Psalms 32 and 126
Good morning again—this Fifth Sunday in Lent. In the old calendar this day was Passion
Sunday, the beginning of Passiontide, that two week “mini-season” that will
carry us on to Palm Sunday and Holy Week, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy
Saturday. The final stretch of the road
from Bethlehem to Jerusalem, the Manger to the Cross. Passiontide is no longer on the simplified
contemporary calendar, but certainly we can hear echoes in the Collect and the
Gospel and the hymns this morning.
For the six Sundays in Lent my project this year has been to reflect on
the Psalms appointed in the lectionary each week, to see them as what we might
call thematic clues--windows, places where we can pause for a view and perhaps
a new perspective, as we would in Lent be with some greater intentionality
seeking to find refreshment and renewal in our Christian faith and life.
So a quick review of the themes we’ve seen so far: on the First Sunday
we looked at Psalm 91, traditionally appointed for Compline, the bedtime prayer
of the church, as a parent to a little child, and as we turn onto the Way of
the Cross nonetheless a song of assurance, security, safety. That we are resting gently in safety in the
arms of God our Savior. “For he shall
give his angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways.” Then for the Second Lent Sunday we had Psalm
27, building on that foundation. Because
we are safe in God, we can go forth into the world boldly, courageously. “The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom
then shall I fear?” The Third Sunday it
was Psalm 63. Safe in God’s arms, bold
and courageous, with Psalm 63 we sing what it truly means to be joyful . Refreshed and energized in gratitude for the
lovingkindness of God. Joy isn’t perhaps
always the emotion we associate with Lent, but the Psalmist says, “I just can’t
keep from singing.” “So will I bless you
as long as I live, and under the shadow of your wings I will rejoice.”
Last Sunday Dan was preaching—so that means I’m going to touch on two
psalms this morning—briefly, I promise--just to get to the pattern of the six
psalms of these six weeks. Briefly to
turn back to Psalm 32, as we read it and heard the Choir sing it last week, the
Fourth Sunday in Lent, Laetare. Psalm 32
seemed to me intertwine beautifully with the context and theme of the amazing gospel
story of the Prodigal Son. (For those of
us who don’t have the psalter by heart and didn’t bring our service leaflets
from last Sunday back with us this morning, Psalm 32 begins at the bottom of
page 624 in the Book of Common Prayer.)
The Prodigal Son, whose story begins in a self-centered rebellion, then
to a catastrophe of hitting-bottom, leading to repentance, “metanoia,” that
wonderful Greek word that means “another state of consciousness.” Coming to his senses, his right mind. And then his return, in fear and humility,
probably that long walk back to the family home like swimming through molasses,
rehearsing his heartbreaking apology every step of the way. And of course the sweet drama of
restoration. If the son was prodigal in
his wasting of the gifts of his inheritance, the father is even more prodigal in lavishing forgiveness and love. That embrace as the Father rushes out to
greet his son, who once was lost, who now is found, I think for many Christians an image that is
right at the heart of our experience of God’s loving heart.
“Happy are they whose transgressions are forgiven, and whose sin is put
away!” That’s the first line of Psalm
32. Then almost in parallel with the Prodigal
Son story, reminding us of the word in First John that is so often the Opening
Sentence at Evensong, “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and
the truth is not in us.” And the
psalmist: “While I held my tongue, my bones withered away.” But then the
turning we see in verses five and six—like the Prodigal as he found himself in
his desperation, while he was feeding husks to the pigs in that distant
land. “Then I acknowledged my sin . . .
I said, ‘I will confess my transgressions to the Lord.’” And the promise and certainty of forgiveness,
the joy of the Father as he runs out to meet his son in the road, and before
the son can even speak a word. “You are
my hiding place: you preserve me from trouble; you surround me with shouts of
deliverance.”
To know and believe and truly trust in the mercy of God for us. That’s
true deliverance. Looking deep into the
darkness of our own sin, our rebelliousness, our self-centeredness, all the
ways we have hurt others and that we hurt ourselves, closing our ears to God’s
word for us, closing our eyes and turning away—going our own way. To know and believe and trust in the mercy of
God for us. To know ourselves in the
words of the hymn, “ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven.” And then, our own hearts opened in gratitude
for what we do not deserve, that we would begin to cultivate ourselves what we
might call a “lifestyle” of mercy.
