September 13, 2009
Psalm 116.1-8; Mark 8.27-38
It is appropriate in more ways than one to speak about the Cross today. Not only do we encounter language concerning the Cross in our Gospel reading, but, tonight is the eve of the Feast of Holy Cross. Here at St. Stephen’s, we will celebrate the Feast of the holy Cross on Wednesday at our mid-week Eucharist.
Also, today is Dedication Sunday. It is the Sunday in which we commemorate the dedication of St. Stephen’s congregation around this date in 1956. And today, on Dedication Sunday, we are dedicating…we are dedicating our Children’s Chapel. At our service for dedication after this Eucharist, we will go down and participate in consecrating and setting aside that chapel for God’s use. We will bless the chapel. And we will stand before the Cross that not hangs above the altar in that chapel.
Today and this coming week we are surrounded by the image of the Cross. And that’s not such a terrible image to have before us always.
Yes, it is a symbol of capital death, of execution, of torture and murder. Yes, it is not a pleasant , beautiful thing, despite all the decorating we have done to the Cross through art and paint and imagination.
But the Cross, whether we like it or not, is the symbol of our faith. On it, died the one we follow. On it we saw ultimate defeat. And in the face of that defeat, we saw ultimate victory.
The Cross, as much as it a symbol of death and of our faith, is really a symbol of the paradox of all we believe as Christians.
And in our scriptures for today, we find that paradox played out more poignantly not in our Gospel reading, in which Jesus tells us to take up our cross and follow him (though there is a beautiful paradox being played out there), but rather in our psalm.
Throughout my life in the church, I have heard many different styles of preaching. I have known pastors who have preached on every scripture reading assigned by the lectionary for a particular Sunday. Probably most of us have heard some of those pastors preach. Certainly in those days in which twenty- even thirty-minute long sermons were the norm, we all got our full of what each scripture meant and why it was meaningful to us.
I have also known pastors who have preached on a just one word from the scriptures reading for the day. Most pastors (including myself) prefer to preach the Gospel reading where there is such a wealth of vital spiritual help contained in the words of Jesus.
But one area I have heard very few preachers preach from is the book of psalms. One of the few sermons I remember hearing as a little boy was on the Psalms. The pastor at Maple Sheyenne Lutheran Church preached on Psalm 56 (verse 8), the one about the Lord collecting every tear we cry into a bottle. The actual verse is:
“You have noted my lamentation;
you have put my tears into your bottle.”
Now, of course, at that age I would never have known if he was preaching on a psalm or a Gospel or whatever, but what I do remember, even to this day, is the Pastor holding up a bottle of milky water that he said was filled with tears. It was a powerful image for me at that age. And it was, I think, the beginning of my love for the Psalms. Over the years since, as I’ve come across verse 8 in Psalm 56, I remember for a moment how I felt that Sunday morning all those years ago when that Pastor held that bottle up.
Outside of that, I don’t remember any priest or pastor ever preaching on the psalms—or certainly never preaching an entire sermon on just the psalms. And I realize that, by not preaching on the psalms on occasion, preachers really are missing out on some beautiful images that can help all of us in our relationship with God.
All my life I have been drawn to the psalms. Although I have received much consolation from the Gospels and have enjoyed reading the Wisdom Books and the Prophets from the Old Testament, the book that I have come back to again and again in scripture, is the Book of Psalms.
I have kept up a practice for the last ten years or so of praying the Daily Office—the services of Morning and Evening Prayer from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. These services revolve, in a sense, around the daily reading from the Psalms. The Psalms, in the Daily Office, are used very much as prayer. Psalms can be read, but Psalms are most effective when they are actually prayed—when we use them as prayer. After praying the psalms in such a way, one finds that they, in a way somewhat different than other scriptures, really do seep into one’s very spiritual core. To use language form the psalms, they “seep into our bones like oil.” They speak to us in a way few other scriptures do.
The reason they are so appealing to me personally is because I am a poet. I know a few things about poetry after living the life of a poet for over twenty years.
And as a poet and priest, I love to preached on some of the poetic language we find in the scriptures and how sometimes it is good to have a poet in the pulpit (sometimes it’s bad to have a poet in the pulpit, especially when he or she gets a little too fancy in their language).
What so many people seem to forget about the psalms is that they are poems. Yes, originally they were written to be sung. But as well know, the words to songs are poems. Poems were originally written to be sung.
A few years ago, I taught a day-long poetry workshop at Oak Grove Lutheran School here in Fargo. I taught an hour-long course to each grade—sixth through twelfth grade. At first, you could tell that the last thing these kids wanted to do was learn about poetry. Partly the reason for this was because they always associated poetry with those rhyming poems about roses and clouds. But when I started to share with them that the words to all those songs they listened to—even the words of rap music—were poems, I saw something open up within them. And when they engaged in their own “rap battles” in the class, their appreciation for poetry changed. I was told later by faculty there that they were amazed to find teenaged boys sharing poems with each other at lunch that day.
