Psalm 22 and the witness of the Cross

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

–Psalm 22:1

The opening line of Psalm 22 is very familiar to Christians everywhere.  It is a line repeated by Jesus from the cross; one of his seven last words.  For a long time now I have known that it comes from a psalm, and perhaps –if asked—could have even told (guessed) you which one; but I wouldn’t have said that it was the opening line.  I didn’t remember that. And this morning as I read Psalm 22 I was struck by the fact that it is the first words of the psalm. And I was intrigued by that. And I began to prayerfully wonder (which is something a lot like contemplation).

When Jesus said this from the cross was He offering or attempting something more than just a personal cry of agony, or prayer?  I wonder.  Was He speaking the psalm simply as a cry to His Father, or was there more to it? Was it also a cry from all humanity trapped in sin?

“Him who knew no sin He made to be sin on our behalf…” (2 Cor 5:21)

Crying out to the Father from the very heart of sin, He uses the words of a psalm—words any devout Jew might have known, been familiar with, and thus invites His witnesses, His friends, those who remained with Him at the cross: Mary (His mother), John (the apostle), Mary, the wife of Clopas, Mary Magdalene, and Mary, the mother of James and Joses… invites them to join Him in prayer.  Think about it.  When someone begins a familiar prayer (the Lord’s prayer, for instance), think how quickly do your lips begin forming the words, unconsciously you find yourself joining in.  I have witnessed unbelievers who know this prayer begin speaking it without thinking because someone else has started it.  The words just comes out. And suddenly a group of people are praying together because one of them started with those familiar eternal words: Our Father…

And so I began to wonder, to contemplate: Did those who remained with Him, at the foot of the cross, did they continue the prayer of that psalm? As His voice failed, as His breath failed, was there a pause and then –realizing what He had said—gazing into His pain—did they continue it for Him? As a comfort to Him? The only consolation they could offer?  Did they pray the psalm for Him? 

Sometimes it is all we can do.  We can’t fix the problem, can’t ease the pain, all we can do is remain and when those we love can no longer even pray for themselves, we can… we can sit by their side, share their burden, and pray their prayers for them.  You will be surprised at what a blessing that can be.  

Him who knew no sin, became sin for us—and through Him, sin itself cried out to Heaven: My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?  Lent is beginning this week; perhaps over these next 40 days we can make some time (once a day, once a week) to still our hearts and join Him in His prayer for us.

A House Divided –Community in Christ

(some thoughts on the Mass readings from last Sunday 10 June 2018)

“If a kingdom is divided against itself,
that kingdom cannot stand.
And if a house is divided against itself,
that house will not be able to stand.” –Mark 3:20-35

 In today’s first reading, from Genesis 3, we get the story of what happens after Adam and Eve have eaten from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.  We have that terribly true vision of how sin divides a kingdom, a house, a family.  The first division we see is of God searching for His beloved creation. God calls out to them, “Where are you?” (cf. Genesis 3:9-15) That plaintive cry is the first sign of division.  Before this, they walked together in the garden, but now Adam and Eve hide from their creator. Next, we see the crumbling of the House of Adam as he blames Eve (and God) for his actions: “The woman whom you put here with me –she gave me fruit from the tree, and so I ate it.” (3:12) And last we see the entire animal kingdom begin to break down into “enmity” as Eve blames the serpent. And we are left with a vision of the cost of sin: division, enmity, seemingly endless struggle: “He will strike at your head, while you strike at his heel.” (3:15)

Division truly is the cost of sin. It divides us externally: socially, inter-personally, through corruption, crime, broken societies, war and greed, etc and it divides us internally; driving us into hypocrisies and double standards. We begin to not only hide the truth, but hide from the truth, until we may not even know who or what we really are. As Paul says in Romans: “I do not understand what I do. What I want to do, I do not do; but what I hate, I do.” (cf. 7: 15-20)

Think of the priest with a sterling reputation, who secretly engages in corrupt or abusive behavior or the honored Bishop who covers it up.  The award winning movie mogul who seduces young women, promising them career opportunities, then threatens them if they speak up. The socially conscious politician who takes advantage of a young intern and tries to cover it up.  We don’t do what we want to do, and we do what we hate… Though in the moment it may not seem that way.

In my own life I can see this quite plainly when I sit down to write (hoping to finish that unfinished novel) but find myself 40 minutes later eating chips and queso and watching a Youtube video of W.C. Fieldsplaying pool.  (Sloth?  gluttony?)  And when I realize, my first instinct is to hide what I’ve been doing. Not to accept it and be happy that I had some fun, but to hide it. To close the browser and open my document and spend 15 minutes beating myself up over wasting my writing time.  Or pretend I was doing research for a character who loves old movies!

Sin divides us. Satan knows that. And we should, too. Because sin is like a fault line that division runs straight through the heart of each one of us. 

The answer to this division is stated in very simple terms at the end of this gospel passage.  There is that wonderful and perplexing image of Jesus being told that His mother and brothers are at the door asking for Him, to which He says:

“Who are my mother and my brothers?... Whoever does the will of my

Father in Heaven is my mother and my brother and my sister.” (Mk 12: 48-50)

The answer to the division of sin, is very simple. It’s unity. Inclusion. It is love. We must remember that we are all part of the body of Christ –every single one of us. 

The readings from last week’s mass began with God asking, Where are you? Not because God doesn't know or can't find them, but because Adam and Eve don't know.  They are lost (and very divided). And the readings ended with that beautiful reconciling (and inclusive) answer from Mark's gospel. Jesus opens a door to all of us and assures us:  

We aren't lost. We don't have to be divided.
In fact, we are invited to be part of the family. 

