“Not a Normal Sunday”
A sermon by Sid Burgess for Edgewood PC, Birmingham, AL
June 20, 2010
Text: Psalm 42
On a normal Sunday, any God-fearing, Bible-believing, hymn-singing preacher would make a grab for either the story of Elijah in flight from wicked Queen Jezebel or Luke’s tale of a stampeding herd of pigs. I mean if a preacher can’t keep a congregation awake with these stories, he or she needs to hang up the robe and go find a real job. But this is not a normal Sunday. Forgive the battlefield analogy but this congregation has been hit in recent months by a barrage of enemy fire. Shouts of “incoming” can be heard from Session meetings. Deacons have learned to duck at the sound of a ringing phone. Members wince before opening emails—please, no more losses. Some members see the pastor’s name on caller ID and instinctively reach for a crying towel. So, this is not a normal Sunday. I propose to bypass Elijah and the broom tree and Jesus commanding the legion of demons to focus on our responsive reading, Psalm 42.
1 As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God. What a beautiful, soothing scene! I’ve always pictured a Bambi-type deer, tip-toeing through a cool, green glade to sip clear water from a babbling brook. At the outset of the week I thought perhaps this soothing scene would give us comfort.
Even before we learned of Steven Gilliland’s sudden death, I was jarred from these tranquil thoughts by Professor Peter Hawkins’ commentary on Psalm 42. The title of his piece, first published in Christian Century back in 2001, is “A Howl of Despair.” Instead of Bambi, Professor Hawkins writes, imagine an enormous buck, driven mad by the heat of the sun. Instead of a cool, green glade, imagine this massive animal stumbling across a desert landscape in utter exhaustion. With that image in your mind, now listen again to the urgent plea of the poet: “My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and behold the face of God?”
Professor Hawkins says for too long we have ignored the pain of this poet whose only sustenance has been the salt of his own sorrow: "My tears have been my food day and night." The psalmist vacillates between despair and hope. The poet concedes, “My soul is cast down within me.” But then he questions himself, “Why are you cast down, O my soul.” “Hope in God; for I shall again praise (God), my help and my God.”
In this poet’s experience God does not disappoint. The poet imagines the divine response not as a babbling brook but as an enormous surge of water: “As deep calls to deep at the thunder of your cataracts (waterfalls); all of your waves and your billows have washed over me.” Imagine the love and mercy of God washing over this grieving congregation like wave after wave of the mighty sea.
Professor Hawkins’ thirst-driven deer and the poet’s image of a massive divine response bring to mind a bike ride Kevin Patton and I did three years ago. At the height of the drought and heat wave of 2007, we signed up for a 100-mile bike ride originating from historic downtown Tuscaloosa. The name of the event--The Hot Hundred—and the timing—August in Alabama— should have been warning enough. What’s more, I had wise wife Melissa’s admonition that this event would be no place for an overweight, then-58-year-old man.
But, not to worry, we had done long-distance rides before, and
this one would be well-organized and fully-supported by the
Tuscaloosa Bicycle Club. So Kevin and I were there at the start,
with more than 100 cyclists in the relative cool of the morning. All
went well at the outset. We took off at an aggressive pace, tagging
along with a group of young riders. But as the morning wore on, as
the heat rose, as the miles piled up, I began to fall behind. My
faithful, patient, long-suffering companion Kevin, slowed along with
me, allowing me—as he always does—to draft behind him. About 50
miles into the ride, my legs began to cramp and I slowed to a
snail’s pace.
The oppressive heat descended upon me like a scratchy wool blanket.
My bike pedals felt as heavy as concrete blocks. My water supply was
almost exhausted. The cramps were getting worse, but strong Kevin
was able to guide me into a ride-sponsored rest stop. I will tell
you no oasis in the desert was ever a more welcomed sight.
There, a well-prepared emergency medical tech was already treating several similarly-stricken riders. She sat me down in front of two huge tubs filled with bath towels soaking in ice water. She removed my helmet, pulled a soaking towel out of the icy water, and draped it over my head. I hate a cold shower but let me tell you that frozen towel felt wonderful. She wrapped another frozen towel around my shoulders. She gave me ice cold water to wash down small packets of salt. When I tried to stand, she shoved me back and weighted me down with yet another icy towel.
From that experience I can relate to the relief experienced by the poet of Psalm 42: "Deep calls to deep at the thunder of your waterfalls; all your waves and your billows have gone over me." Not a trickle from a stream, not a babbling brook, but the mercy and grace of God coming to him--coming to me--- in wave after wave of the ocean.
As a congregation reeling from recent losses, and still hurting from a trusted church employee’s betrayal—not to mention our normal share of accidents, disease, divorces, job losses, financial woes, youthful rebellions and old-age stubbornness, no one would blame us for joining the poet of Psalm 42 in questioning God
9 I say to God, my rock, “Why have you forgotten me?
10 As with a deadly wound in my body, my adversaries
taunt me,
while they say to me continually, “Where is your God?”
But we also know the answer to these questions. God has not forgotten us, and God is present with us in our pain and suffering. “As deep calls to deep at the thunder of your (waterfalls); all of your waves and your billows have washed over me.” Not a trickle from a stream, not a babbling brook, but the mercy and grace of God coming to us like wave after wave of the ocean.
How do we know this? Memory--the memories of our ancestors who preserved their sacred encounters in Holy Scripture. And our memories of our life together:
4 These things I remember (writes the poet), as I pour
out my soul:
how I went with the throng, and led them in procession to the house
of God,
with glad shouts and songs of thanksgiving, a multitude keeping
festival.
Because we do not keep silence, but share our losses, honestly and openly . . . . Because we experience together the pain and grief inherent in the human condition, we do not despair. Because we recall in the celebration of the Lord’s Supper each Lord’s Day the saving death of the Lord, we are able join heart and voice together to sing “songs of thanksgiving.”
Back to that bike ride in Tuscaloosa. Seeing that I was well attended, Kevin rode on ahead. I eventually recovered and was able to continue the ride though my pace was more akin to a crawl. By the time I finished the course, the parking lot was nearly empty, and the ride sponsors long-departed. But as I coasted in, there stood my faithful friend Kevin, waiting for me, greeting me with a big smile. He was freshly showered and dressed in street clothes, pretending for all the world that he had not been bored for hours as he waited.
As Kevin stood waiting to welcome me, so stands the church waiting for us when we have lost our way, been forced to detour, been slowed by injury, illness, or age. Because we experience together the pain and grief inherent in the human condition, we do not despair. Of course, we don’t make it to the mountaintop in worship every Sunday. But, together we do keep on climbing. Together, we are climbing Jacob’s ladder. “Every rung goes higher and higher. We are climbing Jacob’s ladder.” We keep on climbing because we have hope in God. We may trip over roots and rocks. We may fall down but we are able to get back up and keep on climbing because we share with each other the experience of God’s love:
"Deep calls to deep at the thunder of your waterfalls; all your waves and your billows have gone over me." Not a trickle from a stream, not a babbling brook, but the mercy and grace of God coming to us in wave after wave of the ocean. For the ancient poet, and for us, nothing less than the sea can convey the sheer magnitude of God’s blessings.
Now to the One
who by the power at work within us
is able to do far more abundantly
than all we ask or imagine,
to God be the glory in the church
and in Christ Jesus
to all generations, forever and ever. Ephesians 3:20, 21