Lord, why do you reject me? Why do you hide your face?
I have borne your trials; I am
numb.
Your fury has swept down upon me,
your terrors have utterly destroyed me.
Friend and neighbour you have
taken away;
my one companion is darkness. [Ps 88]
In these
Psalms of struggle we have a somewhat candid dialogue with God – a little too
candid for some – neither is it really a dialogue, since a major part of the
problem is that God doesn’t have much to say.
The circumstances of life have brought the Psalmist to argue with God
about how things are panning out, and even to warn God that God’s reputation may
be at stake here:
Will your love be told in the
grave, or your faithfulness among the dead?
Will your wonders be known in the dark, or
your justice in the land of oblivion?
God had
better wake up. And yet there is
something deeper here. This Psalmist,
for all her suffering and pain, and behind all her anger, does not doubt what
she calls your faithfulness… your wonders…
your justice… This is the paradox of
mature faith. It is still God with whom
we have to deal, in the abyss. God has
not caused the pain. It is not a
punishment from on high, deserved or undeserved. God has neither made it happen nor prevented
it. It has happened by some virus, or some
extreme event, by warfare and human rage, by stupidity or carelessness, by
accident… But the caricature God who is
thought to reach down and hurl thunderbolts against people, is an idol, in no
way the God Jesus called Father. The
Psalmist too is very doubtful.
Still, I
suppose, the Psalmist feels entitled to ask why God did not at any rate
prevent these calamities. That’s an
almost universal reaction. Why does God
not stop bad things happening? The Psalmist
doesn’t know, and I don’t know… except to say that it would be an
unrecognisable world in which nothing bad ever happened, unless of course you
richly deserved it. And then, what would
be the good of that?
There is
another point here, and it is an important part of the teaching around
contemplative life and prayer. C S Lewis
is one of many who have found it – in his bereavement and sorrow he wrote, Surprised by Joy. Great teachers such as St John of the Cross,
Thomas Merton, and many others, discovered in their own crises that pain and
loss do not have the final word without our consent. Once we have come to know and make peace with
our own vulnerability and mortality, we are beginning to learn to live beyond
fear. Darkness is still dark, but not
hostile, never hopeless. There is what
George Matheson called joy that seekest
me through pain.
How long, O Lord, will you forget
me? How long will you hide your face?
How long must I bear grief in my
soul, this sorrow in my heart day and night?
Look at me, answer me, Lord my
God! Give light to my eyes lest I fall
asleep in death,
Lest my enemy say, “I have
prevailed”; lest my foes rejoice to see my fall.
As for me, I trust in your
merciful love. Let my heart rejoice in
your saving help.
Let me sing to you Lord for your
goodness to me,
Sing psalms to your name, O Lord,
Most High. [Ps 13]
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