the church of the
ascension
in the city of
new york
Monday, March 09, 2009
Monday, March 9
Psalm 56 / Jeremiah 1:11-19 / John 4:27-42
I open up Psalm 56, and what's there? All that Old Testament stuff about being oppressed by enemies. Please! Haven't we outgrown this by now? I'm not interested in the sort of God that casts wrath upon the peoples, on my behalf or anyone else's.
But then in the very next verse we get:
You have kept count of my tossings;
put my tears in your bottle.
Are they not in your record?
You have put my tears in your bottle. The idea that God is gathering every one of my tears, keeping count of every restless night, is such a child's image of the all-powerful enfolding loving mother, the one who can rescue me from every scrape, every sadness, every fear, every loss. And I must admit, I have NOT outgrown that God. Even though my rational grownup mind regards the whole thing as faintly ridiculous, when I am afraid or lost I am comforted by imagining a God who gathers all my tears and keeps a record of them.
Something similar happened with the woman at the well in the Gospel reading, after all. "He told me everything I have ever done." She is convinced Jesus is the Messiah not because of any special miracle he performs, but simply because he knows her.
Perhaps it is indeed miraculous to be fully known. And perhaps it is not simply childish to imagine God knowing everything about me; perhaps it's absolutely central to my faith.
— Eve Beglarian
I open up Psalm 56, and what's there? All that Old Testament stuff about being oppressed by enemies. Please! Haven't we outgrown this by now? I'm not interested in the sort of God that casts wrath upon the peoples, on my behalf or anyone else's.
But then in the very next verse we get:
You have kept count of my tossings;
put my tears in your bottle.
Are they not in your record?
You have put my tears in your bottle. The idea that God is gathering every one of my tears, keeping count of every restless night, is such a child's image of the all-powerful enfolding loving mother, the one who can rescue me from every scrape, every sadness, every fear, every loss. And I must admit, I have NOT outgrown that God. Even though my rational grownup mind regards the whole thing as faintly ridiculous, when I am afraid or lost I am comforted by imagining a God who gathers all my tears and keeps a record of them.
Something similar happened with the woman at the well in the Gospel reading, after all. "He told me everything I have ever done." She is convinced Jesus is the Messiah not because of any special miracle he performs, but simply because he knows her.
Perhaps it is indeed miraculous to be fully known. And perhaps it is not simply childish to imagine God knowing everything about me; perhaps it's absolutely central to my faith.
— Eve Beglarian
