For two years when I was in college, I was part of a singing group—the Northwest Christian College “Waylighters”. We traveled around Oregon and Washington, with longer trips to California, Idaho, Utah, and Montana ( coming home was wonderful!). Technically a part of the Development Office, our job was to “connect” with churches and, hopefully, inspire them (and their members) to continue their financial support of the school. So . . . long hours on the road every weekend (or before school started, and spring break). Matching outfits (with a change-of-clothes at intermission). Memorizing Denny’s menu. Staying at parishioners’ homes (sofa beds aren’t always conducive to good vocal performances the next day). We’d usually sing a Saturday night concert (after a potluck), and then again at Sunday services (followed by a—you-guessed-it— {slide] potluck). If we were close enough to Eugene, we might even sing a Sunday evening service. We learned a lot. We were tired a lot. Usually the group (nine of us, including the pianist/student director) got along . . . many of us are still in contact with each other. Other times it was . . . shall we say . . . “trying”. “How long, O Lord” ’til we get home and out of this car!
“How long, O Lord” was the title of one of the songs we sang the first year of my Waylighter experience. It was an arrangement of Psalm 13, which we just said together. I can’t find the composer’s name, but I remember the song well. AND, as luck would have it, I have a recording of the group singing it at our year-end concert—I won’t play it unless requested. When I learned that we would have that psalm as part of our lessons this morning, I went back, found, and listened to, the recording. I’d forgotten some of the details (I actually played the piano, and sang, for that piece!), but I certainly remembered much of it. I was also reminded that we also had to introduce each song . . . and it was then that I was recalled that Psalm 13 was a “typical” psalm of lament.
“Laments” form a large portion of the Book of Psalms. And, if you want to know more about that, join us next Sunday at Faith Forum, when Bp. Epting will explore that genre more deeply! But—trusting I don’t steal any of his thunder (since he didn’t choose to look at Psalm 13)—psalms of lament are, basically, complaints. Theologically, complaints addressed to a God who, we think, shouldn’t let such things that we are experiencing . . . happen.
So, Psalm 13 is my main text for today. What do we know about it? First, as this is the only day in the three-year Sunday lectionary cycle we might read it, it’s probably unfamiliar to most of us. Second, as those who attended last week’s Psalms class learned, there are often“titles”— not shown in the Prayer Book. The title for this psalm is ”For the music leader. A song of David”. That doesn’t tell us much; even the phrase “a song of David” doesn’t tell us whether David wrote it, or it was written for David . . . let alone for what purpose/occasion. So, on the surface, we don’t know much about it, and, really, those kind of details aren’t of that much importance. Reading it, however, tells us a lot. And so I’d like to go back through it a little more deliberately.
The psalmist is clearly in anguish. We read the words of someone who apparently had known God—perhaps “face to face”—who now finds that relationship strained, and who thinks the absence is God’s fault. The psalmist feels abandoned by God, perplexed and grieved at being left to the mercy of an “enemy” . . . who, or whatever, that is (vv 1-2). There’s a sense that the psalmist believes him-, or her-, self to be righteous, or blameless, and that such treatment by God is uncalled for! Who of us could not find ourselves praying, or singing, those words?
And, then, perhaps harkening back to that earlier, more positive relationship, the psalmist, feeling confident enough to be honest, makes some demands on God: “Look upon me! Answer me! Enlighten me! Don’t let my enemies rejoice!” (vv 3-4) Many of us could find ourselves, I imagine, complaining (as in the first two verses). But, can we find ourselves making demands on God? The psalmist suggests we can.
And, finally, the psalmist recalls the earlier relationship, and seems to want to remind God of those “good ole days”: "You, God, have been merciful! You made me joyful when you saved me in the past; you “dealt with me richly”!” And, so despite the psalmist’s difficulties, praise of God’s name is appropriate (vv 5-6). This is a psalm that moves, haltingly, from despair to trust. The question it raises for us is whether or not we can make the same movement?