When we look at the psalms as poems—when we recognize the poetic language contained within them and within much of scripture— most of us find ourselves coming away from the psalms with a deeper understanding of them. The language and the imagery of these poems has spoken to us for thousands of years, in much the same way the words to our favorite songs have.
Look back over your own lives. How many times—at how many funerals—have we found ourselves comforted by the words of the 23rd Psalm? Think of how many times you may have prayed these Psalms in church on Sunday over the course of your lifetime. The reasons the Psalms are so important to us is because they are so universal. They cover the whole gamut of emotions and feelings. It’s the one part of the Bible we all know we can turn to and find just what we need when we need it. When we are angry or frustrated, it’s not hard to find a psalm that addresses that feeling. If we are joyful and happy, there are psalms for that as well. When we feel as though we’ve been betrayed and slighted, there are psalms there for us at that moment as well.
Today we the beginning section of Psalm 116. At first, as we read it, we might think that it has a tone of self-centeredness. The psalm is not a collective—it is not “us” collectively, who are praying here—it very much singular.
“I” love the LORD who has heard “my” voice.
We’re not talking about common prayer here. We are talking about individual prayer. Another reason why the psalms are so vital is that they are very much the prayers of each of us as individuals. The psalms involve God and you. As we continue on in the psalm, we find the poet giving us a bit of background. Obviously he or she is emerging from a life-altering experience.
“The cords of death entangled me,”
“The anguish of the grave came upon me.”
This is not light and airy verse. These are the words of the Cross. These are words that could easily have been sung while someone hung on the cross of their death.
Psalm 116 isn’t a poem of roses and clouds. This is heavy language and heavy imagery. And language we don’t often use for ourselves. The first thought might be of an illness that has brought someone close to death.
But we need to remember here, that it is a poet writing these words. Poetic language is sometimes not as literal as we might think it is.
Oftentimes in our lives—when we have been so filled with despair, with depression, with fear—we might often feel as though death has, in fact, entangled us. Certainly in those moments when we are feeling desolate and down, life seems far away from us, while death seems too close for comfort. And if we are looking at it from a spiritual point of view, spiritual death is always lurking closer to us than we might want to admit. It is easy to fall into the snares of despair. It is easy to find our feelings of spiritual life far from us and a spiritual darkness and death come over us. In those moments, we do truly come to “grief and sorrow.”
However, in the psalms—even the laments and the dirges—those psalms that deal with the depressions and despairs of this life—those moments when one cries out to God and complains to God—even in those psalms there is always a moment, when everything turns for the better. This psalm starts out on a dark note, but there comes the moment, when the poet turns from despair and illness and looks to God—to the Life and Light God grants. The poet at this point calls out to God, “Save my life.”
And here is the paradox we are dealing with. The poet is vindicated in calling out to God in the midst of despair. The poet is innocent—of what we’re not certain, possibly innocent of whatever sins he or she feels punished for by depression or illness. And God, who is gracious and righteous and full of compassion, hears the prayer and grants it.
God saves the poet.
So, in a matter of moments, we have gone from complete despair—from a place near death—to a place of absolute joy. The restless soul of the poet finds its rest in the peace and calm of God’s Presence. The eyes that were once filled with tears have been rescued from their crying, the feet that stumbled in their weakness are now steady and full of strength, because of God’s life-giving presence. And this section of the psalms ends on a note exactly opposite of how it began. Those images of being entangled by death in the beginning of this section are replace by this incredible image of walking with God among the living.
Here we have a prime reason why the psalms are so powerful and important to us still. Most of us gathered here this morning can no doubt relate in many varying ways to this psalm. We know what this feeling is like—to be able to have our unhappiness turned to joy. Or if we don’t—and we haven’t experienced it—then we certainly long for it. Here, in the words of this psalm, are what we long for in our relationship with God. See how powerful and wonderful these psalms are. See what a storehouse of spiritual help these psalms contain.
So, take to heart the words of the psalms we pray each week. Don’t just take them for granted. Let them become your prayer as well. Take the psalm that we pray each week with you as you leave here and return to them often during the week. Read it again and again. And more importantly, pray it. Use it as your prayer as you take up your cross and follow Jesus where he goes. Like him pray it even from the crosses of your life. Even in those dark moments, let it be your voice that rises to God in joy and happiness in the face of the encroaching darkness. Let it be your voice that says,
“I love the LORD, who has heard my voice,
and listened to supplication.”
