This post is the next in our series based on sermons preached at St Peter’s Church, Mowbray, Cape Town on the Psalms Of Ascents. The Sunday we were due to cover this Psalm (September 22nd) was the day we found ourselves waiting to hear news of our friend and church member James, at that stage known to be missing in the Nairobi Westgate Mall terrorist attack. Due to the circumstances the sermon touched on the Psalm only briefly as we unpacked what that moment of waiting meant for us that day; so this post is not so much the adaptation of a sermon as it is a reflection on the Psalm in the context of the circumstances we are in a few weeks later. It focuses on the thirteenth of the Psalms of Ascents, Psalm 133 It’s best to read that first, and have it open next to you as you read the rest of the post.
For links to the previous posts in this series, scroll to the end of this post.
I’ve long told myself that I have a terrible memory. In many ways, that’s true. My short-term recall is hopeless; my capacity for names embarrassing for a pastor; my capacity to recall numbers almost non-existent.
Not the whole truth, though. I can recall vividly when and where I first saw the woman who would become my wife. Not because it was love at first sight – it wasn’t, for either of us. I was struck by her, sure. I remember the meeting, though, because of the story that followed that meeting. I can remember facts about sport, books, films, plays, holidays, meals – none because of the facts themselves, but because of the story that’s arranged itself around them in my mind. Stories matter deeply to me, lodging themselves into my being like a comfortable old pair of slippers on my feet.
The singers and pray-ers of the Psalms of Ascents had stories to tell. Stories of their individual journey to and from Jerusalem for the great celebrations of the community’s year. They had stories to tell of what had happened to them since their last journey. They had stories to tell of their community’s past – of Abram, of Moses, of Exodus, of David … and on the list would go, stories recounted and recalled on the way to worship, in the liturgies of the worship and the architecture of the temple. The stories would be told and retold, meanings uncovered and unfurled afresh and again as they were re-experienced with each new journey.
This next Psalm, number 132, was one of those. It prompted, through a series of verbal cues, a whole era of the people’s past.
Lord, remember David (verse 1)
David. The man who helped find the Ark. The Ark of God’s presence. A wooden box around which the esteem and identity of a nation revolved. A box which in its history provided proof that the presence of the living God was real and mattered. It mattered where God was and that God’s presence was not taken for granted or exploited like a magical spell. Psalm 132 doesn’t retell the story; instead it coaxes memory into life like a cooling cloth on the forehead of the heat-stricken.
So they look back and see what God has been and has done. Then the focus moves; from looking over the shoulder for reassurance they now look ahead with comfort. This God has always been with us, so He will do us well; the line of David will continue, God’s people will be provided for and blessed and rewarded. So they keept going, keep on keeping on because they remembered well. how God had been.
We’ve been doing much remembering over the last two weeks. As we’ve sat trembling with shock at the loss of our dear friend at the indiscriminately evil hands of terrorism, we remember. Where we were when we heard? Who he is, was (which is it? is or was). We remember him and retell his story in our lives. The hugs, the laughs, the arguments, the things done and left undone simply because he caught a terrorist’s bullet.
Grief is horrible. Grief plus trauma is nightmarish. Grief plus trauma plus an international news story is shattering in ways I can’t yet articulate. All of us close to this have been taken to undreamed of places over the last few days and that will continue for some time, maybe in some form for our whole lives. These are events which shift a life on its axis.
Yes, we’ve been doing much remembering. In doing so some of us ask of God why, some of us want to ask a terrorist why, some of us rage, some of us cry. Most us do all of these things and more, in seemingly random waves and cycles moving to their own inexplicable internal rhythm.
God did not protect James. No angel rugby tackled him to the ground as the bullets flew. The Spirit blows where it will, but that day it didn’t blow a bullet off course. So we rage and ask and long and so much more.
If this is where we finish then this is unbearable.
It’s not, though. True Christian faith both lives with this soul-searing reality and still never understands this life as the only destination. Not that this life doesn’t matter; it does, profoundly, and we are called to live it well. The life, though, is a journey to a new creation just as the pilgrims of the Psalms of Ascents were on a journey to temple. To where God’s presence is poured out fully on everything. That’s what we’re heading for. There is where we, with the Psalm writer, will see the poor finally and fully satisfied – so when we assist with that now we point towards what’s coming. There is where all who follow the One who came in the line of David will see what is right crowned with glory, what is evil and violent lie in filthy rags. There violence will have its place finally defined and completely limited.
None of that changes the direction of a bullet or the sting of a tear now. But it gives them an orientation, a limitation, a divinely electrified fence beyond which they will never move. We look back and see God has been, so He will be, even though now it may not feel like He is. I see that in my friend’s life and death.
God willing, I’ll see it in my own. Or somebody else will.
Also in this series: