God in Light and Dark
John Shuck
First Presbyterian
Church
Elizabethton,
Tennessee
December 7, 2014
Psalm 139:1-12
O Lord, you
have searched me and known me.
You know when I
sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my
thoughts from far away.
You search out
my path and my lying down,
and are
acquainted with all my ways.
Even before a
word is on my tongue,
O Lord, you
know it completely.
You hem me in,
behind and before,
and lay your
hand upon me.
Such knowledge
is too wonderful for me;
it is so high
that I cannot attain it.
Where can I go
from your spirit?
Or where can I
flee from your presence?
If I ascend to
heaven, you are there;
if I make my
bed in Sheol, you are there.
If I take the
wings of the morning
and settle at
the farthest limits of the sea,
even there your
hand shall lead me,
and your right
hand shall hold me fast.
If I say,
‘Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light
around me become night’,
even the
darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as
bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
The Jesus Seminar is now talking about God. It hadn’t in a formal way previously. The Seminar focused on questions surrounding
the historical Jesus, Paul and the early Jesus movements. God is a topic that historians leave to the
theologians. I remember my frustration
in seminary when I sensed that the departments of theology, biblical studies,
and history seemed to keep to themselves.
“That is a question for the theologians,” the history people would
say. Theologians didn’t want their lofty
thoughts limited by questions of history.
They were wary about treading on each other’s questions and wary of the
others treading on their territory. I
felt the need to integrate all of it.
The questions the Jesus Seminar raised about the historical
Jesus inevitably led to questions of faith and to questions about God. Many are now realizing that it is time to
talk about God and what that word has come to mean. Now the Jesus Seminar has begun the God Seminar. One of the leaders of this seminar is David Galston who spoke to me a couple of years ago on the radio program about
post-atheism. Here is a promotion for a Jesus Seminar on the Road coming
up next February in Florida. David is
one of the presenters:
Over the course of the
seventeenth through nineteenth centuries, the term God effectively stopped
working as an explanation for the origins of things, the history of languages
and the nature of the cosmos. By the twentieth century, it became clear that
the concept of God no longer made sense, that God is (so to speak) dead.
Presenters David Galston and Jack Kelly will ask if there is any value to
religion after the death of God. Or whether it is possible that religion
without God might compose the best option for the future.
I think this is a very interesting discussion, so
interesting that I bring it up in controversial places such as sermons, blogs,
facebook posts and radio programs. The
pushback I have received for doing this comes in this form:
How can you be a
minister and say that? You cannot be a
minister and say these things or have these views.
This pushback usually comes from fellow ministers. We should parse what is being said
here.
You as a minister,
even though your field is God and you are in the God business, because you are
a minister, the most interesting questions about God are off-limits to
you. By virtue of the ministry and your
ordination vows and whatever other authority we can throw at you, you have
limited yourself to a certain acceptable way of speaking about God. Laypeople can ask these questions but
ministers need to stay on message.
Obviously, by the way I have paraphrased the pushback, I
think that ministers not only could but should get “off message” and talk about
all questions regarding God. The taboo
questions are those that may be the most fruitful.
Please do hear this:
This congregation has been an awesome place to have this
conversation. With minor exceptions
that are to be expected, this congregation has welcomed and encouraged taboo
questions. You have supported me from
all the heat from the outside. One of
my colleague friends marveled that after nine years of the Layman and hostile
bloggers and whatever else that Holston Presbytery still failed to bring me up
on charges. The reason for that is
because I was confident. My confidence
came from a supportive congregation. You
have encouraged me to speak what I think is true. You protect the freedom of
the pulpit. As long as you continue to
do that, you will have people lining up to be the next minister. My
prayer to the Lord is that for the sake of the children, you always will give
heresy a chance.
People ask why I am leaving.
It has nothing to do with any of that.
I have been here longer than I have been anywhere. You have heard all my heresies. It is time to hear some new ones as you
create your own. I have reached a time
in my life and in my career that I needed to make a decision about next
steps. I am a long way from
retirement. I feel the call to spread
my heresies to the West Coast. Nothing
is right or wrong or bad or good. No coulda no shoulda. It is just time.
All that said, still I grieve. I know you do, too. Leaving is a grief on top of grief. Both Bev and I have fallen in love here. We grieve leaving our daughters, you, all the
wonderful people we have met in our various circles, the beauty of the soft
round mountains, the weather, Americana music, Appalachian culture, Zach’s tree at Holston
Camp. Our hearts will be here.
I am glad for that. I
am glad that leaving is grieving and not celebrating. Grief measures the depth of love. Still
it is painful. I know it is painful for
you, too. No matter what explanations,
platitudes, and promises are offered, it hurts when a friend moves away. Nothing to do or say in these times but to
sit with it in hallowed silence. As
Barbara Brown Taylor writes:
The only thing the dark night requires of us is to remain conscious.
