Praise the Lord, all nations;
 laud him, all peoples!
For his lovingkindness is great towards us,
 and the truth of the Lord is everlasting.
Praise the Lord!
                  Psalm 117 [116]

That’s it. That’s the whole psalm. Usually I read through the psalm a couple of times, and a verse catches my attention. And usually, there are a number of verses from which to choose. Today I reached for my Bible, assuming that there was more to the psalm than the daily reading–in spite of the still, small voice telling me that was enough: the bottomless mercy and eternal truth of God are enough for a day’s reflection. Indeed so.

Too often, I find myself looking for the clever bit, for the interesting connection or what strikes me as the deeper meaning, or the surprising meaning. I want to find something that makes me (and perhaps others) say, ‘A-ha. Now that’s [interesting/profound/smart/significant]. I never thought of it that way before.’ Not that there’s anything wrong with that on the face of it. A new or renewed insight can go a long way on a busy or difficult day, and by the grace of God I sometimes stumble upon a refreshing thought. Praise God for that!

But the ordinary truth of the gospel should blow me away: ‘His lovingkindness is great towards us, and the truth of the Lord is everlasting.’ It is that basic truth that inspired Job to say (from the short reading in morning prayer), not just in spite of his misfortunes but in view of his misfortunes, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ Because no matter what the circumstances are on any given day, God’s love is still certain, God’s truth still secure. So hope is well-founded, and joy will come again.

Praise the Lord!

Great are the works of the Lord;
 they are studied by all who delight in them.
                                      Psalm 111 [110]: 2

Delight.

I reached for my NASB this morning, finding the translation on the Universalis website uninspiring. Honestly, I think my old NASB inspires partly because the feel of it in my hand is so familiar and associated with many years of psalm-reading. And, I suppose, with a certain sort of delight: a delight in drinking in these words, in praying with the prayer book of Israel and the church, in finding my sorrows drowned in the vast and eternal love of God. “Delight yourself in the Lord,” says the psalmist (Ps 37 [36]), “and he will give you the desires of your heart.” Learning to take delight in the Lord is a long, slow process, and one I know I have only just begun.

I call to you Lord, all the day long;
 to you I stretch out my hands.
Will you work wonders for the dead?
 Will the shades stand and praise you?
                                           Psalm 87 [86]

Just as I think that I am finally getting it together, I find myself struggling to hold on. ‘I call to you, Lord, all the day long.’ Indeed: because the little things threaten to overwhelm me. The small catastrophes and minor disasters of car trouble and technological glitches, the feeling that there are too many things to do in too short a space of time: these are the things that, taken together, inspire despair. ‘Will the shades praise you?’–in other words, if you don’t help me out here, Lord, I will go down into the dust.

Not really. I am just prone to that drowning feeling. The thing is, God doesn’t mind calming the storm of little things, but longs to bring peace to our souls. So our dramatic calling upon the Lord may be a bit of spiritual histrionics–God answers just the same. God is not sitting in heaven accusing us of making mountains out of molehills, thankfully, but looks tenderly on us, and reminds us that though ‘the mountains quake’ yet ‘the Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our stronghold.’ So, mountains or molehills, there is nothing to fear.

‘Cease striving, and know that I am God;
     I will be exalted among the nations,
     I will be exalted in the earth.’
                                          Psalm 46 [45]: 3, 7, 10

Job rose and tore his gown and shaved his head. Then falling to the ground he worshipped and said:

  ‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb,
   naked I shall return.
   The Lord gave, the Lord has taken back.
   Blessed be the name of the Lord!’

In all this misfortune Job committed no sin nor offered any insult to God.
                                         Job, Chapter 1

From you may my judgement come forth.
  Your eyes discern the truth.
You search my heart, you visit me by night.
  You test me and you find in me no wrong.
                                       Psalm 17 [16]

I know what to say about the Psalm: this is a picture of Christ’s righteousness.

Or is it? Job appears (in the first reading) in much the same way. If we begin at the beginning of Job, we find that his righteousness is so significant that it becomes a topic for discussion in heaven. Before he lost everything, he had a great deal: great wealth and a large family. He made regular sacrifices to God, for himself and for his children, to maintain that famous righteousness. He had a great deal; he had a great deal to lose. How would Job behave toward God if he had nothing to lose? Exactly the same way: righteously.