Don’t hide from that.

Sin begets sin: A meditation on 2 Samuel 11

“Do not take the matter to heart;

the sword devours now one and now

another. Attack the town in greater

force and destroy it.” –2 Samuel 11:25

It is interesting to me, how David’s sin hardens his heart.  The town he speaks of destroying in the verse above is to be destroyed after it has done exactly what David wanted done. The archers of the town have killed Uriah, who David wanted killed; he has even ordered his general to arrange it. And of course, that leads us to ask: why does David want Uriah dead? Because Uriah might discover and reveal David’s sin; that David has slept with and impregnated Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba.

The story of David and Bathsheba and Uriah is an astonishingly complex story. And the whole thing is related in one short yet very profound chapter (2 Samuel 11).  It begins by telling us that it was the time of year when kings should be off leading their armies in battle, but David stayed home resting and strolling around the palace. One day while strolling on the roof he spies a beautiful young woman bathing, and instead of averting his gaze, he sends for her and soon she is pregnant.  To cover up what he has done, David sends for her husband who is off fighting the king’s battle (which is where King David should be).  And to cover up his own sin, he tries to get Uriah to sleep with Bathsheba, but his loyal subject won’t do that. While his fellow soldiers are sleeping on the ground, he refuses to accept the comforts of home and wife until the battle is over.   He is behaving as David should, with purity of action and intent. Commitment. Whereas David is strolling and relaxing and seducing other men’s wives while his army and the Ark of God are out in the open, risking themselves, revealing themselves. Of course, on some level, that is exactly what David does here (though unintentionally).  The more he tries to hide his sin, the more he reveals his sinfulness.

It starts with sloth, David unwilling to do his kingly duty, but grows into lust, then adultery, then the attempted cover-up (false-witness), and finally murder; all because David stayed home when he should have gone to work and grew restless with too much time on his hands and… well, in the end, because he doesn’t want anyone to know that he did wrong.

In the end, he wants Uriah killed because Uriah can reveal his sin; but the desire is only intensified when Uriah acts righteously.  For David this is a kind of prophetic witness against him.   He sees in Uriah an example of the man he should be: selfless and humble, and he cannot bear it. It only hardens his heart.  How many times have I felt the sting of my own hypocrisy intensified by witnessing the simple kindness or selflessness of another?  When we are in sin, we don’t want to see good in the world. It sickens us, in a sense, because it challenges us to rise up and be better. It bears witness against our excuses and justifications. When I am fallen into sin and I see someone else do good, not only does it bother me, but it makes me a little jealous.  And what do we often do when we are jealous of another? We try to tear them down.  And so, David tears down Uriah. He plots his murder, and plots it in such a way that it will seem that he was merely a casualty of war.

And it is in this context that this familiar story suddenly caught my attention anew. When the messenger comes bearing news of Uriah’s death, David at first “flies into a rage” over what sounds to him like a terrible military blunder: “Why did you go near the ramparts?” (11:22)  He is ready to go all Harry Truman on Joab (his personal MacArthur) when the messenger adds that there were some casualties, including “your servant, Uriah the Hittite.” (11:24)

And suddenly David is all soothing words and encouragement. He tells the messenger:

“Say this to Joab: Do not take the matter to heart…

Attack the town in greater force and destroy it.”

David’s words to the messenger sound, on the surface as encouragement to Joab to proceed with the original plan of attack.  But taken in the context of this chapter (this story) we may hear in them a kind of bitterness. Just as David has destroyed Uriah, he now will destroy the inhabitants of this town –who, quite literally, have served him quite well. One might imagine that they deserve at least a little mercy, for having rid David of his guilty conscience. Yet, no. Now he wants them eradicated, too. Sin begets sin, as the old saying goes (cf James 1:12-16), and David’s lust has lead to adultery to false-witness (trying to trick Uriah), to plotting a murder and now to wishing the destruction of a whole town.  Sin begets sin. And it grows and grows.

Often we hear in the news, that --with politicians-- it isn’t usually the crime that gets them, it’s the cover-up.  Well, that seems to be exactly what we are seeing here with David. The original sin is bad, but the cover-up is horrifying.  But why is that?

And that is how I feel about my own sins.  What I do (gossip, lust, selfishness, gluttony, cruelty)  may be terrible, but what I do to keep others from knowing about it is always worse. Because covering up our sin, trying to hide it, requires us to harden our hearts to the truth of it.  Often, it’s in the cover-up that we begin the process of justification and rationalization.  I had to do this, because…  and people won’t understand, so I should hide the truth from them…

In this one brief chapter we get this wonderful fearful story; this powerful and horrifying vision of the power of sin. We read of a good man making bad choices and how private sin that begins in human desire, and personal choice comes to completion in public horrors (murder and destruction). 

So, the next time someone tells you something is only a small sin (a white lie, so to speak), remember this story of David and his seemingly small sin: sloth… he just didn’t want to do his job. It all began with a king feeling a little restless, lazy… slothful.  Even the smallest of sins, can open a door that leads to destruction.  And as this chapter ends we get that final frightful line that tells us the real import of all David’s actions; not that he has done evil or destroyed lives, but that he had damaged his relationship with God:

“What David had done displeased the Lord…”  (11:27b)

David, Israel’s hope, God’s beloved, has turned away from the Lord.  And though that may seem just another matter of personal choice, a matter of personal beliefs, a matter that may have some personal repercussions, but what this little chapter teaches us is that no matter how personal or private our sin seems, it always ends up with very public repercussions, not because people might find out or might hold us accountable, but, because:

Sin begets sin and the fruit of sin is destruction. --James 1:15