The only thing the dark night requires of us is to remain conscious.
After Zach died, I wondered if I would become more orthodox
in my beliefs. I wondered if my doubts
about traditional concepts of God were because I hadn’t suffered enough and if
grief now would drive me back to the faith of my childhood. I have no idea what is to come. I feel I have just started on this path that
meanders through this strange but holy darkness. I can say that this grief did not take me
back but it has pushed me ahead. Even
saying that I have to admit there is a coming back as well. As Matthew Fox says, it is a spiral not a
circle.
The Psalmist in Psalm 139 does not want God. This psalm does not begin with a celebration
of God’s presence. The psalmist feels
oppressed by God:
“You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand on me.”
“You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand on me.”
That is not a comforting hand, but a hand of power. He is
trapped. Hemmed in. He
wants to run away. For him, God is too much. He can’t even speak without God finishing
his sentences. His thoughts aren’t his
own as God knows them before he thinks them.
He wants to run away.
“Where can I go from your spirit?”
“Where can I go from your spirit?”
There is no where to go.
To the stars, to the pit. God’s
there. Beyond the sea. God.
Even in darkness, surely one can find rest. But no, God’s is there making darkness
light.
There are times in life when God is simply not welcome. Particularly unwelcome are others’
platitudes about God. You just don’t
want it. Yet you can’t get away from
it. You do what you can to create space
for yourself. There is nothing wrong
with that. It is not a state of sin or
lack of faith or whatever. It is the
night. It is futile. You can’t get away anymore than you can get
away from gravity.
I only included half the psalm. I want to read the rest of it. It continues:
For it was you who
formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you, for I am
fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
that I know very well.
My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made
in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the
earth.
Your eyes beheld my
unformed substance.
In your book were
written
all the days that were formed for me,
when none of them as yet existed.
How weighty to me are
your thoughts, O God!
How vast is the sum of them!
I try to count them—they
are more than the sand;
I come to the end—I am still with you.
In this psalm the psalmist moves from resignation to
praise. But we shouldn’t think this is
a sinner coming home who strayed for a time from orthodoxy and the bosom of
Mother Church but has now returned with downcast eyes covered with sackcloth
and ashes.
No, I think the psalmist has gone through a journey no one
understands except those who have travelled it. It is a recognition that Life Is no
matter what. The psalmist goes
through a transformation in regards to Life.
I choose to use the word Life as opposed to God here as it reflects my
transformation. Life is not just
oppressive and confining but possible.
I come to the end—I am
still with you.
How do you read that?
Is that oppression or
embrace? Is it a hint of both? Life is confining. Life has its tragic limits. Still I am here. Still
I have within me the possibility of marvel and delight. Life is beautifully terrible and terrible
in its beauty. I find that when I
read this psalm, it is at first reading oppressive, then as I read it again
what was oppressive is actually an experience of grace.
The final section of the psalm contains the part we tend to
skip because it is so politically incorrect:
O that you would kill
the wicked, O God,
and that the bloodthirsty would depart from
me—
those who speak of you
maliciously,
and lift themselves up against you for evil!
Do I not hate those
who hate you, O Lord?
And do I not loathe those who rise up
against you?
I hate them with
perfect hatred;
I count them my enemies.
Search me, O God, and
know my heart;
test me and know my thoughts.
See if there is any
wicked way in me,
and lead me in the way everlasting.
You have to admire the honesty. I know some wicked who need a divine
smiting. Let’s have a prayer and name
the wicked. Come on, it will be
cathartic. If you are too bashful, just
name the wicked in your hearts and pray for a strategic bolt of lightning. The passion is palpable:
I hate them with a
perfect hatred.
Amen.
Once you go there you then have a moment to pause…
Oh wait a second.
Before we smite the wicked, Lord, you and me, I better take a quick
check in the mirror. See if there might
be some wicked in between my teeth. The
psalmist is willing to take the test.
Search me, O God, and
know my heart;
Test me and know my
thoughts.
See if there is any
wicked way in me,
And lead me in the way
everlasting.
That is the transformative path. The psalm begins with Life as oppressive and
moves toward Life as transformative, even the wicked without and within are led
“the way everlasting.”
The reason Psalm 139 is enduring and endearing is because it
is so human. It asks the hard
questions and expresses the uncomfortable emotions and allows the space for
that.
I thank you for allowing me that space. I hope you have experienced that space as well. I hope that at times I have articulated some of your own journey. Sometimes we just need a validation that our experiences are shared.
I thank you for allowing me that space. I hope you have experienced that space as well. I hope that at times I have articulated some of your own journey. Sometimes we just need a validation that our experiences are shared.
We all need space to be honest, vulnerable, and as
politically incorrect as we need to be in order to follow the path we need to
follow.
In some cases, we just need to be in the dark for awhile.
Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment