Musings on Psalm 22

I'm gonna make this short and sweet because I should be studying right now, but I need a break.  This past Tuesday I handed in an exegesis of Psalm 22 for my Psalms class.  I learned so much about Hebrew poetry, parallelism, and other poetic devises that I won't bore you with.  Sufficient to say I never realized just how rich and beautifully crafted the psalms can be.  Only in the last century have the psalms become a major focus of scholarship, which means there is much work yet to be done in this particular field of theology.  I think that's really exciting.  Scholars all over the globe are beginning to explore the message of the psalter as a whole and as narrative. 

I rarely blog about my studies, but seeing as how it's Good Friday and all, I'll succumb and share some tidbits from Psalm 22.  It generally reads like two psalms in one.  The first half (vs. 1-21) is so dark and the psalmist is filled with the despair of experiencing abandonment by God.  The second half (v. 22-31) is a celebration of God's grace and deliverance.  At first glance I could not reconcile the sharp contrast between the two.  There is no explanation as to the specific situation in which this psalm was written. and there is no detail about the turning point from despair into praise.  Baffling. 

The first half of this psalm raises some rather brutal questions.  Here we have an individual who has known utter dependence on God since birth (v. 9-10).  He refers to God as mine (v. 1).  But the opening question exposes the unimaginable dimensions of Godforsakeness.  How is one to interpret reality when trust and despair collide?  The seemingly abrupt shifts from despair (v. 1-2, 6-8, 12-21) to confidence (v. 3-5, 9-10, 22-31) reveal what one author referred to as "the contradiction that rends the soul when the unity of faith and experience is broken."

Hebrew poetry is infamous for its use of parallelism (both synonymous and antithetical) and chiastic structures that create emphasis on particular segments of the text.  For instance, the very first verse: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?  Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning?" places emphasis on the nature of the individual's relationship with God ("My God") as well as the repetition on "why," which reveals a deep contrast and tension between what has been in the past an intimate knowing of God mingled now with an erosion of security and understanding.

I see also a chiastic structure in verses 12-21 as the psalmist describes his oppressors using animal metaphors.  He introduces them as bulls, ravenous lions and dogs, and then in the final verses of this section, he repeats them in reverse order, which in my mind indicates the totality of his oppression, torment, and despair.  God is absent to him and a seemingly independent force --"trouble" (v. 11) -- has come to fill in the vacancy.  And there is no escape.

I'm also intrigued by the contrasts between the state of this individual ("I am a worm, and not a man" v. 6) which at first informs the audience that this person feels completely dehumanized, and yet as he cries out to God he calls his life "precious" (v. 20), and he expects his God to respond, which perhaps says more about his trust and than his despair.  If God is truly absent, why pray at all?  This individual expects to be heard, and what he has known and what he is experiencing is at war within him.

Another fascinating thing is that God's most revered name in Judaism (YHWH) is first mentioned in this psalm not by the psalmist but by the arrogant sarcasm and mocking of the oppressors (v. 8), who find it utterly absurd that this individual has trusted in a hidden and seemingly absent God.

A major shift takes place in verse 22.  We move from bitter lamentation to exuberant celebration.  And honestly, for me, I had an easier time with the first half of this psalm.  I found the praise difficult to reconcile, personally.  It's not until the second half of the psalm that the psalmist begins to refer to God once again as YHWH and in rapid succession (v. 23, 26, 27, 28).  He moves from complete isolation and dehumanization into community (v. 22, 25).  He finds resolution in this once Hidden God who also inhabits the celebration and praise of people. And I found myself asking, "How?  How can you praise God after all that darkness?"

As I wrestled within my own understanding, I came to realize several things about this individual as well as myself.  Whatever the circumstances, this psalmist endures horrific darkness, and what fascinates me and even bothers me to no end is that the same intensity in which he suffered, he also worships just as intensely if not more so.  Quite frankly I'd like to know just how one suffers so deeply and survives without a hint of cynicism, resentment, or hardheartedness.  All too often the scorned become the scornful, but not this man (or woman).  I felt so deeply moved and convicted about my own seasons of frustration with God where all the "why's" eclipse my desire to worship.  How does one walk through such darkness and still find the courage to trust and be open to God's response and healing and the restoration of a right perception?

I thought about this a great deal during my research.  One can hardly read this psalm without contemplating the dying words of Jesus.  If you are familiar with the New Testament, he quoted the first line of Psalm 22 as he died.  There is an abundance of speculation in ancient and modern scholarship as to why, but sufficient to say, I see him inviting others into the misery and mystery of his experience, particularly his experience with God.  I read the gospels and I see one who experienced depths both great and horrific that I can hardly comprehend and yet at the same time I can say, "Yeah.  Exactly.  You understand where I've been, and you give it voice."  When I find myself secure enough to allow my darkest doubts to breathe, I see him already in that space leading me forward to the place where I can emerge without bitterness and resentment and have my faulty perceptions healed and renewed once again.  After all, Jesus made clear his mission:  to reveal the true nature of God and bring others into deep communion with him.  I, too, want to join the celebration and experience God in community and all too often I find myself resistant and even afraid.  I don't want to die to things that need to die.  But isn't that what Good Friday is really about?  Jesus calls people to die to themselves and follow his way.  And his way leads to an ability to trust in the face of great mystery.  I want that.

So perhaps this Easter I'll do what I haven't done in more than six years.  I'll actually wear something nice to church and enjoy God and others with a renewed level of reception.  I am, after all, the worship leader for cryin' out loud.

Well, so much for short and sweet.  Have a good Good Friday, friends.

Just Don't Print It in Farsi

Oh my word.  Last week was the week from hell.  Sickness in the Scallorn home.  I was quarantined with whooping cough from the world as I know it.  Utterly miserable.  Hours of coughing and staring at the ceiling and occasionally watching an episode of Hoarders or Deserving Design.  More coughing and a week's worth of no real sleep.  Coughing until I almost blacked out and all the while trying not to be anxious about all the work I wasn't getting done.  Then I almost cried when I read that this infection could last up to six weeks.

And my sweet Bruce brought me flowers.  Twice.   And a humidifier shaped like a  giant green frog.

This week it's back to school and the mad dash to graduate in May.   Pray for me.  I'm fairly miserable.  

Oh, guess what else?  I almost forgot, but now it seems strangely appropriate.  In Fremont my friend Kayla learned that her name in Farsi means "banana," and all the Afghani ladies basically gushed over this fact:  "Banana!  Your name means banana in Farsi.  Beautiful.  It's so beautiful.  Kayla.  Banana.  Yes, yes?  Yes!"  They kept repeating her name over and over.  Of course I noticed that no one repeated my name and it had me wondering what it meant in Farsi.

I should never have asked.  And actually I didn't.  But my friend Danielle found out and apparently nothing under the sun could keep her from disclosing this little gem:  "Ann!  You're not gonna believe this.  Your name in Farsi is an explicative for excrement."

What!?  Seriously?!  Seriously.  In fact, I soon learned that if one is named Ann, when in Afghani culture one should always pronounce said name as "Ahhn" and never "Ann" so as to avoid offense, miscommunication, or awkward interactions.  Oh my word.  Needless to say we had quite a few laughs over this little discovery.

So, there you have it. My name and my week all summed up with one word....or perhaps a new bumper sticker:  Ann happens.   Just don't print it in Farsi.  Or say it for that matter.