Sermon: A Hand Laid On Me
Text: Psalm 139:1-18
Date: January 18, 2009
Rev. Dee Eisenhauer, Eagle Harbor Congregational Church
“No wonder you know me so well, God.
Before my mother knew I existed,
You wrote the genetic code of my cells.
You created my life.
Wombs and worlds are one to you;
They have no secrets from you;
You are the essence of all life.
As once you shaped the cells
That formed my fingernails and my hair,
So you still guide me through each day.” [1]
That’s Jim Taylor’s paraphrase of a portion of Psalm 139. His words underline again the sense of intimacy with God that the writer of the psalm evokes. Let’s revel in that sensation of being known by God for a moment. Take a deep breath and think about God knowing you while your lungs were still being formed.
And now for something completely different. I think the polar opposite of this psalm is contained in 5 lines of poetry penned by Stephen Crane:
A man said to the universe:
"Sir I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."
Listening to that, don’t you find the ambient temperature of the universe dropping faster than the advance of an April blizzard on the Montana prairie? From “wombs and worlds are one to you” to “the fact [of your existence] has not created in me a sense of obligation.” Brrr.
In which universe do you dwell? In which universe do you wish to dwell?
Don’t be too quick to answer. While most of us may lean toward the portrayal of the Divine/Human relationship in Psalm 139—that may be why we are in a worship service on a Sunday morning rather than at the bakery or snug in our beds—this notion of extreme intimacy is not without its downside. “Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely.” Or as Jim Taylor renders it, “Wombs and worlds are one to you; they have no secrets from you.” No secrets.
Fred Craddock tells this story about growing up in the country playing Hide-and-Seek. You remember how it goes—whoever is “It” covers their eyes and counts to a hundred while the other kids go and hide. If you’re hidden and you’re spotted, you race “It” back to base so you won’t be “It” next. Craddock writes, “My sister was “It.” When my sister was “It,” she cheated. Well, she started off honestly enough; she would say, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, ninety-three, ninety-four.” But I had a place under the porch and under the steps of the porch. Because of my size I could get under there and I knew she’d never find me. “Ninety-nine, one hundred. Here I come, ready or not.” Here she came, in the house, out of the house, in weeds, in the trees, down to the corncrib, in the barn. She couldn’t find me. I almost gave myself away, down under there just snickering to myself, She’ll never find me here, she’ll never find me here. Then it occurred to me…she’ll never find me here. So after awhile I would stick out a toe. When she came by and saw my toe, she said, “Uh oh, I see you,” and she’d run back and touch the base three times and say, “Ha, ha, you’re it, you’re it.” I would come out brushing myself off saying, “Oh shoot, you found me.” Then Craddock asks, “What did I want? What did I really want? The very same thing as you. Isn’t that true?” [2]
What do we want? What do we really want? Do we want a God who knows us thoroughly, inside and out? Do we want a God who from whom we can never flee, from whom no secrets are hidden? One of the commentaries I read this week points out Psalm 139 speaks strongly and positively about the individual, which we like, since our culture is so keen on individualism. But at the same time it “acts as a foil to our modern obsession with privacy…It questions our rigorous pursuit of and desire for privacy, and whether such a pursuit is ultimately in our best interest. For while Psalm 139 is about the individual and has a very private feel to it, the psalm is even more about the invasion of our privacy—by none other than God.” [3] We may well feel a bit ambiguous about having none of our essential self that can be hidden.
The church book club is reading Lifecraft by Forrest Church for discussion this month. He reaches out to grab the reader on the very first page by writing, “Let me begin by telling you a little about yourself. To one extent or another, the following is true: You are self-conscious about your appearance. You feel guilty about the things you have done or failed to do. You sometimes have a hard time accepting yourself or forgiving others. You are insecure sexually. You are a less-than-perfect parent, or a less-than-perfect child of imperfect parents, or both. You are a frustrated husband, wife, or partner, or you are frustrated not to be a husband, wife or partner. You have secrets, which you might betray, or which might betray you, at any moment. However successful you are, you fail in ways that matter to both you and your loved ones. You worry about aging…You wonder what your life means.” [4] Church goes on to says that all of the above holds true for him, and he has his own quirks as well. I won’t read his whole list, but here are a few he names: “I have dealt with lust by taking off my glasses…I have lied to my wife when I didn’t even have to…I have quenched my fears sometimes with drink and sometimes with anger…I do everything I can to avoid pain..” His lists remind me of one of the deep truths about us humans: we are, most of us, except the sociopaths, profoundly insecure. We have aspects of ourselves that we would prefer to hide, even from ourselves, even from God.