Kindness, generosity.
Graciousness. Cutting each other
more slack than we deserve. “Great are
the tribulations of the wicked.” That’s
how Psalm 32 ends. “Great are the
tribulations of the wicked; but mercy embraces those who trust in the Lord.” This way of Lent, to expect mercy, to know
and to experience mercy, to find a spirit of mercy within ourselves.
And then with Psalm 32 in one hand, from last Sunday, refreshed and
renewed in God’s mercy and forgiveness, we would turn to Psalm 126 this
morning, Passion Sunday, and of course with the haunting image in the
background from the home of Lazarus of Bethany and his sisters Martha and Mary. The psalm is printed on page 7 of our Service
Leaflet. I had suggested at the
beginning of this series that we might find it meaningful as a part of our
Lenten devotional life to take our service leaflet home with us and open it to
the page of the psalm of the day and read it occasionally during the week.
In the context of the 12th
chapter of John, our gospel reading: On
Passion Sunday we’re coming to the end of the journey--the last resting place
along the road, a pause before we will leap into the crowds of Holy Week with
Palm Sunday just ahead. Jesus and his
disciples heading in toward Jerusalem.
They pause to spend the Sabbath just outside the city in the village of
Bethany with their old and dear friends, Lazarus and his sisters Mary and
Martha. The holy quiet of the day of
rest, before the coming storm. The
family meal. And then this holy anointing,
always such a stunning vision, as Mary takes the costly aromatic oil, this
precious offering, and applies it so gently and lovingly, beginning with his
feet. (Some of you may remember that
this was the text for the stunning, beautiful sermon preached by Leslie Reimer
over at Calvary Church at the Burial Office for my friend and our former friend
and rector Ralph Brooks. Whenever I come
to this part of John I remember that sermon and moment.) This powerful image of compassion, deep love
and service. Foreshadowing for us
perhaps what would happen a few days later, when Jesus would himself kneel down
and wash the feet of his disciples.
Anticipating the burial, preparing his body for the tomb. And something sweet and tender about the
detail of the story, as Mary completes the anointing by drying his feet not
with a towel, but with her hair. So
personal, so intimate.
And in the background for us this morning, the psalmist in Psalm 126 sings
of a glorious memory of ancient times, of God’s promises fulfilled--restoration,
renewal, recovery of life. Return from
exile. True homecoming. Lifted from defeat. From death to life. “When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion,
then were we like those who dream.” What
God has done. What we have seen with our
own eyes! And from the depths, the
prayer, “Restore our fortunes, O Lord, like the watercourses of the
Negev.” Like the dry washes of the
desert that are transformed to become abundant rivers in the rain of spring. And to offer this prayer in certainty that it
is heard, and trusting the one in whom all our trust is placed. “Those who sowed with tears will reap with
songs of joy. Those who go out weeping,
carrying the seed, will come again with joy, shouldering their sheaves.”
Hope, even
in the hour of darkness. Hope. Certainty in the faithfulness of God. So that’s
the word for this morning, getting nearer to the heart, even as we come nearer
to the cross. Which would seem to be the sign of hopelessness. But Christ crucified, as St. Paul said, “a
stumbling block to the Jews, foolishness to the Greeks, but to those who are
called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God.”
A way of living deeply and sincerely in Lent, a clue about who we are,
what is to be revealed in the story of our lives and of our world. Hope. In
relationships, life situations, world situations, that seem too far gone. Beyond repair. “Restore our fortunes, O Lord, like the
watercourses of the Negev.” No matter
how fierce the storms, no matter how lost we may seem—O Lord, my hope is in you.
So that’s five Psalms, five Sundays in Lent so far, and the first five keywords
for our meditation. Again: Comfort,
courage, joy, mercy, hope. What God
wants for you, what he offers us. That
we may find refreshment and renewal in our Christian life.
Walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself for us, an offering
and a sacrifice to God.
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