Hopefully, Encouragement

I've been doing my daily offices lately out of the Book of Common Prayer. There are things I like about doing it this way, and things I don't. What I don't like is mainly that there's not a whole lot of continuity; jumping around so much, you kind of lose your sense of the narrative. But I like the sense of connection--when I read the Scriptures set out in the Book of Common Prayer, I'm joining in with my brothers and sisters all over the world who are reading the same Scriptures; I also like that the decision about what to read is taken out of my hands, so that the Word is made that much less subject to my own whims. One thing I really love is that it brings me to the Psalms every day, and that's a beautiful place to be.

So much of the Bible can seem disconnected, can't it? You read about God's dealing with the Israelites, or about King David's reign, or even about Jesus raising the dead, and as wonderful as it all is, sometimes it can seem a bit distant from you. Sometimes it can seem very much like it's coming from the top down--it's all about what God is doing to people. But the Psalms have such an involving perspective--they are written from the bottom up. The Psalmist is not unsympathetic or distant; he is very much a part of our broken and yet beautiful world. In those 150 prayers, he explores the whole range of the human experience; from the highest ecstasy to the lowest despair; from the hottest rage to the coolest, most calm peace. The Psalms are wonderful, to me, because they give me permission to simply be human--to be sad when I'm sad, happy when I'm happy, and angry when I'm angry.

The past couple of weeks have been difficult for me. Between girl troubles, drama at work, family problems, moving out from home for the first time, and all the old demons that those things woke up, my heart has been a stormy sea; and it's seemed at times that I only mount one wave to be hit in the face by the next. The worst of it was the sense of distance from God; for so long, I had felt so near to Him. I had really been striding along, following Him; but then when things got hard, it seemed like I just couldn't get a hold of Him, whatever I did. And then I began to actually be angry with Him. There was a sense of purposelessness in the pain--"God, what is this all for? Is it really necessary?" I wondered why He didn't seem to be doing anything about it. I remember praying desperately one day, saying almost nothing except "If you won't save us, who will?" It was like the weight of the whole world, of all the pain I've ever felt, was crushing me, and He wasn't going to do anything about it. And spread over it all was this kind of intellectual frustration; I wanted, I really wanted, to just come up with some objective answer to it all, and just pick myself up and move on. But the heart refuses to be dealt with that way. Sometimes you just have to be sad until you're done being sad.

I've become convinced, and the past couple of weeks have helped to solidify my conviction, that God understands us. By that I mean that He graciously makes room for all the irrationalities that come with being human; He has compassion for our unreasonable sadness, and even for our ridiculous anger towards Him. God has condescended to wrestle with me. To wrestle! When He could so easily and so justifiably crush me between His thumb and forefinger, or under the weight of His very self. To wrestle, when He could even go limp and give in, and spoil me like a useless child.

I wanted to find a rational answer to my emotional tumult, but God knew better. God didn't come to me with answers, or some proposition to make me see the facts and pull myself together. And so often, that's how He deals with us, isn't it? I said that my heart was a stormy sea; my Lord calmed it the way that He calmed another stormy sea, by saying simply: "Peace, be still." Not "Brendon, I'm in control, and I'm using all this for your good, so you've really got nothing to worry about." Not "How dare you, a man, be angry with God?" No, just "Peace, be still."

The end of it is that as much as it hurt (and may hurt still--who knows what a day may bring?), it's been good for me. I understand my own humanity a little better; the nature and place of sadness and anger, and how God relates to them. I understand God a little better. My sense of His goodness and mercy is a little improved. I have been between the anvil and the hammer, and I'm a little sharper for it.

The Psalmist prayed from every place the human heart can go. He prayed from black despair, and from blind anger--anger against God. I know so many people who have been having a hard time this month--so many that I almost believe there's something objective that's just making times hard for all of us, together--and I want to offer them encouragement. I want to remind them that it's alright to be sad. It's alright to be angry and to wrestle with God, like the Psalmist did. It's good for us, in the end; I'm not sure we can really know God without fighting Him. But a beautiful thing about the the Psalter is that the last three Psalms in the book are all exultant injunctions to praise God, and praise God, and praise God. The Psalmist feels everything a man can feel, and ends it all by giving glory to God. I think that's gorgeous, and I think it's enlightening. And I think that if we have the courage to weep and to fight, to be naked and transparent before God, we will end the same way.

I hope you've found some small encouragement in this. May the God of peace be with you.