Third Thursday of Advent
Scripture Reading for Today:
A Response to Loss
by Keitha Ogbogu
In Psalm 80, we meet a nation that is grieving, as the text in its original writing seems to be referring to the conquering of Israel, and later editors reflect the “pending devastation” of Judah. Jason Byassee, in Working Preacher, notes, “…these twin bookends of Israel’s misery are the points of origin for a Psalm seeking salvation.”[1] The psalmist’s words could be perceived as alarming as they cry out phrases such as “Hear us”(Ps.80:1); “How long, Lord, will your anger smolder?”(Ps.80:4) and “you have fed them with the bread of tears; you have made them drink tears by the bowlful.”(Ps.80:6). In texts like this we are reminded that Israel and the land were synonymous, and so when the land was conquered, so were the people. Whenever the land was fatigued, so were they. These moments that are referred to in Psalm 80 would be no different and rightfully elicit despair—the kind of despair that is accompanied by a “bowlful” of tears. Yet, there is something hopeful laced in their lament, despite their disappointment, their tears, and the inevitability of the moment, as the psalmist on behalf of the people still finds their way to Yahweh. Who else, they must wonder, can offer us a breath of relief? Who else, they must wonder, can understand and ease their burden? Who else, they must wonder, can sustain us in this moment? Who else, they must wonder, can sit in the shadowy sadness, the ever present sorrow that so desperately wants to consume them?
It is in their anger, despondency and hopeful hopelessness that they bring their entire selves while they wait, while they grieve, while they seek the answer to their query, “How Long,” while they acknowledge the ways their neighbours look down on them, while they pray: “Restore us, God Almighty…”
When I read Psalm 80, I can hear its words as though they escaped from the drumbeat of my own heart. Not as I look upon a nation, but as I scan the horizon of the church; collecting stories, unbinding burdens, and holding space for the modern equivalent to the bowlful of tears. Along with the psalmist, I too am grieving. I too wonder, “How Long?” I too hear the mocking of enemies. I too hold a prayer in my heart: “Restore us, God Almighty; make your face shine on us, that we may be saved…” (Psalm 80:7, 19)
If you had told me several years ago that loss would be the word shaping the way I see the church these days, I would not have believed you, but along the way, I’ve lost some of my idyllic sense of optimism as I sit in the shadows of bygone steeples. Growing up, our tiny Northern Ontario church was set on a hill, embedded in the familiar rock of the Canadian Shield. The church basement both terrified us and intrigued us as we played freely, finding what we imagined were secret hiding spots and mysterious doorways. Outside, there were blueberry patches and zigzag pathways among trees and rocks where our imaginations crafted wild adventures and uncovered a myriad of mysteries. Our Sunday school teachers doted on us, and the adults knew our names, our grades, and our favourite surprises. They all helped build this strange foundation of faith. And all of it—the hidden corners, the outdoor hideaways, the “secret” doors, the prayers, the people, the conversation, and the community—all of it felt like home. A safe and nurturing space.
My innocent optimism about the role and space of the church in the world has been dismantled as I uncover the caveats of who is truly safe, nurtured, and at home within its confines. Despite my sorrow, I do not lament or bemoan the Church as the people of God, capable of participating in the renewal of all things, but rather I mourn the ways the church as an expression of an institution and systems rather than an answer to the prayer of Jesus: God’s will be done on earth as it is in heaven, has allowed only some to find belonging. Others sit and stand at the edges of the church and christendom with the stories and wounds of exclusion.
These stories stem from the marginalized, including those whose identity in part includes, disability, their gender, LGBTQ2S+, and BIPOC who have often had to approach the Church with caution. Their caution stems from repeatedly being silenced and met with wagging fingers and thumping Bibles that insist the Kingdom is not for them. As they dare to believe that God is FOR them even when the church is not, they relay their stories in quiet spaces with hushed and fearful breaths. They wander outside the doors of churches, on the edges of congregations and in our neighbourhoods wondering if now is the time the church will have room enough for all of who they are and all that they carry. They peer into the windows and doors of the church through media, friends and confidants with a bowlful of tears, anger, disappointment, and fear as they lament, “How Long…”
Yet, even here, there is something hopeful laced in their words, as they still find their way to Yahweh. Who else, they must wonder, can offer us a breath of relief? Who else, they must wonder, can understand and ease their burden? Who else, they must wonder, can sustain us in this moment? Who else, they must wonder, can sit in the shadowy sadness, the ever present sorrow that so desperately wants to consume them? It is in their anger and despondency and hopeful hopelessness that they bring their entire selves while they wait, while they ask, “How Long” and echo the prayer of the psalmist: “Restore us, O God; make your face shine on us that we may be saved.”
It's a prayer they offer for themselves.
But it is also a prayer they offer for the Church.
And despite what is a bleak landscape, it is in the presence, the questions and the disappointment of those who have often been pushed to the side, kept on the margins or quieted to remain in the center that I see the small tremors and waves of this prayer being answered.
Answered as some churches close and others are resurrected.
Answered as the forgotten attempt to remake home among Christian community.
Answered as the silenced, courageously choose to speak in new spaces.
Answered as some renovate, others tear down, and still more build up.
Answered as people are chosen over institutions,
The Spirit followed over doctrine,
Curiosity embraced over certainty,
Love is encouraged as a way of living over tradition as a way of being.
Restore us, O God;
make your face shine on us,
that we may be saved.
A hopeful lament for those who are grieving, for those who know loss.
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