Tonight, I've had opportunity to pray and think -- amidst getting the laundry out of the way and writing for some homework.
I was brought to mind -- as I often am in my praying -- to the Psalms. Particularly, Psalm 131.
Psalm 131 has always made me uncomfortable. Because I'm one of those Christians for whom my faith flows out of my thinking, I push back against the mysteries of faith.
Truth be told, I'm never comfortable with mysteries. When I have questions, I want answers.
Consequently, some might argue that, theologically, I push too hard. So hard that I end up holding to some answers and ideas that are theologically suspect. Perhaps a quicker embrace of mystery would have been able to preserve my orthodoxy.
That seems to me to be the recommendation of Psalm 131:
I do concern myself "with great matters". Maybe those "great matters" are "too wonderful for me", but I concern myself with them.
A lot.
My usual practice is to read through the texts of the daily offices in the original Greek and Hebrew. Tonight, though, something in me drew me to the New Jerusalem translation:
Becoming like a child is learning how to hold oneself in quiet and silence. What's more, quiet and silence is like a mother's embrace -- a location of nurturing, protection, and love.
Quiet and silence is the embrace of the Divine Mother.
Which has brought me to a couple of things.
First, my attitude to Psalm 131 has changed tonight. I don't read the psalm anymore as a slap down for asking hard and penetrating theological questions. I now read the psalm as a call for contemplation, a call to hold myself in quietness and silence. A quietness and silence that, I believe, sustains faith in the face of one's critical interrogations and investigations.
Second, the withdrawal that appears to be that contemplation and quiet is not to stop asking questions. But rather, to make space in my life for quiet and silence. To spend time in my Mother's embrace.
I was brought to mind -- as I often am in my praying -- to the Psalms. Particularly, Psalm 131.
Psalm 131 has always made me uncomfortable. Because I'm one of those Christians for whom my faith flows out of my thinking, I push back against the mysteries of faith.
Truth be told, I'm never comfortable with mysteries. When I have questions, I want answers.
Consequently, some might argue that, theologically, I push too hard. So hard that I end up holding to some answers and ideas that are theologically suspect. Perhaps a quicker embrace of mystery would have been able to preserve my orthodoxy.
That seems to me to be the recommendation of Psalm 131:
My heart is not proud, Lord,You can see my problem.
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.
But I have calmed and quieted myself,
I am like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child I am content.
Israel, put your hope in the Lord
both now and forevermore.
I do concern myself "with great matters". Maybe those "great matters" are "too wonderful for me", but I concern myself with them.
A lot.
My usual practice is to read through the texts of the daily offices in the original Greek and Hebrew. Tonight, though, something in me drew me to the New Jerusalem translation:
Yahweh, my heart is not haughty,The phrase the caught me was "I hold myself in quiet and silence". For some reason that phrasing brought to light what I take now to be the contemplative core of the poem.
I do not set my sights too high.
I have taken no part in great affairs,
in wonders beyond my scope.
No, I hold myself in quiet and silence,
like a little child in its mother's arms,
like a little child, so I keep myself.
Let Israel hope in Yahweh
henceforth and for ever.
Becoming like a child is learning how to hold oneself in quiet and silence. What's more, quiet and silence is like a mother's embrace -- a location of nurturing, protection, and love.
Quiet and silence is the embrace of the Divine Mother.
Which has brought me to a couple of things.
First, my attitude to Psalm 131 has changed tonight. I don't read the psalm anymore as a slap down for asking hard and penetrating theological questions. I now read the psalm as a call for contemplation, a call to hold myself in quietness and silence. A quietness and silence that, I believe, sustains faith in the face of one's critical interrogations and investigations.
Second, the withdrawal that appears to be that contemplation and quiet is not to stop asking questions. But rather, to make space in my life for quiet and silence. To spend time in my Mother's embrace.