I'm not much a fan of hockey, but they say
"We we won last night."
Yesterday my son points out to me that
when the team we're cheering for wins
we tell each other, "We won."
But when the team we're cheering for doesn't,
we tell each other, "They lost."
As in: "They lost last Sunday."
Again, I'm not much a fan of hockey,
But I wonder if there isn't some ancient seed of sin in that
unnoticed tendency to include (only when we gain from it)
those we would decisively exclude
when they can't deliver.
I've been spending a lot of time in the Psalms these days. I'm preaching through some of them as part of the Lent season at the FreeWay, and I'm discovering both how beautiful they are, and how easily mis-read. This is partly because of our ego-centric tendency to ignore that small Hebrew word that starts almost every Psalm, and jump almost immediately to make these prayers, praises, petitions and pleas our own. Of course, this "works" when the prayer is "Surely goodness and mercy will folow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." But it's a little awkward when the plea is "strike my enemies on the jaw, break the teeth of the wicked." And it is downright risky when the petition is, "examine my heart and my mind ... for I continually walk in your truth."
To be honest, I could never pray that last one and be honest. And were I to try-- to ask God to examine my heart because I've continually walked in his truth-- He would only see the depths of my self-deception there.
And that's why that one little word makes all the difference. The word is "of David." In Hebrew it's just four letters. But they're the four leters that transform this Psalm, because they remind us that these prayers, praises, petitions and pleas, they're not ours. They're David's. The Anointed's. The Christ's.
And of, course, not even David could pray them perfectly, but the Shining Christ of whom he was but the Shadow, the perfect Christ who alone walked continually in Yaweh's truth, he could. These prayers for vindication, petitions for deliverance from death, appeals to complete innocence, they belong to Jesus, who alone can pray them perfectly and purely. Only in Jesus can these prayers become ours, as the petitions of God's people (and still they're not mine before they are ours).
Bonhoeffer helped me get this. He insists that we must read the Psalms first and foremost as the “Prayerbook of Christ.” He says: “The same words that David spoke ... the future Messiah spoke. … It is none other than Christ who prayed them in Christ’s own forerunner, David.” And of course, this is how the New Testament writers read the Psalms. They continually and consistently put David’s songs of praise in Jesus’ mouth. For instance, in Romans 15:8-9, Paul applies Psalm 117:1 directly to Jesus: “I will praise you [God] among the Gentiles; / I will sing hymns to your [God’s] name.” Specifically here Christ’s “hymn of praise” is “sung” to the tune of his servanthood among the Jews, whereby the Gentiles “glorify God for his mercy” (15:9b). In a similar way, the author of Hebrews puts a psalm of praise on Christ’s lips: “I will declare your name to my brothers / in the presence of the congregation I will sing your praises” (Psa 22:22). Here Christ’s “praise” takes the form of his willingness to identify as “brother” with those whom God has brought to glory through his own suffering, those who could never merit glory on their own.
This goes beyond merely reading individual psalms as messianic prophecy. The Book of Psalms as a whole gathers together in itself all the lamentations and celebrations and heart-cries, “every need, every joy, every thanksgiving, and every hope” (as Bonhoeffer would say) of God’s people; and Jesus, the Messianic “Son of David,” gathers them together in himself and offers them in his own perfect self-offering on the cross, on behalf of his brothers and sisters. This is why Hebrews 13:15 insists that our “sacrifice of praise” can only be offered “through him,” and must always be an acknowledgement of his name, for as with all our responses to God, our praise must participate in the perfect praise of Christ, our mediator.
Okay. Maybe that's all just so much Ivory Tower Theology.
But watch what happens when we read the Psalms as the prayer book of Christ. Psalm One insists that the way of the wicked perishes and the way of the righteous prospers. And if I read this as my own personal prayer, then I wonder: my "way" has been prospering of late, does that "prove" my "righteousness"? Or maybe: my way has not been propsering of late, does that "prove" my "wickedness?" And suddenly I'm spiralling in this snare of works-righteous, health-and-wealth theology that's so disconected from the gospel of Jesus it would be laughable if it weren't so tragic and so real for so many people.
