Psalm 39, Mark 10 and me

Thursday, June 1, 2023

Memorial of Saint Justin, Martyr

(click here to listen to or read today’s scriptures)

Psalm 39, Mark 10 and me

Mary Oliver wrote:

I live in the open mindedness of not knowing enough about anything.

It was beautiful.

How quietly, and not with any assignment from us, or even a small hint of understanding,

Everything that needs to be done is done. —Mary Oliver, “Luna”

Even after all my days I still am learning to lament. Richard Rohr calls this “maybe the most honest form of prayer,” and necessary too, for without it “we do not suffer the necessary pain of this world, the necessary sadness of being human.”

Can I look that sadness in the eye? I am an incomplete, sin-laden eternal being in intimate relationship with my temporary body but virtually no contact with my infinitude. All the way back then in the Garden, God would not allow us to eat from the tree of life, “and live forever.”

Always I am taught, through my Christian childhood, to think simultaneously of myself as fallen and as born again. My teachers didn’t manage that juggling act very well, and neither do I.

Dr. Tim Jennings paraphrased the Bible and called his paraphrase The Remedy. Here’s his take on Psalm 39, a relatively unread psalm of lament.

I have decided, “I will be careful how I live

and will not sin by what I say.

I will guard my speech

while around evil people, who will twist my words.”

 

But as I stood there in silence, not saying a word —

not even anything good —

my frustration only increased.

My heart flamed with irritation,

and as I thought about it, I grew more impatient,

so I spoke these words to the Lord:

 

“Reveal to me the end of my life — how it turns out —

the measure of my character;

help me to understand how little time I have.

You have given me life for just a short time;

my lifespan is like a moment to you.

Even the oldest human life is like a vapor — it quickly passes away.

The truth is: every human is a dead-person walking — a mere shadow fading away;

all their selfish work is for nothing.

They hoard wealth, but who will spend it when they are gone?

 

So where do I put my hope, Lord?

I put my hope in you!

Heal me from all my deviations from your design;

do not leave me to fade away in disgrace.

 

I am speechless; I have nothing to say for myself,

for you have convinced me.

You can stop holding my feet to the fire;

my denial is over and I’m ready to die to selfishness.

 

You confront and discipline people for their deviations from your designs for life;

their self-sufficiency you consume like a dry grass —

every human is but a vapor.

 

Hear my request, O Lord,

listen to my cry for help, and

comfort me when I weep.

For I am just passing through this world, completely dependent on you,

a stranger here, just like my ancestors were.

 Remove your discipline from me, that I may rejoice once again

before I depart and am no more.”

The psalmist juggles his hope and his despair, oh yes. And in putting that puzzle into words that I can read out loud, the psalmist blesses me. Now when I read the gospel for today about blind old Bartimaeus, I think I can imagine myself into his story:

All day every day I sit begging, forever blind, forever crying out “Alms for the poor, alms for the poor!” I own a cloak, and I guard that beyond reason, since it’s all I have. Now Jesus and his crowd of disciples are coming, they are beside me, nearly past me, and I shout more loudly than I thought possible.

Jesus, son of David, have pity on me!

Son of David, have pity on me!

And then some men and women around me shout into my ear (as if that would help me see).

Take courage; get up, Jesus is calling you.

And in an act of unheard of courage, I throw aside my cloak, because I needed to get up. Now!

I couldn’t see him, but Jesus’ words were clear. Respectful.

What do you want me to do for you?

I could have thought a bit before answering, but I guess there was no need. I knew. And then I didn’t shout, not really. His voice quieted my soul. My breathing slowed. I just knew what he wanted to give me.

Master, I want to see.

And he did.

The days that followed were filled with stories of my faith and my fear, and stories about whom I had been talking to. The world around me was colorful and new. At night as I closed my eyes (closed my eyes!) and fell asleep, I sensed that there was much more to seeing than I had known. And that Jesus had known, and that he was with me now, teaching me about my sin and God’s infinite power to forgive me, coupled with my limited capacity to receive that forgiveness. In these realizations I wept often, remembering Jesus’ words.

Go your way; your faith has saved you.

(Sirach 42, Psalm 33, John 8, Mark 10)

(posted at www.davesandel.net)

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