Out of the Depths
Psalm 130
Emmanuel Baptist Church
March 29, 2020; Rev. Kathy Donley
One time a mother was waiting for her 8-year-old daughter to come home. The daughter was late, and the mother was getting worried. Finally, the daughter came home and her mother asked her why she was late. The girl said that she had been at her friend’s house and the friend’s doll had broken. Her mother said, “oh, did you stay to help her fix the doll?” The girl said, “No, the doll could not be fixed. I had to stay and help her cry.”
The little girl was wise. Some things cannot be fixed, and the best response is to recognize that and share the heaviness of it together.
“Out of the depths I cry to you O Lord”. That’s how the psalmist describes it. The depths are deep dark waters, the recurrent symbol for chaos among the ancient Hebrew people. This psalm comes to us across millennia from people whose lives were nothing like ours and yet, we also know what it means to cry from the depths. It is that universal human experience of despair and lostness. The deep dark waters could refer to the nearness and threat of death, or a spiritual abyss into which the mind and heart have fallen, or the hostility and danger of enemies or a terrible and overwhelming fear.[1] The depths are a place where resources have been exhausted and the way forward is unclear. Spiraling down into anxiety and despair, the psalmist cries “God, help!”
We should note that this is an expression of faith, the faith that God is present and that God will act. Otherwise, what would be the point of calling out ?
The next verses give us a little more context. We don’t have details, but the psalmist is seeking forgiveness for sin and brokenness, seeking a restoration to wholeness. When we’re in the depths, we realize that we are powerless to extricate ourselves from our predicament. At such times, where can we go but to the Lord?
We’re in the midst of a pandemic. It may be that science and good sense may break the grip of this disease, if our leaders and the general public will listen and act accordingly. We are crying out to God with our fears about our loved ones getting sick, about the loss of jobs, about how the bills will be paid. Those are good prayers, but we cry from the depths about even bigger things. About the fear that weaves its way into every conversation, that threatens to suffocate us, that impairs our ability to make good decisions. About the selfishness of hoarding toilet paper or Tylenol or protective masks. About the racist assaults on Asian Americans as if the virus has a nationality, as if physically attacking people is an acceptable response at any time. These are the kinds of spiritual issues for which we call from the depths, “God help us.”
We pray, like the psalmist because things are not right, not as God intends them to be. We pray because God is the only one who can deliver us. One scholar says, “Those in the Bible who live their lives in relation to God are those who move back and forth between petition and praise, between supplication for God’s help and thanksgiving for the hope that comes.” And so, even from the depths, the psalmist is proclaiming the steadfast love of God.
Two weeks ago, I was in Matamoros, Mexico, in an encampment of asylum seekers. The needs are so great there. It is not safe. The people who fled from their home countries have sometimes been chased and found by the abusers that they were fleeing. These precious people who have for months been living in tents are vulnerable to violent crimes, to disease, and to despair. They need safety and a way to earn a living and place to nurture children.
On Friday night, I was standing just inside a large tent where dinner was being served to about 1000 asylum seekers.
And in the moment when I slipped out my phone and snapped this picture, all was peaceful. The child is washing his hands with soap and water provided for that very purpose. These are people who live between petition and praise, between pleading for what they need and giving sincere thanks for every small gift that is granted.
Psychotherapist Miriam Greenspan works with people in the midst of grief and fear and despair. One of her goals to help them understand “the close relationship between individual heartbreak and the broken-heartedness of the world.”[2] She believes this is important for healing. In this photo, which is becoming one of my favorites, I get an inkling of that. My heart is broken, for so many of us who are afraid, for health care providers who are putting themselves on the front lines every day, for some of my friends whose children have underlying health concerns and whose parents are at risk because of their age.
And I think of the broken-heartedness of the world represented in the faces I saw in that dining tent – the man with his arm in a sling and a friendly smile, the family with three generations around a table, the fierce 9-year-old girl who knew the rules about the water station and could only speak Spanish while I, the supposed adult in charge did not know the rules, and could not understand her explanation. They are stuck on the border of a country that is refusing to even hear their stories. They cry to God from the depths. Their broken-heartedness is the result of sin, not their sin, but the sins of nationalism and racism and violence and greed and exploitation.
We cry from the depths, but for the psalmist, for those at the border, and for us, God does not always act immediately. The psalm says
“I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, more than those who watch for the morning”.
Those who watch for the morning might be the town watchmen who act as guardians at night so that others can sleep in safety and rise refreshed. Or it might refer to wartime sentinels who keeps lookout for the approaching enemy who might attack at first light. The image is one of vigilance and active waiting.[3]
Waiting is the hard part. Waiting means living with uncertainty.
Is it morning yet?
Are we safe yet?
How long will we be in lock-down?
How long until we flatten the curve?
Are we almost there?
How bad will it get before it gets better?
How long until dawn?
My soul waits for the Lord, more than those who watch for the morning.
The word “to wait” in Hebrew can also mean “to hope”. In our uncertainty about the corona virus, about friends and loved ones, about many things, we wait and hope.
The people in Matamoros are waiting for the Lord. They wait. They cry out, from the depths, believing that God is present and will act. In spite of so much that is broken, so much that is fearful, so much that is desperately wrong, they wait with hope. If they can do so, how can we do anything less?
My soul waits for the Lord,
more than those who watch for the morning.
O Israel, O beloved ones, hope in the Lord, For with the Lord there is steadfast love and great power to redeem. Amen.
[1] Patrick D. Miller, Interpreting the Psalms, (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), p. 139
[2] Miriam Greenspan, Healing Through the Dark Emotions: The Wisdom of Grief, Fear and Despair (Boston: Shambhala Publications, 2003), p. xiv
[3] http://hwallace.unitingchurch.org.au/WebOTcomments/LentA/Lent5APsalm130.html