Job stands as a reminder that holiness is not merely the province of the Word made flesh. Although the righteousness of Jesus is the source of our own, we are urged to ‘put on Christ’. And the good works have been prepared for us, not so that we may sit down on the sofa and put our feet up, but so that we may walk in them. Finding ourselves in Christ’s righteousness, so to speak, is what makes it possible for us to get up and walk. Without the knowledge that the voice of the psalm is Christ’s, and we pray it only as we stand in Christ, we would miss the point, to be sure.

The knowledge that our sins are covered over, that our righteousness comes from Christ, and not from us, truly is healing balm for the sin-sick soul. My soul, so restored, does not continue to lie, as it were, by the waters of Bethsaida, however. I rise, and try again to maintain that cleanness of heart that is mine by God’s gift, Christ’s work, and the presence of the Holy Spirit within me.

Saint Therese points the way forward: to take my place in the company of pilgrims, and to love. Knowing that I may stumble should not cause me to take my eyes off the goal; knowing that Christ has already raised me up again gives me the confidence to keep going, to endeavor to make my own righteousness in the image of Christ’s, to say with the psalmist, ‘You test me and you find in me no wrong.’

On the day I called, you answered;
you increased my strength of soul.
Psalm 137 [138]
 

 
This morning before looking at the Mass readings, I read the excerpt from a sermon of Pope Leo the Great, which was set for the office of reading, paraphrasing the bits about St Gabriel for my 5-year-old son. His middle name (one of his middle names) is Gabriel, so this is his feast day. We talked about Gabriel’s Very Important Message to Mary, and Gabriel being the strength of God. If it had been possible, I would have taken him to Mass. Probably it is just as well: sitting still and paying attention don’t seem celebratory when you’re five. Better to have a treat at your favourite bakery to mark the day. But I was glad for the moment for a conversation, to remind us why we were marking the day.
 
Rich Mullins wrote a song called ‘Boy like me’. The chorus goes something like this: ‘Did they tell you stories ’bout the saints of old, / stories about their faith? / They say stories like that make a boy grow bold / stories like that make a man walk straight.’ It strikes me that one of the key ways that our souls are strengthened is through those stories, the stories that identify us with ‘the saints of old’. One of the most important lessons I have learned through those stories–especially in the Psalms, perhaps, but elsewhere in the scripture also, as well as in the lives of the saints–is that the shape of my life as a Christian should follow the very basic plot outlined in the above verse from Psalm 137. In times of need, call on God. God will answer, and God will increase my strength of soul–sometimes through the stories (and the prayers) of those very saints.

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Lord, who shall dwell on your holy mountain?

He who walks without fault;
he who acts with justice
and speaks the truth from his heart.
 
He who does no wrong to his brother,
who casts no slur on his neighbour,
who holds the godless in disdain,
but honours those who fear the Lord.
 
He who keeps his pledge, come what may;
who takes no interest on a loan
and accepts no bribes against the innocent.
Such a man will stand firm for ever.
 
Psalm 14:2-5

 
My reading of verses such as these has changed greatly over the years. Psalms in which the psalmist protests, proclaiming his innocence, ranked fairly low on my top-of-the-Psalms chart in my teens and twenties. Eventually I came to the realisation that the “one who walks without fault” is Christ. The rest of us can make no such claim. For a time I hoped and rested in the righteousness of Christ. But that isn’t an adequate response, either.
 
While there is certainly no sense in pretending that we can walk “without” fault, it is equally true that we cannot “ride” on Christ’s righteousness without regard to our own faults. Christ’s righteousness may be imputed to us (I know my Calvin and Luther just well enough), and with good reason: we are not able to attain such righteousness for ourselves. But we cannot stop at the recognition of our weakness. For as much as Christ’s righteousness is an imputed righteousness, it is also a participatory righteousness. That is, part of the sign that Christ’s righteousness has been imputed to us is our own desire to live out that righteousness.
 
I suppose I have found it far too easy to hide myself in Christ in a way that has not pressed me toward the imitatio Christi that is at the heart of conscious Christian living. Living in Christ doesn’t spare us the hard work of struggling against sin, even though Christ’s victory secures our own. No easy triumphalism there, but returning again and again to the Holy Spirit who joins us to Christ’s body. Sometimes the hardest work is in the asking, admitting that even receiving the grace of God isn’t something we can do apart from the Spirit.

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I am bound by the vows I have made you.
O God, I will offer you praise
for you have rescued my soul from death,
you kept my feet from stumbling
that I may walk in the presence of God
and enjoy the light of the living.