But the last item on Church’s list answers the quandary of insecurity. “And yet I am loved so deeply that all I fear should be washed away by love’s tide.” [5] That is the key to answering what we want. Do we want to be searched and known? Yes, but only if the one who searches and knows does so with love.
I don’t know that Psalm 139 has much to say about God’s love. It is written more from the perspective of awe at God’s mighty works and infinite understanding than from the perspective of rejoicing in God’s boundless love. But the love of God is at the very heart of our Christian belief; it is revealed over and over in our sacred texts and in our human experience. “God is love”—that is a three word creed we can believe in.
We may feel, and rightly so, that there are aspects of ourselves that are not particularly wonderful. But that does not put a stop to God’s love. Augustine on one occasion said to God, “By loving the unlovable, You made me lovable.” I suppose it’s a kind of chicken-and-egg question, whether we are loved because we are loveable—“fearfully and wonderfully made”—or whether we are loveable because we are loved. Either way, we can be assured of God’s indestructible love, not just for the universe as a whole, but for each one of us personally. Be assured. No matter how wobbly and insecure we feel; we are known, and we are loved. We are known, and even so, we are loved. And it’s not that God turns a blind eye to our failings; God sees them. But they are seen with the eyes of love. They are seen in the broader context of our essential beauty and our great potential. Frank Crane once wrote, “Love is not blind. Love is the only thing that sees.”
My daughter Karen has been involved with college applications recently. The hardest part are the essays, in which you try to reveal yourself in such a way that the people reading the applications will see what a fabulous person you are and will subsequently beg you to come to their school. As Karen’s mother, I know all about her fabulousness because I have known her since before she was born, and because I see her with the eyes of love. The people in the admissions offices, sadly, do not have the same advantage I do, and they are not asking me for my opinion. They don’t know what my daughter is capable of the same way I do.
Even Karen may not know or believe in her capabilities the way her mother does. We were working together late at night on the last essay this week, so punchy we could barely write a sentence between us. Karen was trying to wrap up the paragraph in which she reminds the school of her awesomeness, but in one draft she finished the sentence with urging them to admit her to their fine college where she hoped, with their help, to become “slightly less mediocre.” (We didn’t send that draft.) It was a joke, but also a little bit honest, and something any one of us might have written about our feeble hopes for ourselves, that we might someday become ever so slightly less mediocre.
As a parent, I think I get at least a small measure of understanding of the way God regards us—more like the mother than the admissions clerk, more like the father than the teenager with rickety self-esteem. God knew us and loved us even as we were being knit together in our mother’s wombs. That’s excellent news as we come to realize our longing to be really and truly loved is fulfilled by God who loves us completely. And it’s also intimidating. Not just because God knows our faults and failings. Also because God knows what we are capable of. We can’t hide our potential any more than we can hide our failings.
I had my mom as a teacher for a couple of years in grade school. I got very good grades, but Mom used to irritate me to no end by giving me the A’s I was earning in my subjects but giving me B’s and C’s in Effort. Why? Because she knew what I was capable of. And she wasn’t going to let my getting by on a little effort go unnoticed. I used to think it was very unfair, especially since the other kids got better grades in Effort because my mom didn’t know them inside and out. Now I see that it was a very caring thing she was doing for me, asking more from me than mere test scores would.
I believe that God wants our very best efforts, and knows fully what we are capable of. That’s not entirely comforting, in my opinion. Psalm 139 expresses ambiguous feelings about this very well: “You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand on me.” No getting away, know what I mean? “If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.”
