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Lectionary Psalms

For those who want a change from the Gospel

Easter 2 – Low Sunday – Psalm 133

For many years it was our custom as a family to go each Easter to the Spring Harvest Festival, first in Prestatyn and later in Minehead or Skegness. This was a greatly anticipated week, and as time went by more and more people from our churches would form a party and make the journey. The teaching and worship were great, but equally exciting were the journeys to and from the holiday camps. Me driving our car with the family soon became me driving a minibus, and eventually us hiring a coach. The journeys would consist of joyful anticipation on the way there, and much singing of the newly-learnt worship songs on the way back. If you have been to such Christian festivals, and especially if they have become a traditional annual pilgrimage, you’ll get something of the feel of the Songs of Ascents in general, and this Psalm in particular. It’s about going to get blessed, and returning full of blessing. And it’s about doing it together.

It has been suggested that this Psalm begun its life as a proverb. Originally the words might have been something like:

How great and pleasant it is when brothers and sister live together in unity.
It is like precious oil on the head, which runs down on the beard. And it is like the dew of Hermon.

This proverb, extolling the virtues of unity, used two images, oil and dew, both of which were highly important commodities in Israel. Olive oil would have been used, often with added perfumes, in the home to moisturise and soften hard dry skin, and as a primitive kind of Brylcreem for the hair. The oil in v.2 isn’t ‘precious’ – that’s a mistranslation. But it is ‘good’ stuff. And dew was important during the summer months of very little rainfall to keep the land fertile. But, it has been suggested, this proverb mutated in its spiritual significance by the addition of two motifs which are less homely and domestic and more spiritual. The hairdressing lotion becomes anointing oil, and not for anyone: for Aaron himself, the original high priest. And the dew which famously fell on Mount Hermon, a snowcapped peak way up north on the border between Syria and Lebanon, now drenches the Temple in Jerusalem, some 125 miles away. Everyday necessities have become spiritual and liturgical blessings for the companies of people travelling to worship.

The final clause of v.3 is interesting. It describes the nature of the blessing as ‘life for evermore’. It is highly unlikely that this would have been understood as what Christians now call ‘eternal life’, or as an early belief in the continuation of life after death. More likely is that it referred either to the continuation of the family line, or continued peace and prosperity. Many OT texts describe one’s offspring as blessings from the Lord, and the result of a curse might be the discontinuation of one’s family line. And prosperity, in spite of our reluctance to swallow any kind of a ‘prosperity gospel’ in which God promises health wealth and happiness to  Christians, usually those who give financially to the particular televangelist in question, is nevertheless promised as a blessing throughout the OT. My take on this is that the promises by God of prospering are meant to be read corporately, but in our post-enlightenment world we hear them individually. I think God promises blessings to nations or groups who live in obedience to him, but we have turned that into an individualistic desire to get rich personally, which other materialists are keen to promote and ‘sell’.

But of course as Christians, and as Christians caught up in the celebration of Easter, we can perhaps see this as an example of Scripture speaking more than it knew at the time. We do believe that because of last week’s events, there can be ‘life for evermore’. That blessing is commanded or bestowed by God on those who live in unity, those who are on the journey together to worship, learn and finally break free from this life into eternity.

Lectionary Psalms

For those who want a change from the Gospel

Palm Sunday – Psalm 118

We have become familiar with the idea that the book of Psalms as we have it contains some different collections – we explored, for example, the ‘Songs of Ascents’ here. Today’s Psalm is the final one of another group, Ps 113-118, known collectively as the ‘Egyptian Hallel’. Hallel means ‘praise’ (as in ‘Hallelu – Jah’ – ‘Praise the Lord’, and the Egyptian bit is about a remembrance and celebration of the rescue from Egypt, the exodus. This is particularly clear in Ps 114, but it is not a big stretch to see the others in this collection reflecting on the power of God and his rescue of Israel from slavery and poverty in Egypt. Not surprisingly, therefore, scholars have suggested that these Psalms had their liturgical use particularly at the Passover, and it seems that Ps 113 and 114 would have been sung before the Passover meal, and Psalms 115-118 at the end. So when the Gospels tell us that Jesus and his disciples sung ‘the hymn’ before heading off to the Mount of Olives, it could well be that Psalm 118 was the last Psalm Jesus sung before his death.

