Have you ever spent the entire night waiting for the sun to rise the next morning? A while back, my friend Denise commented on her own reflection of this psalm and the long slow wait in anticipation of the dawning of a new day. In her work as a pediatric nurse, Denise has worked her share of night shifts sometimes watching families as they try to hold on and make it through the night, not knowing what the morning will bring. She noted how much longing went into watching for the early light of dawn’s approach. In her thinking she drew the connection between that intense level of longing with our straining for God’s intervention in those dark moments of need.
Lent is a meditative season in the cycle of the Christian year that’s problematic for those who want only the sweet easy goodness that Advent and the celebration of Jesus’ birth might offer. Lent is tough on those who want the culmination of the church’s worship through the early spring Sundays to focus only on spring and Jesus’ resurrection appearance on Easter morning.
For all of you who’ve gone through a season of pain through some brokenness or illness in your body. For all of you who may suffer from chronic pain in every waking moment, we acknowledge we don’t do pain well.
We’re meant for sunny skies and wildflowers blowing gently in the spring breezes. We’re meant for happy times and goodness. We’re meant for laughter and light-hearted conversations and life’s sweetness, not for the terror of suffering and pain that will not go away no matter what we do about it seeking relief.
So, the psalmist opens our eyes and helps us see a vantage point that originates from “out of the depths.” In fact, the feeling of the depths leads to a cry aimed squarely at the care of God that leaves us exposed and unprotected. That’s a cry that hangs in our throats as the unutterable sound of a voice that cannot find the words that give meaning to what’s in our hearts.
“Out of the depths,” is how the poet describes the fear of all those experiences in life where we feel out of control, where we feel our existence has been called into question, and where we feel we stand on the extremities of life itself.
Our two other texts for today remind us that on this last day of Lent, we visit a cemetery.
Ezekiel, depressed and grieving over the end of his people Israel as he watches them eke out a grim existence as captives in Babylon. They’re a defeated people serving in desperate conditions. “Out of the depths,” the psalmist would say of Ezekiel’s sense of doom. But in spite of the hopelessness of their condition, Ezekiel has a vision of a valley of dry bones and in those bones, he sees his people. The dry bones are the metaphor of what many of us feel when we’re in some overwhelming experience.
It’s not enough to be there suffering at the deepest depths of one’s being. God speaks to Ezekiel as if he’s goading him to faith. “Can these bones live?” God asks. “Preach to the bones,” God tells him and Ezekiel does what the LORD tells him.
Lo and behold, the wind begins to stir, and those bones start rattling and connecting with one another in their ordered sequence. They grow flesh and leap up and start dancing and suddenly those old dry bones are breathing and singing and shouting, a multitude praising God!
Similarly, just two weeks before Easter, we’re summoned to the grave of Lazarus with Jesus just weeks before his own entry into Jerusalem for what would turn from a parade into an unholy riot demanding a Roman execution for his challenge to the religious authority of the Temple.
It might feel as if we’ve jumped the gun by standing with Jesus before the tomb of his dear friend Lazarus.
We take our cues on death’s fear by listening to the stories of faith that help us understand that death is not the final word … death is not the whole truth.
Even as we come perilously close to the shadow of death, Jesus whispers in our ears, “I am the Resurrection and the Life … whoever trusts in me, though dying, shall live, and whoever lives and trusts in me shall not be bound by death forever.”
Jesus then turns to Martha, “Do you believe this?” which was his invitation to faith. She believed, but only in part, as she described how God would intervene someday, but not today. Feeling an impending sense of his own mortality, Jesus stood before the tomb and wept. And for a moment, he was just another of those gathered to mourn Lazarus’ death. But out of the depths of his grief, Jesus commanded them to roll away the stone. Martha, the pragmatic one, argued with him but Jesus challenged her to faith again and they rolled away the stone.
Jean Albert Vignant was placed in solitary confinement in a French prison in the 1830’s. For months he paced his cell alone, longing for freedom. One day, he stopped his pacing at his door and in frustration he leaned against it. To his surprise, it swung open! Something in the locking mechanism was broken so the cell door could not be locked securely. Vignant was stunned by the realization that all this time he had been locked in a prison closed shut by an unlocked door. All he had to do was walk out and he was free of all the misery of his incarceration!1
“Out of the depths” is the captivity we endure whenever we stand behind an unlocked door while only seeing the four walls that hold us. “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen,” the writer of Hebrews tells us.
Out of the depths I cry to you O LORD,
In your Mercy, hear my voice!
Psalm 130:1 (NRSV)
In this season of Lent, we are listening closely to the ancient poet, the writer of a collection we know as the Psalms. In order to listen closely, I am matching our ancient poem with a poem of our time so they might dialogue together for a deeper meaning.
© Dr. Keith D. Herron 2023
1 Larry Bethune, “Lazarus Unbound,” University Baptist Church, Austin TX, 4/1/90
Small Group Discussion Guide March 26, 2023
“Those Who Watch for the Morning”
Psalm 130[1]
Out of the depths I cry to You! In your Mercy, hear my voice!
May you be attentive to the voice of my supplications!
If You should number the times we stray from You, O Beloved, who could face You?
Yet You are ever-ready to forgive, that we might be healed.
I wait for You, my soul waits, for in your Love I would live;
My soul awaits the Beloved as one awaits the birth of a child,
Or as one awaits the fulfillment of their destiny.
O sons and daughters of the Light, welcome the Heart of your heart!
Then you will climb the Sacred Mountain of Truth;
You will know mercy and love in abundance. Then will your transgressions be
forgiven; and you will know the Oneness of All. Amen.
A Sample from the Sermon:
The psalmist opens our eyes and helps us see a vantage point that originates from “out of the depths.” In fact, the feeling of the depths leads to a cry aimed squarely at the care of God that leaves us exposed and unprotected. That’s a cry that hangs in our throats as the unutterable sound of a voice that cannot find the words that give meaning to what’s in our hearts.
“Out of the depths,” is how the poet describes the fear of all those experiences in life where we feel out of control, where we feel our existence has been called into question, and where we feel we stand on the extremities of life itself.
We take our cues on death’s fear by listening to the stories of faith that help us understand that death is not the final word … death is not the whole truth. Even as we come perilously close to the shadow of death, Jesus whispers in our ears, “I am the Resurrection and the Life … whoever trusts in me, though dying, shall live, and whoever lives and trusts in me shall not be bound by death forever.”
Talking Points:
- Recall your experience of knowing what it was like “out of the depths,” when you suffered and called out to God for relief.
- How were your prayers answered? What is it like to cry out to God in such moments?
[1] Jan Merrill, Psalms for Praying, An Invitation to Wholeness, London: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2007