“Let Us Hope”
Psalm 14
Psalm 53, as rendered in The Message
At 6 o’clock yesterday—that would be 6 p.m.—I did almost a complete 180 on this sermon. I started all over again, from the top—at the place where I had originally thought this sermon would go, but from which I had been distracted by the assassination of Charlie Kirk.
I will speak to that—relatively briefly—but as I contemplated our scriptures and the news, humanity’s capacity for cruelty and propensity for scapegoating, and our tendency to think and live as if there is no God—I focused again on our difficult psalms.
I came back again to the sacred spiritual practice of lament and to the timelessness of the psalmist’s complaint.
I came back again to our deep longing for hope when so much that is happening leaves us feeling hopeless.
It would be easy to read or hear today’s psalms and begin matching key verses with recent and ongoing accounts of government agents hiding behind masks as they drag people of color out of their cars, leave children unattended, and—in defiance of court orders—deport people to countries where they have never been and will likely face imprisonment and torture.
It would be illuminating to read today’s psalms, hone in on the word “evildoers” and notice which individuals and groups of people come to mind.
It would be reasonable to hear today’s psalms and think they are yet another example of the kind of thinking and blaming that’s gotten our country into a dangerously polarized mess. At the same time, we—like so many on the other end of the political spectrum—might be tempted to use these scriptures to justify our demonization of others.
So, before we go any further, a little background on the spiritual practice of lament, which is a fancy word for complaining, especially to God.
Sometimes we feel angry at the world. Sometimes we feel angry at God. Sometimes we just need to vent. Sometimes we need someone to blame and someone to take our feelings of anger, grief, despair, and disgust out on.
And throughout our scriptures, God sees and honors those feelings and says, “Bring it on. I can take it.
Like a divine couples counselor, conflict mediator, or therapist, Spirit says, “Don’t repress those uncomfortable feelings. You’ve got to get them out before they eat you alive. You’ve got to get them out into the light of day before you can understand them. You’ve got to get them out of your hurting heart before your heart can be healed and your life transformed.”
And so it is that a prayer of lament—which may feel more like raging than praying—a group lament, or a public liturgy of lament, is a spiritual way of dealing with hard feelings.
Psalms of lament give us a model for yelling at God about the state of the world and the condition of our lives. They give us permission to do what we always do at our worst, which is to exaggerate and hyperbolize everything. There is not one single good person left, not one! Smite them all! (This seemed to be the prophet Elijah’s favorite prayer.) And they also demonstrate the gospel truth that prayer changes things; prayer changes us.
In virtually every psalm of lament, there is a turning point, a moment when the psalmist gets to the end of their venting and remembers the unfailing goodness of God.
But God stands with the poor. God is the refuge of the righteous. The Holy One will deliver us. Hurry up, God!
Screaming and shaking our fists, when directed toward God rather than our enemies, makes room for grace. Lament, when offered over time with passion and the faith that Spirit hears our pain, makes room for hope.
God knows we have much to lament, that human history is overflowing with so-called evildoers, that these are times that try our souls, test our faith, and grow our fears.
I won’t burden our hearts with a long list of all the horrible things happening in our country and the world right now. I won’t mention the reports of political repression yet to come. But I will note, sadly, that throughout human history it has been ever thus. Slavery, the Holocaust, the internment and forced labor of Japanese-Americans, racial segregation and ongoing injustice, countless foreign wars and dictators.
As much as we feel, as much as we would like to think things have never been this bad, that our democracy has never been so threatened, history tells us otherwise. Which is not to discount the utter seriousness of our situation, downplay the suffering being inflicted upon our neighbors, or say we should not be afraid.
But lament opens the door to perspective and encourages us to listen to the wisdom of our ancestors and receive the comfort of the Spirit. Chances are we are not the only ones who’ve ever felt this way, and we don’t have to be historians to know that in the past oppressed peoples, nations, and eco-systems have triumphed over grave injustices and seemingly hopeless circumstances.
When we pray honestly and openly, our hearts and minds are opened to remember what theologian Walter Wink called three essential truths:
One: The world is good. Two: The world is fallen. And three: The world is being redeemed by the God of mercy and grace.
It may take some time, and it will take all the love, hope, and trust we have, but all is not lost. God’s justice is yet at work in the world. There is a God who is Love, and in them we must put our trust and follow their ways.
And in the meantime, if we are paying any attention at all, if we have managed to hold our hearts open to the suffering of our neighbors, we will struggle. We will struggle to stay grounded. We will struggle to keep our anger and fear from becoming hatred. We will struggle to trust.
And sometimes it will all be too much, and we will act as if there is no God, as if everything is up to us.
That’s what happened to one of Jesus’s disciples on the night Jesus was betrayed. First, there was the Passover meal, when Jesus washed their feet, told them to love one another, and told them to remember him after he was gone. Then there was the long prayer time in the Garden of Gethsemane, when the disciples could not stay awake. And then, the next thing they knew, there was Judas and a company of soldiers come to take Jesus away.
It was all too much for at least one of the disciples, who drew his own sword and chopped off an ear of the a high-ranking soldier.
And how did Jesus respond to what that disciple had surely considered an act of love of protection?
“No more of this!” Jesus shouted, meaning no more violence, no more hatred, no more division, no more of God’s children forgetting that all people are made in the divine image, that they are all siblings.
And then, the story says, Jesus healed his captor, restoring his ear.
For us, there may be times when the most we can do in the face of evil is say “no more.” No more political violence, no more scapegoating, no more illegal and unconstitutional actions from the executive branch, no more racism hiding behind masks and weapons, no more persecution of queer folks, women, and the differently abled, no more censorship, no more othering of anyone, no more destruction of the earth, no more robbing of the poor to benefit the rich.
We want to live, we want to shout YES to life and love, but sometimes the best we can do is say NO.
The violence must stop. The hate speech must stop. The anti-democratic policies of repression and judicial rulings of appeasement must stop. Our fear of our neighbors must stop.
Only then can there be healing.
Until then, beloveds, let us live in hope. Let us hope in the God who again and again makes a way out of no way. Let us hope in the Spirit of power we have received. Let us hope in the way of love Jesus lived. Let us hope in the promise of transformation, the truth that love always has the last word, our Spirit-given capacity for courage, the arc that bends toward justice, the power of community.
Despite everything and because God is with us, let us hope.