Psalm 55 [56]: 13-14

I was glad to hear Msgr John’s reflections on the readings for today, from 1 Corinthinans (‘the heavenly man’) and Luke’s gospel (the sower parable): believe and persevere. Believe in the change that only God can work, and keep on the road toward it. Not often have I heard such a clear, direct and concise homily.

Interestingly, though, there is this other reading: the Psalm. Usually it seems to go under the radar, and yet there it is today, perfectly connecting the heavenly orientation of 1 Corinthinans with the perseverance of the ‘good soil’ in Luke’s gospel. The obedience, or perseverance in God’s Word (yep, I mean the Word of the Father), originates in the saving act of God and looks to the presence of God as its destination. Pressing forward with a good heart and a steady will requires both memory and hope. The soul who knows the salvation of God, who has experienced God’s rescue, anticipates God’s presence in hope. What strikes me about the Psalm is the way in which it subverts any inclination to think that either the belief or the perseverance comes from ourselves and not from the God who rescues us. It is the Lord who ‘rescue[s] my soul from death and [keeps] my feet from stumbling’.

I still find the mystery of the heavenly person vexing: it seems I see not so much in a mirror dimly, but rather remain in darkness. Fortunately it is a mystery, and not a complicated algebra problem I simply lack the intellectual skill to solve. Because in the end it is, after all, grace.

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The heavens declare the glory of God…
                                   Psalm 19 [18]: 1

Go, and learn what this means: I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.
                                   Matthew 9: 13

.             .             .

I am glad I will not be called upon to give a homily today. Although I am certain that a clever preacher would easily find common themes in the readings for the feast of St Matthew, I am not that clever. Psalm 19 is a particular favourite, partly because it begins with the witness of nature and ends with the testimony that is the law. God reveals.

And what does God reveal? God, of course. In the person of Jesus, who says such provocative things as ‘I desire mercy, and not sacrifice’. If I were writing a homily (or even if I were simply less tired) I would chase down the places where that sentence is repeated in Matthew’s gospel, and show how it subverts the usual uses to which the most famous bit of Matthew 18 has been put. The richness of creation, the glory of the heavens, the beauty of the Word made flesh, all point much more certainly (or so it seems to me) to the plenitude of the seventy times seven than to the exclusion of anybody.

Give thanks to the Lord for he is good,
 for his love has no end.
Let the sons of Israel say:
 ‘His love has no end.’
                      Psalm 117

I don’t suppose considering the endless love of God two days running counts as monotony. After all, it is pretty amazing to ponder. I did a lot of listening to a number of people talking about theology (some even about God’s love) today; By far the most interesting thing I heard was the idea that forgiveness is like love. Seems obvious, when you think about it, doesn’t it? The point that the speaker was making was that if we conceive of forgiveness as an event, we’re bound to be frustrated when it doesn’t happen in an over-and-done-with way. If, instead, we understand forgiveness as analogous to love, we see immediately that it isn’t that sort of thing. Yesterday I reflected that all love comes from God. It makes sense to think of forgiveness in the same way: as coming from God and not, ultimately, from ourselves.

I’m not at all certain that makes forgiving any easier. But it does give me hope that it is possible, not because I think I can do it but because it doesn’t matter that I can’t. Dwelling on the memory of wrongdoing or staring into the face of the wrongdoer (if only in my mind) and trying to conjure up ‘forgiveness’ will not do. Only the One whose love has no end can supply it. My task is to turn again (and again and again) and receive forgiveness, until my broken heart overflows.

                                Psalm 33[32]: 12

.                   .                        .    

Love. The Lord ‘fills the earth with his love.’ I have spent a lot of time lately wondering about God. When my mother died last summer, the boundary between heaven and earth (however we might imagine it) moved like the San Andreas fault. Everything shook for a while, and some things fell down. A few things broke, I think, and I still experience aftershocks from time to time. When the immediate shaking died down, I read some physics (and I don’t really do science, but my mother did). After I put a few things back in place (or found new places for them), I turned back to the Scriptures. And I wondered a lot about God.

The answers I had for my children did not satisfy me. ‘Nana is in heaven,’ I heard myself say. But what did it really mean? Who (or what) was God, anyway? I was walking along the river one day, and the words of this Psalm (from the Mass readings for today) came alive for me. The Lord ‘fills the earth with his love.’ God is the One who gives us love, who loves us and who is the love we share. Without God, we would not have love. However uncertain I may be, however distant I may feel, I can know with certainty that God is near: God ‘fills the earth [and that includes me, and you, and my husband and my children] with his love.’

Thanks be to God.