Psalm 116.1-8; Mark 8.27-38
It is appropriate in more ways than one to speak about the Cross today. Not only do we encounter language concerning the Cross in our Gospel reading, but, tonight is the eve of the Feast of Holy Cross. Here at St. Stephen’s, we will celebrate the Feast of the holy Cross on Wednesday at our mid-week Eucharist.
Also, today is Dedication Sunday. It is the Sunday in which we commemorate the dedication of St. Stephen’s congregation around this date in 1956. And today, on Dedication Sunday, we are dedicating…we are dedicating our Children’s Chapel. At our service for dedication after this Eucharist, we will go down and participate in consecrating and setting aside that chapel for God’s use. We will bless the chapel. And we will stand before the Cross that not hangs above the altar in that chapel.
Today and this coming week we are surrounded by the image of the Cross. And that’s not such a terrible image to have before us always.
Yes, it is a symbol of capital death, of execution, of torture and murder. Yes, it is not a pleasant , beautiful thing, despite all the decorating we have done to the Cross through art and paint and imagination.
But the Cross, whether we like it or not, is the symbol of our faith. On it, died the one we follow. On it we saw ultimate defeat. And in the face of that defeat, we saw ultimate victory.
The Cross, as much as it a symbol of death and of our faith, is really a symbol of the paradox of all we believe as Christians.
And in our scriptures for today, we find that paradox played out more poignantly not in our Gospel reading, in which Jesus tells us to take up our cross and follow him (though there is a beautiful paradox being played out there), but rather in our psalm.
Throughout my life in the church, I have heard many different styles of preaching. I have known pastors who have preached on every scripture reading assigned by the lectionary for a particular Sunday. Probably most of us have heard some of those pastors preach. Certainly in those days in which twenty- even thirty-minute long sermons were the norm, we all got our full of what each scripture meant and why it was meaningful to us.
I have also known pastors who have preached on a just one word from the scriptures reading for the day. Most pastors (including myself) prefer to preach the Gospel reading where there is such a wealth of vital spiritual help contained in the words of Jesus.
But one area I have heard very few preachers preach from is the book of psalms. One of the few sermons I remember hearing as a little boy was on the Psalms. The pastor at Maple Sheyenne Lutheran Church preached on Psalm 56 (verse 8), the one about the Lord collecting every tear we cry into a bottle. The actual verse is:
“You have noted my lamentation;
you have put my tears into your bottle.”
Now, of course, at that age I would never have known if he was preaching on a psalm or a Gospel or whatever, but what I do remember, even to this day, is the Pastor holding up a bottle of milky water that he said was filled with tears. It was a powerful image for me at that age. And it was, I think, the beginning of my love for the Psalms. Over the years since, as I’ve come across verse 8 in Psalm 56, I remember for a moment how I felt that Sunday morning all those years ago when that Pastor held that bottle up.
Outside of that, I don’t remember any priest or pastor ever preaching on the psalms—or certainly never preaching an entire sermon on just the psalms. And I realize that, by not preaching on the psalms on occasion, preachers really are missing out on some beautiful images that can help all of us in our relationship with God.
All my life I have been drawn to the psalms. Although I have received much consolation from the Gospels and have enjoyed reading the Wisdom Books and the Prophets from the Old Testament, the book that I have come back to again and again in scripture, is the Book of Psalms.
I have kept up a practice for the last ten years or so of praying the Daily Office—the services of Morning and Evening Prayer from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. These services revolve, in a sense, around the daily reading from the Psalms. The Psalms, in the Daily Office, are used very much as prayer. Psalms can be read, but Psalms are most effective when they are actually prayed—when we use them as prayer. After praying the psalms in such a way, one finds that they, in a way somewhat different than other scriptures, really do seep into one’s very spiritual core. To use language form the psalms, they “seep into our bones like oil.” They speak to us in a way few other scriptures do.
The reason they are so appealing to me personally is because I am a poet. I know a few things about poetry after living the life of a poet for over twenty years.
And as a poet and priest, I love to preached on some of the poetic language we find in the scriptures and how sometimes it is good to have a poet in the pulpit (sometimes it’s bad to have a poet in the pulpit, especially when he or she gets a little too fancy in their language).
What so many people seem to forget about the psalms is that they are poems. Yes, originally they were written to be sung. But as well know, the words to songs are poems. Poems were originally written to be sung.
A few years ago, I taught a day-long poetry workshop at Oak Grove Lutheran School here in Fargo. I taught an hour-long course to each grade—sixth through twelfth grade. At first, you could tell that the last thing these kids wanted to do was learn about poetry. Partly the reason for this was because they always associated poetry with those rhyming poems about roses and clouds. But when I started to share with them that the words to all those songs they listened to—even the words of rap music—were poems, I saw something open up within them. And when they engaged in their own “rap battles” in the class, their appreciation for poetry changed. I was told later by faculty there that they were amazed to find teenaged boys sharing poems with each other at lunch that day.
