To Make Room for God To Come In, and Say, ‘Here I Am!’
(Psalm 23; Psalm 23;“Guest House” by Rumi)
A reflection by Dave Shull
Spirit of Peace United Church of Christ
Sammamish, Washington
The Third Sunday after Pentecost: July 3, 2011
The third in a summer series on topics you’ve asked to hear addressed in reflections.
This morning’s question: “Why do we praise, adore, and worship God?
As an all-knowing, all-understanding entity, does that maybe seem like groveling?”
The first time it happened 15 years ago, it surprised me. Someone called me at the church and said, “I don’t know why I’ve been crying in worship. It’s so embarrassing. What’s wrong with me?” I don’t remember how I responded.
After thinking about Patti Gray’s question for today – Why do we praise, adore, and worship God? – I think I know what I’ll say to the next person who tells me that. I’ll say something like, “I wonder if you cry in worship because coming here, you stop all the stuff you’ve been doing all week. You’re free from some of the distractions and responsibilities. what you’ve been doing all week. Now you’ve made room inside you for God to come in. And say to you, “Here I am!” Why wouldn’t you cry if you hear those words? I think everyone wants to feel God that close.”
Why do we worship God? I think we come together to worship so each of us can make room for God to come into us. And say, “Here I am!”
Worship is about God, not about us. We don’t gather for worship to give God our laundry list of things we want God to do. Worship isn’t us doing all the talking and God doing all the listening. Worship isn’t therapy. We don’t worship to feel happier. Or to be told what we want to hear.
Worship is about making room for God. For at least one morning a week, we choose to open ourselves to God. And let God in. One morning a week, we come together. Because you can’t do worship alone. We can do private devotions. And pray our private prayers. We can meditate. All these are important. But we can only do worship as part of a community. I hope to make that clear as we look at how we worship. Because how we worship shows us why we worship.
We start by walking through a door that’s always wide open to any who want to come in. Worship starts with a wide-open door (image from Gordon Lathrop, Holy People: A Liturgical Ecclesiology, Fortress Press, 1999, p. 93).
Every week in worship, we say, We welcome people just as they are. It’s hard to believe that’s real. Because if I’m really welcome just as I am, that means I can take off my masks here. That means who I am is acceptable. Who I am is enough. But how can that be? Because out there I wear masks. Out there I get in trouble if I say what I really think. Or if I let people see who I really am. We’re used to hiding. And pretending. We’re used to doing what we need to to please people. Or prove we’re not weak. We even wear masks with ourselves. We try to convince ourselves everything’s fine. So it can be hard to walk through a wide-open door and believe worship is come-as-you-are. Worship is take the risk to show your true, beautiful, God-loves-me-just-the-way-I-am face. I don’t think most people bring that face to church. I think most people, including me, usually come to worship wearing our “Sunday morning” face. We smile at each other. And say, everything’s fine. It’s all good. For some of us, when we say that we’re telling the truth. Others of us aren’t fine. But usually we still say we’re fine. Because somewhere we learned the world wants to see us happy. And wants to hear everything’s great. So we think that’s how it is in church too.
If our faith ancestors thought God only wants happy people in worship, then Psalm 13 wouldn’t be in the Bible. Psalm 13 didn’t come through the lips of someone wearing a Sunday morning face. Whoever prayed Psalm 13 felt like God was missing in action. And they weren’t afraid to let God know it. This angry, hurt lover-of-God gives us permission to drop our masks in worship. And be real.
Listen for a Word from God.
Psalm 13
Long enough, God— you've ignored me long enough.
I've looked at the back of your head
long enough. Long enough
I've carried this ton of trouble,
lived with a stomach full of pain.
Long enough my arrogant enemies
have looked down their noses at me.
Take a good look at me, God, my God;
I want to look life in the eye,
So no enemy can get the best of me
or laugh when I fall on my face
(The Message © 2003 Eugene Peterson).
I want to stop here before Nan reads the end of the psalm. This is not polite speech. I don’t often hear prayers like this in public. I know I’ve never prayed like this in public. Though at times in my private prayers I get quite angry with God. But the man or woman who prayed this prayer trusted the folks they were worshiping with not to throw them out for being so disrespectful toward God. Though the language is harsh, we can see this person is having a lover’s quarrel with God. In the midst of their anger, this person prays, “Take a look at me, God, my God” (13.3). To call this God my God means they’ve had a close relationship before. So the person prays, Why are you ignoring me now, my God? I need you. Show up! … And then they wait for God to respond.
It’s impossible to know how long this person waited for God to respond. A week. A month. A decade. All we can be sure of is that God did respond. How do we know? Look how the prayer ends:
I've thrown myself headlong into your arms—
I'm celebrating your rescue.