In its form it is a mixture of corporate (v.1-4) and individual (the rest) thanksgiving. The whole community is invited to praise, but then individual reasons for that praise are enumerated. Hard pressed and overwhelmed people find deliverance in God, and celebration ensues. The hymn ends with the declaration of blessing (‘we’ would probably be the priests who blessed all pilgrims to the Holy City as they entered the precincts), and there is the mention of a sacred procession, which provides the link between the Psalm and the Christian Palm Sunday, although a less obvious one with the Passover meal. The Psalm ends with further words of praise to God for all his goodness to his people.

In the light of this, we might wonder what these words meant to Jesus as he sung them on the eve of his arrest, torture and death. We can understand that in extremis Jesus appropriately cried out in the words of Psalm 22 ‘My God, why have you forsaken me?’ But what might it have felt like to use these words of praise and thanksgiving for God’s deliverance, knowing that actually abandonment was what it was going to feel like? How did it feel to give thanks to God for past deliverance while his heart was breaking for what was to follow immediately? How did it fit with the prayer of Gethsemane, with being betrayed, denied and deserted by those closest to him? This in turn leads onto some fascinating questions about liturgy.

As many readers will know, I am in the final stages of doctoral research into Anglican churches which don’t like or use Anglican liturgy. My interviews with church leaders have revealed some fascinating and largely negative attitudes towards set liturgy, often as opposed to the supposed ‘freedom’ of singing the worship songs which have largely replaced liturgical worship in most of the churches I visited. Liturgy, I was told again and again, would simply not ‘connect’ with people, and particularly with young people. It is ‘inauthentic’, unlike the praise which is meant to spring unbidden from within our hearts. In the light of Jesus’ experience of using the text set for the day, it seems to be the ultimate example of disconnection. To be given words of praise to use when one’s heart is breaking seems as bad as being given miserable, dirgy Psalms to sing when one ought to be abounding with praise and worship.

But here’s the rub – maybe liturgy is deliberately designed for those moments of disconnect. Sometimes the words put into our mouths by liturgical worship do try to express how we’re feeling. Next week many of us will be declaring ‘Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia’, and hopefully we’ll be feeling it too. But maybe there are other times when liturgy is there not to tell us what we’re feeling, but rather what is true in spite of how we’re feeling. Did Jesus experience those words as rubbing his nose in the agony he was about to undergo? Or maybe were they precious truths to hold on to, to sustain him during his arrest, trial and torture? I’ve mentioned before a friend who drew the distinction between the ‘real’ and the ‘true’, identifying the fact that there are things which we believe are true even if we’re not experiencing them as real right at this moment. Set liturgy can provide reminders of truth for which we’re still waiting, or even for which we are at the point of giving up waiting. Maybe a key to using it well is to ask not how it is making us feel, but rather what truths is it telling us, whatever we may happen to be feeling.

OT Lectionary Epiphany 2 Isaiah 49:1-7

This week our OT passage is the second of the so-called ‘Servant Songs’, and as we continue in our gospel readings to explore the blossoming of Jesus’ ministry we can see how we can be illuminated by these words, just as no doubt he himself was as he launched himself into the public arena. Like all four servant songs this one is addressed to the nation of Israel, but was to find its perfect fulfilment in the Messiah, the one who fully grasped the Father’s purposes and was completely and sinlessly obedient to his will. So as we seek to co-operate with God in our own sanctification and the renewal of all creation, what might these words have to say to us?

I think there is in this passage something about our calling, something about our task, and something about how we respond to the previous two. Our calling ( v 1-3) is first of all from God himself. It is not an afterthought, or a spur-of-the-moment good idea: indeed it predates our very existence. Not only did God call us, but he has been preparing us, hidden away out of public view. He has been shaping us, sharpening us up, getting us ready. In these days of political correctness it is interesting to note the image of ourselves as God’s weapons: as swords getting sharpened for battle, as arrows polished to fly true. For now the sword is sheathed and the arrows tucked safely into his quiver, but they are ready for the fight when the time comes. I’ve no idea whether or not a sword can tell that it is being sharpened: I rather suspect not. In the same way we may have only the haziest idea of how exactly God has been preparing us for battle, but that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t been.

