by Jodi-Renee Adams
Psalm Reading: Psalm 147.1-11, 20(c)
For Sunday, Feb. 5, Year B − Epiphany 5
The psalmist speaks about a God who can wrangle the cosmos but is deeply invested in the well-being of those who love him. The hymn is scattered with images of beauty and safety; the poor are lifted up. The wounded are healed.
The reality is that life is disappointing. All this just doesn’t ring true. All you have to do is look outside the city coffee shop or listen to the news station piping in overhead to get that.
GOD the Pez Dispenser
So how, as people of faith, do we fit into this hymn−good guys are pitted against the bad guys and guess who picked God for their team?
This idea being: The Good Kids get a good harvest, long lives, and husbands that look like Brad Pitt. God will throw down with the bullies on their behalf. On the flip side, The Bad Kids get none of these perks. They’re on the outside of God’s pleasure.
And who qualifies as The Good Kids? The ones who follow the rules and give thanks to this powerful God for not crushing them. This God, who sometimes comes across like a sycophant in the sky, showers rewards and make us feel better about being alive when we spend our time singing God’s praises.
Fight Club Feel Good
Sometimes I wonder if we read the Psalms to justify that God-in-Control-of-the-Details-of-My-Life is our drug of choice. And sometimes I wonder if that theology is a cop out.
He’s got the whole world in his hands and all that.
But maybe the right theology is a little more like Fight Club and a little less like a Nicholas Spark’s novel. Maybe a little less “you are a precious jewel in God’s crown” and a little more “you are not a precious snowflake.”
Good to Be Small
If God is not in the business of working out the finite details of my happiness and material well-being, why the call for such praise? Not to diminish the truth of God’s love for us or lose sight of our value to the kingdom, but maybe the peace and comfort come not from being safe but from being small.
Deeply embedded in the tradition of Hebrew poetry are verses that evoke human smallness. These hymns declare that God will care and protect. They give both the poet and audience rest in the idea that there is an order to things−even if my personal place or role is not profoundly significant. And that may be a reminder of the biggest picture.
The Hardest Question
Does my thanks and worship stem from what God does for me, or is it born of my own acknowledgment of my place in the grand scheme of things−even if it’s not very exciting?
And maybe even more urgently, does the act of praise itself change us as we surrender to the bigness of it all, and maybe, is that the point?