I like to think of God’s hand patting me on the head, an affirmation of pride. I like to think of God’s hand laid on my cheek in a gesture of gentle love. No problem there with God’s hand laid on me.
I’m not so sure I like imagining God gently laying a hand over my mouth to squelch gossip or hateful speech. God knows I am capable of bridling my tongue so that what I say is patient and kind.
I have felt God’s hand on the small of my back pushing me where I don’t want to go—have you? I have been pushed to reconcile with people to whom I would just as soon never speak again. I have been pushed to be more courageous and persistent in social action. God knows I am capable of more active compassion.
I often sense God’s hand trying to unclench my hand which is grasping something I don’t want to let go. It might be a possession, a grudge, white privilege in a racist society; all sorts of things can be held in a fearful fist. The longer one holds on, the stiffer the fingers and the more difficult it is to open the hand. God knows I am capable of opening up and letting go.
Once in a while I think God’s hand is the one tickling my knee to get me to laugh. Why would a person not like that? Sometimes you just want to enjoy a fine and pleasant misery. Besides, it’s considered so smart to know all about how the world is going to hell. Giving up completely, giving in to despair and hopelessness, can be so restful. But God knows that while there is life, there is joy and there is hope. And God knows that I am capable of carrying hope and joy to a troubled world.
I find the world view of Stephen Crane’s poem deeply objectionable—the notion that an impersonal universe feels no sense of obligation to know us, guide us, or care about us. Yet I can see the appeal of such a world view in that it leaves the individual with no sense of obligation toward the universe, either. Do you know what I mean? To be loved and known as a capable, gifted, loving person is to experience an expectation that whatever gifts I have must be used for the common good. I think I understand the psalm’s mixed sense of wonder, awe, and resignation. I think I get the hesitation to be found by the God from whom we cannot hide, and understand the allure of believing in a universe that makes no demands.
But the psalmist’s universe is the one we are blessed to inhabit. The universe where we are searched out, known, and loved. The universe where we are capable of becoming not just slightly less mediocre but even heroic as we offer our gifts and talents in the cause of love.
A story. Pay attention to the hands as well as the speech. Ursula Bacon remembers at age eleven being confined to a Jewish ghetto in Shanghai during World War II. There she met Mrs. Rosa Goldberg, a round-faced, middle-aged, roly-poly woman who would make a permanent impression on her life. Each morning as Ursula was on her way to the makeshift warehouse classroom, Mrs. Goldberg would stop her, reach out her hand to grasp Ursula’s, pull her to a stop, look into her face, and ask, “So! What does Mrs. Goldberg tell you every day, little girl?” Knowing the game well, Ursula would shake her head, voice a quiet I-don’t-know, and wait. “Well, darlink, Mrs. Goldberg will have to tell you again. Now listen and remember what I’m telling you,” she instructed. “Go out and make a miracle today. God’s busy, he can’t do it all.”
Her face beamed at Ursula’s. Her hand would let go. With a friendly parting pat on the backside, she sent the youngster on her way, giving her a purpose for the day and meaning for her life that stays with Ursula to this day. Mrs. Goldberg, Ursula says, “handed me wings to fly, opened my eyes to a world that needed miracles, and gave me the assurance that I could do God’s work.” [6]
O Lord, you have searched me and known me, and have laid your hand upon me. You found me. And now I’m “It”—and so are you.
[1] Taylor, James Everyday Psalms Wood Lake Books, 1994
[2] Craddock, Fred Craddock Stories (Mike Graves and Richard Ward, Ed.) St. Louis, MO: Chalice Press, 2001, p. 34
[3] http://hwallace.unitingchurch.org.au/WebOTcomments/EpiphanyB/Epiphany2psalm.html
[4] Church, Forrest Lifecraft: the Art of Meaning in the Everyday Boston: Beacon Press, 2000, p. XI
[5] Ibid. p. XII
[6] Bacon Ursula Chocolate for a Woman’s Soul Fireside Books, 1997