But if I read Psalm One as Christ's own prayer, then I discover the beauty of its promise: the "way" of the righteous Christ will prosper; he will become a tree planted by water, bearing beautiful, life-giving fruit in season. And Christ's way is to take broken, weak, guilty sinners like me an make them forgiven, heart-strong and whole in him. And as Psalm one assures me: he will propser in this way. Because he alone has not walked, stood or sat in the Way of sinners, He can't fail in this.
I'm not the righteous Tree. I'm just the fruit of Its righteousness.
And that's really good news.
God, in the righteousness of Jesus, we discover the depth our unrighteousness.
In the wholeness of Jesus, we discover the extent of our brokenness.
In Jesus’ oneness with you, we discover the great chasm of our alienation from you.
I mean: we’ve fit you in to our lives, but we haven’t loved you with all our heart, soul, mind and strength. We’ve tolerated our neighbours, but we haven’t loved them as ourselves. We pray, but usually it’s for our own will to be done, not yours on earth as it is in heaven.
Oh, God: we’ve judged specks in the eyes of those around us, specks we could barely see through the plank in our own eye.
We’ve stored up earthly treasures, all the while knowing you’ve offered us heavenly treasure—see: we were hoping we could get both.
We’ve looked at people made in your image, as though they were things.
We’ve sworn “yes” when we really meant “no” and said “no” when we really meant “yes”;
We’ve used words to hurt and tear down and kill instead of to bless and give life and create.
We’ve done these things, and more.
[pause]
We’re sorry God.
We want things to be different.
We want Jesus’ righteousness, Jesus wholeness, Jesus oneness with you to define us, and to define our life with you.
And so we come to you today praying this ancient prayer from the ancient book you gave us, because we know that you are gracious and compassionate, slow to anger, quick to forgive and infinite in steadfast love. Jesus proved it to us:
Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions.
Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin.
For I know my transgressions, and my sin is always before me.
Cleanse me with hyssop and I will be clean; wash me and I will be whiter than snow. Hide your face from my sins and blot out all my iniquity.
Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.
Do not cast me from your presence or take your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.
[Time for quiet confession]
Friends and followers of Jesus, hear his good news:
If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!
All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation.
Receive the grace of God: In Jesus Christ we are new creation.
We are forgiven.
Lawrence Ferlinghetti has this poignant poem about being a poet that starts: "Constantly risking absurdity/and death whenever he performs / above the heads of his audience / the poet like an acrobat / climbs on rime / to a high-wire of his own making..."
It goes on to talk about how the poet's a "the super realist / who must perforce perceive /taut truth / before the taking of each stance or step /in his supposed advance / toward that still higher perch / where Beauty stands and waits /with gravity..." I won't post the whole thing, but you can read it here if you want to relive the old High School Lit. days. Really, brilliant stuff.
I hear this poem ringing in my head sometimes when I'm in the depths (or on the heights, as the case may be) of sermon preparation. With only a few very vital differences (differences that make all the difference), what Ferlinghetti says about the poet could equally be said of the preacher: "Constantly risking absurdity / and death whenever he proclaims / above the heads of his audience / the preacher like an acrobat / climbs on wind [i.e. ruach] / to a high-wire of no man's making..." And, of course it's not Beauty who waits on the other side of day, but Him from whom beauty itself derives its name.
Some times I feel very sharply the risk of absurdity, and death (though of course this, too, is absurd, for it's not physical death but a deeper death to self that is no real death at all)-- but as I was saying-- I feel that risk sharply sometimes. And sometimes I feel like I'm waving my arms frantically just to keep from slipping off the tightrope altogether. But some other times I feel the exhiliration of having taken just one more tentative step towards the "other side of day."
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