You who fear the LORD, praise him! All you offspring of Jacob, glorify him; stand in awe of him, all you offspring of Israel! For he did not despise or abhor the affliction of the afflicted; he did not hide his face from me, but heard when I cried to him. From you comes my praise in the great congregation; my vows I will pay before those who fear him. The poor shall eat and be satisfied; those who seek him shall praise the LORD. May your hearts live forever! All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the LORD; and all the families of the nations shall worship before him. For dominion belongs to the LORD, and he rules over the nations. To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down; before him shall bow all who go down to the dust, and I shall live for him. Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord, and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it.
Psalm 22:23-31, lectionary psalter for Feb. 28, 2021
The light has had a peculiar intensity these past days. It’s not brightness, exactly, at least not the sort that gilds the tree trunks or glows on the house bricks. It is clarity. In the afternoon the sun shines strong through the back windows and fills the kitchen. It’s not just that light shows more clearly the kitchen contents — cupboards and countertops, cups and crumbs — but that the kitchen has become a container for this other thing, for light itself.
We’ve had so many grey days, so many days of snow and rain. I have grown accustomed to the dull light, welcomed it as restful. It does not occur to me that I need not just rest but reviving until the ‘rains are over and gone,’ and a gusty wind has blown the sky clear. This happens every spring. I do not look for the turn of the year. I settle into a holding pattern of wool sweaters and shawls and mugs of hot tea and do not feel how deeply the long dark has settled into me with its own holding weight. Then comes this light so clear and strong, and I realize I have missed it. I put on rubber boots and walk the neighborhood. Yards that were snow dusted are now purple-carpeted with blooming crocus. Birdsong is piercing sweet. In the muck and gravel beside the road, there is a shape of shining light, a puddle showing sky and treetops upside down.
I had read this psalm one of the grey mornings. Snow fell and smoothed the untidy ground into a certain unity of shape and shade. I sat at my desk, and milk-pale light lay across the page, and cold radiated from the window glass, and I wondered that we should read just the ending praise from this psalm that starts with a cry of God-forsakeness. How can the exultant proclamation that ‘future generations will be told’ of God’s salvation make sense without the recitation of the abyss from which the tellers were delivered?
But maybe — sometimes — that pit itself is not known until one is plucked out of it. The fall is not always so precipitous as to call attention to itself. It may be a creeping dullness, a subtle descent, its nadir not recognized until a outstretched hand has brought you out to a broad place.
Notice the parallel in the lines of verse 26: ‘They shall eat, the afflicted, and they will be sated; they shall praise the LORD, those who seek him.’ Satiation is the answer to affliction. Praise is the result of seeking. Hunger — for food, for the LORD — is implied but not stated, nor is finding listed as the necessary precondition of praise. Seeking is.
And, as seeking leads to praise, so praise may be the start of seeking. Glimpse the sky in the puddle and let yourself be tipped with delight to lift your eyes and look at the sky. There’s not a leaf nor a cloud hiding its brilliance. Realize together both the light and your hunger.
Dine on praise. Pray your seeking be sated by God.