Each of them has been enduring that ghastly, medieval horror we so unhelpfully call a “treatment”: chemotherapy. Two have adopted children and taken them into their homes. One of them is a single parent. One of them has no insurance, so I have a little skin in the health care debate and I’m terrified for what this might mean for my friend and the family.

I’m not sure why, but way too often the people I love and terminal illness have intersected. All of that provides the backdrop for the week I was telling you about. Thursday morning I got a call that a friend of mine, a law school classmate with whom I played lots of golf and lots of 42 (a poor man’s bridge played with dominos), had been killed while riding his bicycle with his 17 year old son. The son had gotten winded and stopped to rest, while Larry rode ahead. A few moments later, his son rode up on the scene of the accident where his father lay dying. My friend Larry was struck by a car driven by a 22-year-old girl, and we’re not sure yet why she veered out of her lane of traffic. Then on Friday, I got another early morning phone call. Another law school classmate of mine lost his 27 year old son in a bizarre accident.

I reached a couple of thoughts about the gut wrenching kaleidoscope of these events. The first of these is that I may be a bit of a Jonah, and would understand perfectly if folks were to scootch away or avert their eyes when they see me walking toward them. Second, I think being a friend, being a Christian, is a contact sport. Nothing in this world is harder, or more essential to the Christian life, than being present while someone you love suffers, bearing witness to their pain with them. I think that’s part of the power of the image of Mary at the Cross, watching and aching as her son gives up his life. Seeing these events unfold around me, I’m reminded of something the Tin Man said in the Wizard of Oz: “Now I know I have a heart, because it’s breaking.”

Third, when I heard about my friend Larry’s accident, I actually found the strength, through God’s grace alone and no merit of mine, to immediately say a prayer for the young woman who had struck him. I have no idea how this accident will change her life or the life of her family, but I know she needs God’s presence through this. And somehow, I felt better myself after praying for her.

A couple of years ago, I was asked if I was involved in pastoral care at the church, and I answered that no, I was not. While my answer was honest, I’m not sure that it was accurate. I think all of us are called upon, regardless of what we consider to be our ministry, to be the hands and face of Christ from time to time. Maybe these events were just some sort of coincidence. Or maybe, as Einstein once said, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”

I think that what might pass in the secular world for caring and compassion is, for us Christians, a statement of our faith. It is our way of cursing the darkness with which this world confronts us, and speaking to the love of Christ and the promise of Easter. As the chaplain of Austin College recently observed, “Easter is not about denial, it’s about defiance.” Our caring for one another speaks to the power of love to overshadow pain.

Depending on the circumstance, as I have confronted these events, I may not have even mentioned Jesus or faith or prayer. I tend to follow St. Francis’ advice in these circumstances, that we should preach the gospel in all times and in all places, but only use the words when necessary. I hope that I won’t hear Jesus telling me someday that I did it wrong, that he won’t recognize me because I didn’t recognize him in this context. I know that it is only through my faith that I can stand to watch people I love suffer, and that I can go on living without making sense of these events. I’ve begun to believe that, for those of us who follow Jesus, the work of bearing witness to the love of God through moments of pain may be the real cost of taking up the cross.

by James R. Dennis

Dennis is a member at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, San Antonio TX, where he leads an adult Christian formation class on current topics. 

  This article first appeard in the Fall 2009 edition of Reflections magazine. To read the entire magazine, click here http://www.dwtx.org/index.php/prayer/Reflections_Online_Fall_2009

For more reflection:

Praying the psalms? We recite them, yes. Some of us chant them or sing them (sometimes). But praying the psalms as a spiritual practice? We turn prayerfully to Psalm 23 for comfort in times of fear, despair, or sorrow; and we have other familiar or favorite psalms: “I lift up my eyes to the hills” (121) or “O come, let us sing to the LORD; let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation” (95). Many lines and phrases from the Book of Psalms are also familiar: “Be still and know that I am God,” or “The earth is the LORD’s and all that is in it” or “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”

But praying the psalms? We look at many of these ancient poems and hymns and feel uncomforted and uncomfortable with many. They seem so foreign and “unchristian.” Yet, for centuries, monastic communities have centered their daily offices in prayerful recitation or chanting of the psalms anywhere from four to seven times daily. Why have Christian spiritual leaders encouraged the practice of praying the psalms for non-monastic persons as well? Why did Thomas Cranmer outline a 39 cycle of reciting the Psalter for the Book of Common Prayer?

