God, must we feel like outsiders, strangers in a strange land, a people held captive by fear, abuse of power, prejudice, and unjust institutions? How long, O God, must we be in fear for our children who are growing up in a world of terror and violence?  How many people in our country need to be killed by guns (he continues) until we muster the will and the courage to stop the madness?  We long for your justice, for your peace, O God, we long to be released from these shackles of fear and injustice, and until that time, we cry out with the psalmist, ‘How long?’”

         Without making time for lament (for protesting, seeking protection, and finally praising God), how can we meaningfully engage with the issues of our day – the racism, sexism, militarism, and petty prejudices - long enough to viscerally understand their breadth and depth and to begin the healing that must take place if we are to see even glimpses of God’s kingdom? That is my challenge to you during this second week of Lent :  Make time for lament. 

§  What do you fear?

§  What angers you?

§  What one thing makes your heart heavy?

§  Where or how do you feel as an outsider?

         These are justice issues – worthy of lament and lamentation.

         And so I challenge you to not turn away from the brokenness you see around you, but rather to sit with it for a while - uncomfortable as that may be.  May you take the time to protest.  

         I challenge you to cry out to God unabashedly and without pretense when you feel like your life is imploding, but also when you look around and see how the world is fragmented and spinning out-of-control.  May you turn to God for protection.  

         And, finally, I challenge you to come full circle as the Psalmist did and praise God, trusting that God will lead you to healing and reconciliation.  May your heart be wide open to the Spirit guiding you to a life where justice rolls down, justice rolls down.