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So what are we for? The warfare imagery is dropped as we discover what exactly our calling is, and Isaiah is pleased to tell us that God has a lot more in store for us than we might have thought (v 5-7). There is something about bringing his people back to him, out of exile, apostasy, sin and separation. But if you think that’s it, says God through the prophet, you’re thinking far too small. This isn’t just about Israel, my chosen people. It’s about all people everywhere, to the very ends of the earth. When I was a curate in a huge church in the north of England, my boss used to say that our purpose wasn’t to fill the church with believers: in fact we did that four times every Sunday. Rather it was to empty the parish of unbelievers, an altogether more daunting task. Our job as followers of Jesus, as he himself made clear through several of his parables, is not about tinkering with the church: it’s about winning the world.

So, as a therapist might say, how do you feel about that? Possibly the same as the prophet’s Israel (v 4). That’s OK for you to say, but why isn’t it happening? This is the cry of overworked and discouraged Christian workers everywhere (or at least the honest ones). I’ve worked my socks off but where is it? Where are the results for all my years of labour? The church continues to decline, if we’re honest we’ve seen very few people finding faith, and neither have we done all that much to make our patch a better one to live in. Why should we bother? Recognise that?

God holds out a challenge to those of us who feel something of the despair of v 4. Maybe we’ve been concentrating on too small a task. Maybe we’ve let our ministry in the church rob us of our ministry to the world. But he also holds out a promise: the ultimate victory of his purposes, as kings and princes come to acknowledge the God in whose name we labour. It may seem a long way off, but hold on: it will surely come!

OT Lectionary Jan 12th The Baptism of Christ Is 42:1-9

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OT Lectionary – a weekly series of devotional thoughts on the OT reading for next Sunday.

 

The Sunday after Epiphany is traditionally the time to remember Jesus’ baptism in the Jordan by John. Baptism is one of the most undervalued and misunderstood of the things Jesus left for us: as one brought up in the Baptist Church who only later became an Anglican I have had to do a complete rethink of my theology of baptism. So how can our passage from Isaiah speak to us today?

Chapter 42 is the first of four ‘Servant Songs’ which appear in this section of Isaiah, and just about every theological student has had to write an essay on who exactly the ‘Servant’ was or is. Indeed this was the very question raised by the Ethiopian official in Acts 8. The consensus is that the Servant is the idealised nation of Israel, not weak, beaten down and exiled as she was at the time but renewed, powerful and fulfilling her destiny given by God to be a light to the whole world. The previous chapter of Isaiah talks about this. So this first Servant Song has parallels with the baptism which launched Jesus into public ministry as the one who fulfilled par excellence the role of ‘Servant’.

The passage tells us about the Servant’s ministry, but also about the way that ministry will be carried out, and the basis from which it will be carried out. The first four verses explain the teaching ministry which is about justice and encouragement, and the passage goes on to explain that it will be an international ministry aimed at freedom and illumination for those in darkness.

So what is this freedom fighter’s style? To a nation used to the harsh cries of Babylonian taskmasters (which no doubt echoed in the collective memory with those of Egyptian taskmasters hundreds of years earlier) the prophet explains that the Servant’s ministry will be gentle in style, encouraging in nature and with a bias towards those unable to help themselves. This is not the style of a zealot or rabble-rouser, but rather a leader more interested in winning hearts than battles.

On what basis, then, is this ministry to be carried out? The answer is that it is a divine calling. God, through the prophet, labours his credentials: he is the creator, responsible single-handedly for the world and all its people: he is the God who alone is worthy of all honour, and who, just to prove the point, is the only ‘god’ able to predict the future. So you don’t argue with him, right? Springing from this God is the calling to the Servant, the one whom he has chosen, in whom he delights, and whom he will uphold, giving him his Spirit to empower him.

Jesus at his baptism clearly fulfils this passage, and no doubt had it in his mind. As the Father tears open heaven and declares audibly his love and favour for his Son, Jesus is launched into his public ministry of teaching and salvation for all. But the whole point of this story is that the fulfilment doesn’t end with Jesus: our calling as his church, the ‘Israel of God’, is to be Christ’s body here on earth now, continuing the Servant’s ministry. And just as our calling is the same, so is our style and its basis. Today challenges us to reconsider, and maybe to recommit ourselves to, our own baptism and the calling and ministry to which it signed us up.