Those who practice praying the psalms regularly explain that it has led them toward new experiences of intimacy with God — especially for those of us who have been fearful of being fully open with God because we believe that God wants our best behavior in our prayers.

Many of the psalms make this clear: what we think of as unacceptable behavior in front of God was not a concern when the Israelites spoke directly to God. They ranted, questioned God’s judgment, called for blessings and vengeance, and demanded all kinds of responses from God. The psalms exposed wildly different feelings: from the petitioners’ arrogance to profound penitence, from victorious confidence to total submission. The truth is that we early 21st century people lack the godly audacity and fearlessness that many psalmists so boldly and disturbingly display. Consequently, our relationship with God is often limited, not because of moral failings or destructive addictions, but because we are fearful of being fully open with God.

The psalms provide an antidote to a kind of Christian piety and spirituality that is romantic and unreal in its positiveness and that speaks only of going from strength to strength, from victory to victory.

In reading the psalms, I found a voice saying things that I would not have dared spoken (even inwardly), but my heart wanted to say: “Why, O Lord, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?” (10); or “O Lord, you God of vengeance, shine forth! Rise up, O judge of the earth; give to the proud what they deserve!” (94).

What happens when God seems to have turned against us? The psalms reveal our deep dilemma: do we follow our desire to run from shadows, or do we speak to the shadows in painful words? God calls us to enter that darkness, and the psalms encourage us to let down our defenses and disarm ourselves. Our naming the pain to God helps. Sometimes in the mystery of that relational moment, the emotion is transformed, even if the situation is not.

The psalms of lament can be the model for an honest dialogue of the faith, a way to pass through adversity other than through denying the fears and anger within us. Through the psalms of lament, we can argue our innocence, demand a hearing, put the burden on God, and petition God. And in the psalms, words of personal anguish eventually move to praise and hope because the psalmists see God and God’s light in the darkness.

Psalm 13 provides a short example. “How long will you hide your face from me?” the psalmist begins. The pain, sorrow, and personal humility have lasted long, and the plea is direct — if you don’t do something, Lord, I will die. Then comes the statement of faith, turning lamentation into a prayer profoundly confident and even joyful:

But I trusted in your steadfast love;
my heart shall rejoice in your salvation.
I will sing to the Lord,
because he has dealt bountifully with me. 

There is a change after such an experience; we understand the universe differently. The transformation in the middle of a lament psalm is like that. Here praise comes not from the delusion that things are “going just fine” when they aren’t, but praise that comes from real trust and the joy it brings. Here are models for encouragement, even praise, that re-enforce our faith — even when we feel vulnerable — by looking back thankfully at what God has done.

Then we understand the universe differently and God differently. In The Cloister Walk, Kathleen Norris confesses that praying the psalms regularly in a Benedictine community taught her to overcome “the belief that one had to be dressed up, both outwardly and inwardly, to meet God.”

The prayers found in the psalter are often brutally honest as they cry for protection from those who arrogantly lie and flatter while the poor and needy are “despoiled” (12); for God’s presence in the face of death, “O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you” (63); for an understanding of God’s inaction in the face of injustice (73); or for healing and forgiveness (102).

Our own prayers often linger in our anguish, anger, and pain, but these psalms encourage us to move to trust and faith. Even the most violent images in the psalms are lifted up for God’s ultimate mediation.

The psalms can teach us to pray humbly with an awareness of our total dependence on God: “My heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high” (131). Through them, we pray for release from distractions: “In the shadow of your wings I will take refuge, until the destroying storm pass by” (57).

By praying the psalms, we also pray as Jesus prayed — for submission to his Father and strength in time of trial, for the power of God to do God’s work, and for blessings and hope for the destitute and neglected. Regularly praying the psalms forms us into more faith-filled people: trusting totally in God, bringing us into God’s presence honestly exposing ourselves and our needs, and finally, drawing us into the steadfast love of God and the conversation of the Trinity.

by the  Rev. Lera Tyler
Tyler is assistant rector at St. Thomas Episcopal Church, San Antonio TX
 This article first appeard in the Fall 2009 edition of Reflections magazine. To read the entire magazine, click here http://www.dwtx.org/index.php/prayer/Reflections_Online_Fall_2009

For more reflection:  

The Episcopal Church uses a daily schedule of psalms and Bible readings (called the lectionary) in a two-year cycle, which means it repeats every two years. The reading schedule begins with the First Sunday in Advent; on November 29, 2009, we began Year Two. You will find a lectionary at http://satucket.com/lectionary/  You will find Psalm readings in Forward Day by Day and in the back of the Book of Common Prayer.