I remember, all those years ago, that whoever was introducing this song at our Waylighter concerts, would often remark that feeling abandoned by God wasn’t an unusual experience. And, as I mentioned, I suspect that many of could raise our hands and say, “Yup! That’s been my experience!” And there can be many reasons for that. But I have to say that a couple of the most commonly-held reasons are theologically problematic—including what seems to be behind the psalmist’s thinking—as I implied above, the idea that God rewards the righteous. The book of Job puts that idea to the test, and finds it wanting. Equally problematic is the belief that God is “absent” because of our lack of faith. The end of this psalm puts that idea to rest, as the psalmist proclaims, “I put my trust in your mercy; my heart is joyful because of your saving help” (v 5). The psalmist’s faith in God is not the problem here; rather a faith in some kind of quid pro quo—that righteousness ensures good fortune— that is the problem. But psalmist is able to move beyond that.
Indeed, Psalm 13 is a psalm of faith—and one from which we can learn, and/or one in which we can take comfort. What we read is a relationship between God and us that allows for deep, heart-felt, anguished complaint; God is “big enough” to hear that. And, perhaps many of us can do that. Similarly, God is big enough to field our demands for justice and understanding. Maybe fewer of us can shake our fist at God; or, maybe we don’t have the hesitancy. Where it becomes even tougher, I think, is joining with the psalmist in that ultimate statement of faith/trust that closes the psalm. Here, we’re invited to remember that, despite appearances to the contrary, God has been on our side in the past, and to believe that relationship will be solid in the future. That’s hard; there’s no getting around that. But God bids us to believe it all, AND to speak it all.
And, I have to say, that “speaking it all” is what I find missing in our reading from Genesis. The story of the binding of Isaac— the Akedah among Jews, and a story that forms the basis for the Islamic Feast of Eid al-Adha (which, coincidentally, was celebrated this last Thursday)—this story is so problematic in so many ways. I seriously debated with myself as to whether or not even to refer to it. So, I won’t spend a lot of time on it, but I find the depiction of God difficult to accept: what kind of God would demand such a high level of “obedience” from one who has been described as “God’s friend” (2 Ch 20.7, Is 41.8, Ja 2.23). But I also find Abraham’s silence a problem. Certainly, before in Genesis, Abraham had no hesitation to challenge God (15.2, 17.17-18); in the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham argued with God over its destruction. Why was he silent here—in the face of such an horrendous order? Are we to keep silence in the face of such “religious” instruction? I can’t imagine that that is what God would want. Sometimes we have to call Scripture to account!
So, yes, the passage is problematic. And perhaps, even early on, that problematic nature was overlooked in light of other possible meanings (such as God’s ending of the practice of human sacrifice—current in Palestine at the time). But what has survived from the story is the affirmation of Abraham’s faith. Because he never spoke, we don’t know what he was thinking, but the story presents him as unwavering in his obedience, with his slight nod to the possibility that God would eventually change the outcome: “Isaac said, “Here is the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the entirely burned offering?”Abraham said, “The lamb for the entirely burned offering? God will see to it, my son.” The two of them walked on together” (21.7-8).
The psalmist, being found in an horrible situation, complained to God, and demanded that God give an answer. Yet the psalmist not only did not lose faith, but, rather, declared “I put my trust in your mercy!” Abraham, being found in an horrible situation, on the other hand, was silent, but was obedient . . . was faithful. It would seem that neither of them understood what was going on, and responded in their own way. Yet both gave evidence that they trusted that God was, ultimately, on their side. We don’t know what the “end-story” was of Psalm 13—whether the “enemy” was vanquished or banished . . . and maybe knowing is not the point; the point is faithfulness. We do know much of the end-story of Genesis 21: God provided a ram, Isaac survived, and did become, ultimately, the grandfather of the nation of Israel—the conduit of the covenant God established with Abraham.
I highly doubt I’d be able to respond with the faith of Abraham in a situation like his. But I take comfort knowing that—in hard times—I can sing with the psalmist, “How long?” I can shake my fist at God; maybe speaking my anguish is necessary. I can trust that God’s faithfulness and mercy is great enough to hear it all.
Amen.