When we look at the psalms as poems—when we recognize the poetic language contained within them and within much of scripture— most of us find ourselves coming away from the psalms with a deeper understanding of them. The language and the imagery of these poems has spoken to us for thousands of years, in much the same way the words to our favorite songs have.
Look back over your own lives. How many times—at how many funerals—have we found ourselves comforted by the words of the 23rd Psalm? Think of how many times you may have prayed these Psalms in church on Sunday over the course of your lifetime. The reasons the Psalms are so important to us is because they are so universal. They cover the whole gamut of emotions and feelings. It’s the one part of the Bible we all know we can turn to and find just what we need when we need it. When we are angry or frustrated, it’s not hard to find a psalm that addresses that feeling. If we are joyful and happy, there are psalms for that as well. When we feel as though we’ve been betrayed and slighted, there are psalms there for us at that moment as well.
Today we the beginning section of Psalm 116. At first, as we read it, we might think that it has a tone of self-centeredness. The psalm is not a collective—it is not “us” collectively, who are praying here—it very much singular.
“I” love the LORD who has heard “my” voice.
We’re not talking about common prayer here. We are talking about individual prayer. Another reason why the psalms are so vital is that they are very much the prayers of each of us as individuals. The psalms involve God and you. As we continue on in the psalm, we find the poet giving us a bit of background. Obviously he or she is emerging from a life-altering experience.
“The cords of death entangled me,”
“The anguish of the grave came upon me.”
This is not light and airy verse. These are the words of the Cross. These are words that could easily have been sung while someone hung on the cross of their death.
Psalm 116 isn’t a poem of roses and clouds. This is heavy language and heavy imagery. And language we don’t often use for ourselves. The first thought might be of an illness that has brought someone close to death.
But we need to remember here, that it is a poet writing these words. Poetic language is sometimes not as literal as we might think it is.
Oftentimes in our lives—when we have been so filled with despair, with depression, with fear—we might often feel as though death has, in fact, entangled us. Certainly in those moments when we are feeling desolate and down, life seems far away from us, while death seems too close for comfort. And if we are looking at it from a spiritual point of view, spiritual death is always lurking closer to us than we might want to admit. It is easy to fall into the snares of despair. It is easy to find our feelings of spiritual life far from us and a spiritual darkness and death come over us. In those moments, we do truly come to “grief and sorrow.”
However, in the psalms—even the laments and the dirges—those psalms that deal with the depressions and despairs of this life—those moments when one cries out to God and complains to God—even in those psalms there is always a moment, when everything turns for the better. This psalm starts out on a dark note, but there comes the moment, when the poet turns from despair and illness and looks to God—to the Life and Light God grants. The poet at this point calls out to God, “Save my life.”
And here is the paradox we are dealing with. The poet is vindicated in calling out to God in the midst of despair. The poet is innocent—of what we’re not certain, possibly innocent of whatever sins he or she feels punished for by depression or illness. And God, who is gracious and righteous and full of compassion, hears the prayer and grants it.
God saves the poet.
So, in a matter of moments, we have gone from complete despair—from a place near death—to a place of absolute joy. The restless soul of the poet finds its rest in the peace and calm of God’s Presence. The eyes that were once filled with tears have been rescued from their crying, the feet that stumbled in their weakness are now steady and full of strength, because of God’s life-giving presence. And this section of the psalms ends on a note exactly opposite of how it began. Those images of being entangled by death in the beginning of this section are replace by this incredible image of walking with God among the living.
Here we have a prime reason why the psalms are so powerful and important to us still. Most of us gathered here this morning can no doubt relate in many varying ways to this psalm. We know what this feeling is like—to be able to have our unhappiness turned to joy. Or if we don’t—and we haven’t experienced it—then we certainly long for it. Here, in the words of this psalm, are what we long for in our relationship with God. See how powerful and wonderful these psalms are. See what a storehouse of spiritual help these psalms contain.
So, take to heart the words of the psalms we pray each week. Don’t just take them for granted. Let them become your prayer as well. Take the psalm that we pray each week with you as you leave here and return to them often during the week. Read it again and again. And more importantly, pray it. Use it as your prayer as you take up your cross and follow Jesus where he goes. Like him pray it even from the crosses of your life. Even in those dark moments, let it be your voice that rises to God in joy and happiness in the face of the encroaching darkness. Let it be your voice that says,
“I love the LORD, who has heard my voice,
and listened to supplication.”
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