Psalm 42:4-6
These things I remember, as I pour out my soul: how I went with the throng, and led them in procession to the house of God, with glad shouts and songs of thanksgiving, a multitude keeping festival.
Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise God, my help and my God.
It feels surreal to be reading this psalm during a time when so many of us are apart from the houses of God that we’ve called home–the sanctuaries that have borne witness to our joys and our sorrows, the spaces that have nurtured peace and hope in community.
In April, when we had been out of our sanctuaries for just over a month, I wrote a poem inspired by Mary Oliver’s The Place I Want to Get Back To.
The place I want to get back to is where / in the sanctuary / in the moments between the peace / and the meal / five children / came hurrying down the aisle / and grabbed their colored pails / from my hands, my smile sending them / on their way, boundless / energy embodied, / tiny hands and feet making / of this congregation / an offering of joy, noisy / with clanging coins / and unspoken gratitude, / and occasional laughter / that can’t be stopped / rising up in praise / not unlike the way / I stand, later, at the table / and look and look / into the faces of God’s beloved; / and then the tears come / and tickle my throat, and what can my life / bring to me that could exceed / that brief moment of recognition? / For seventeen years / I have gone every week to the sanctuary, / attentive, but never fully aware / now, when this place is empty–I see / how full it was…and will be. / If you want to talk about this / find me at home, waiting. I live in the house / the church built, which I have named / Gratitude.
Months later, I’m remembering Christmases past in our now empty sanctuaries and missing–already–the glow of the candlelight, the warmth of the homecomings, the shared silence and the shared song.
The psalmist, too, is grieving, longing for God, remembering how life used to be.
I have such a vivid memory of walking into the Recital Hall at Luther College for a Wednesday evening Eucharist service. It was the spring semester of my senior year. My brother, Mike, had died at the end of the fall semester. And it felt as though I had lost my faith along with my brother. Everything I had believed about God was no longer anything I could trust. I could not reconcile Mike’s tragic death with the God I thought I knew. I wasn’t just missing Mike; I was missing God. I picked up a bulletin as I entered the worship space, and these words from Psalm 42 leapt off that bulletin page and spoke to my grieving heart.
I felt so alone that night. But in the psalmist, I found someone who understood my heartache. I found someone who understood how unbearable it was to remember a past filled with praise. Because now, there were no songs of thanksgiving. There wasn’t even anger or doubt. There was only a void where trust in God had been.
The psalmist knew my heart. And so I could trust—just barely—their surprising confession that they would again praise God. I took that bulletin back to my dorm room and tacked it on my bulletin board. I wanted to believe.
And in time, I did.
This is a season of memories. And sometimes those memories are overwhelming. They take you back to moments so painful—or so joyous—that you forget for a moment where you are. You forget for a moment who you are, beloved.
I love today’s song, Constellations by Ellie Holcomb. She echoes the psalmist, remembering a season of infinite light when…I was close to you. She longs to be carried…back to that moment in time because she feels so alone.
But then, like the psalmist, Ellie remembers God’s goodness. She sings, You’ve already been in this desolate place. You’ve already been here and You’ve made a way.
God has already made a way. We will return to praise.
Come, Jesus, come. Remember us, when the memories wash over us. Remember us and be our Way. Remember us. Amen.
Today’s accompanying song is Constellations by Ellie Holcomb.