I'm singing at the top of my lungs,
I'm so full of answered prayers.
Somewhere between the words of complaint and the words of praise, God came in to this person. And said, Here I am. And that was all that person needed. To know God hadn’t abandoned them. To make room for God to come in, though, this person needed to drop the masks and tell God how bad it was. This person needed a community of worship to hear how God had abandoned them. The past couldn’t be changed. Maybe this person’s enemies were still around. And people still laughed at them. But their honest, risky speech opened a space for God. And God came in. And now their relationship with God has been given new life. Which tells us we don’t gather for worship to be polite. We gather for worship because, at least on Sunday mornings, we can be real.
If the person who prayed Psalm 13 struggled to hold on to a confident faith, the same cannot be said for the person who prayed Psalm 23. If Christians have any part of the Bible memorized, it’s likely to be the 23rd psalm. It has brought comfort in times of grief more than any other words in the Bible. At times of loneliness, shock, and fear, God comes to us through those words. And says, Here I am! I invite us to pray the 23rd Psalm together. The words are in the bulletin. If this isn’t the version you know, then pray the words that are part of you. Let us pray.
Psalm 23
The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.
You make me lie down in green pastures. You lead me beside still waters.
You restore my soul.
You lead me in paths of righteousness for your name’s sake.
Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil.
For you are with me. Your rod and your staff – they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil. My cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
These words have so much power when we know them by heart. When they have become a part of us. That’s why I like sung prayers. Because when we sing something a couple of times, the words become part of us. Sometimes that’s not something to be grateful for. A case in point: It’s a small world after all…. Worship invites us to sing …. and not be self-conscious about how we sound to ourselves or to those around us. Worship invites us to sing, so Bible stories and prayers become part of us. So when we need comfort, joy, or hope, those words of God that say “Here I am!” are part of us.
I see myself sitting at morning worship in the divinity school chapel. It’s spring of 1985. We’re singing the 143rd psalm. A soloist sings each verse of the psalm. After each verse, the congregation sings,
Bring me news of your love ev’ry morning.
I’d like us to sing parts of Psalm 143 with you this morning. So we can hear God’s word in a different way. After each verse, I’ll play these two notes [play guitar]. Then you sing,
Bring me news of your love ev’ry morning.
Let us pray.
Lord, my hope is in you.
Bring me news of your love every morning.
Hear my prayer, O Lord. Hear me, for you are faithful and just.
Bring me news of your love every morning.
I remember former times, and think of all you have done.
Bring me news of your love every morning.
I stretch out my hands toward you – I am like dry, waterless ground.
Bring me news of your love every morning.
Show me the way to walk, for I lift up my life to you.
Bring me news of your love every morning.
(Elizabeth Frohrip, 1980, adapted from Praise God: Common Prayer at Taize)
The soloist that morning back in 1985 was a Methodist divinity student named Peggy Anne Sauerhoff. When she sang the words, I stretch out my hands toward you – I am like dry, waterless ground, for the first time in my life I felt like God had broken me open. God broke me open to see myself without masks. At that moment, I knew I was the singer of that psalm. I am like dry waterless ground was my truth. I was pretending everything was great. But even around my friends I didn’t feel like I could real. And I couldn’t be real with God. I hadn’t come to chapel that morning expecting anything to happen. But all God needed was for me to show up. And make a bit of room for God to come in. That’s all God needed. Through a verse from a psalm I’d never read before, God broke me open and said, Here I am. For the past 27 years, I have sung the 143rd psalm at least once a month. In hard times, I sing it every day. The words live in my bones. More than almost any other words of scripture, they have the power to break me open. And to bring God close.
We come together for worship so there’s at least one place where we can drop our masks and speak what’s real, and sing stories and prayers that become part of us. Life is full of loss. The world is full of reasons to prove God’s doesn’t exist. Or doesn’t care. So those of us who know God is here and God loves us, and those of us who have a thirst to know that, keep coming together. We keep coming through those wide open doors. And keep welcoming and keep being welcomed. We keep dropping our masks so we can be real. We keep singing. We keep looking for the face of God in those we don’t like, those we disagree with, those we even hate. We keep refusing to walk the easy road of revenge, violence, arrogance, and fear.
Because another word lives in our bones. Another Spirit speaks through our lips. Finally, it is a word of quiet trust. That no matter what happens, God is with us and walks beside us. God’s love fills us. The people we gather for worship with each week will be there to catch me when I fall. And I will be there to catch them. And that is enough.
I will know I walk with such a quiet trust when these words from the 13th-century Muslim mystic Rumi become part of me.
“House Guest”
This being human is a great house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and attend the all:
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture, still,
treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī (1207-1273)
Amen.
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