Scripture: John 1
When I was an undergraduate at the University of Michigan, I took a class from an English professor who loved to tell stories about the prominent American poet Robert Frost. Frost had served on the faculty at Michigan many years before, and my professor had suffered through a number of difficult encounters with him. When Frost first joined the faculty, my professor gathered up some poems he had written and took them to the great man for his evaluation. Frost perused them quickly and—handing them back with palpable scorn—asked “Have you tried writing prose?”
Indeed, stories of Frost’s crustiness—or, if you prefer, frostiness—abound. He once gave a public reading of his well-known poem “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening,” which ends with the memorable lines “But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.” As soon as he finished, a hand shot up in the audience. “What were the promises?” a young man asked. “If I had wanted you to know,” Frost responded, “I would have told you.”
Frost’s response to the young man comes into my mind sometimes when I am reading the Bible. I encounter an instructional passage that raises numerous unanswered questions. Or I run across a story that appears to omit an important detail or that leaves me wondering what happened next. The knots in which I tie myself are undone by a still, small voice that whispers “If I had wanted you to know, I would have told you.”
Fortunately, some of the Bible’s messages come to us with unmistakable clarity. One of those, of course, is that we are called into the service of our fellow human beings. The scriptures repeatedly urge us to shelter the homeless and feed the hungry and clothe the impoverished and visit the sick and lonely.
Years ago, I read a story about a congregation that had become bitterly divided over nuanced issues of biblical interpretation, the structure of the worship service, and matters of church polity. When these controversies erupted at yet another meeting of the church leadership, one wise old soul rose to his feet. He cleared his throat and quietly asked to be heard.
He said, “I have a suggestion. Obviously, all these things matter. But they are also subjects of disagreement. What we cannot disagree about is that Jesus told us to care for the poor. So I’d like to propose that we focus our energy on serving the poor in the name of the Lord. Then, when we’ve got that under control and there are no more poor people who need our love and support, we can return to these other important questions.” The leadership agreed; the church changed course; the controversies vaporized; and, as you might imagine, their work continues.
I think the Bible offers us another message of unmistakable clarity, although it is a bit more abstract. That message is: go forth and bring light into the world. Indeed, it could be argued that no symbol plays as prominent a role in the scriptures as does that of light.
The scriptures are bookended with images of light. The first words spoken by God in the first chapter of the book of Genesis are “let there be light.” And the last chapter of the Revelation to John declares that, in the end, “there will be no more night” because the “light of the Lord” will prevail forever and ever.
Of course, the scriptures repeatedly refer to Jesus as “the light.” This theme is particularly prominent in the gospel of John, which begins by describing Jesus as “the true light, which enlightens everyone.” In other passages in John, Jesus proclaims that he is “the light of the world” and that whoever follows him “will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” In the twelfth chapter, Jesus urges us to “believe in the light, so that we may become children of the light.”
Paul loves this invitation to become “children of the light”—it is a phrase he uses frequently in his letters. It is as though Paul never ceases to be amazed by the proposition that the Son of the Living God implores people not just to recognize the light that he brought into the world but to find, embrace, and share the divine spark that they have within themselves. Perhaps we never cease to be amazed by it, either.
Light turns out to be a particularly rich metaphor when we seek to describe the human capacity for goodness. After all, sometimes our light shines brightly; sometimes it flickers a little low. Sometimes our light overcomes the darkness; sometimes the shadows subdue it to a dull sputter. Sometimes we are lifted onto a lamp stand; sometimes it seems as though the whole world conspires to manufacture bushel baskets to toss over us.
And we know that there are many different kinds of light. There are the magnificently bright stars in the African sky. There is the peaceful glow of a single candle. There is the radiant shimmer of the sun coming up over the horizon. There is the tiny glimmer in an infant’s eyes. All lights; all different; all blessings.
* * *
The English professor I mentioned earlier scared us half to death near the end of the term. He announced that he planned to give us the same examination that Robert Frost had given students when he taught at Michigan. After months of hearing stories about how Frost did not suffer fools gladly we were beside ourselves with worry.
On the day of the examination, our professor strode into the room and told us the exam was about to begin. He picked up the chalk and wrote a single sentence on the blackboard. The sentence said: “Show me that you have learned something.”
This is, indeed, one of the Bible’s unmistakably clear messages. Bring out your light. Let it shine. Do not worry about whether it is the biggest or the brightest or the most colorful or the most consistent. Just own it as a blessing. And then put it to use.
It is our way of saying to the Lord: I am listening.
I am trying.
I have learned something.
Amen.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Did You Hear What I Heard?!
Scripture: Luke 2:8-14
The nativity set that my parents lovingly displayed every Christmas season left something to be desired. Over the years, the stable had loosened around the joints and had taken on a dangerously wobbly quality. I doubt that any Little Town of Bethlehem Safety Inspector would have allowed its occupancy, let alone by the Lord and Savior of Mankind.
The set featured about a dozen animals, most of which had lost at least one limb as the result of careless packing or unpacking. The only way to make the poor creatures stand up was to lean them against one of the stable walls. This explains why, for many years, I mistakenly believed that Jesus was born in an animal hospital.
My parents were more fastidious about the human figures and replaced those that turned up missing an arm or a leg or a head. But the new figurines were never the same size as the old ones—and in some instances they were quite a bit larger. This will help you understand why I affectionately nicknamed their nativity set “The Attack of the 50-Foot Shepherd.”
I take that figure as a symbol of sorts, because many of our Christmas traditions seem to make the shepherds into outsized and unreal characters. We portray them in paintings and films as improbably holy, improbably meditative, and improbably clean. We sing Christmas carols about them, including one (“Do You Hear What I Hear?”) where a shepherd and a lamb engage in a conversation, transforming the shepherd into some sort of desert-wandering Dr. Doolittle.
I love these traditions as much as anyone, but I think it is important to notice that they come at a price: they can cause us to lose sight of the shepherds’ humanity.
The gospels make clear, however, that these shepherds were ordinary human beings, just like you and me. Luke tells us that they did not react to the angel’s appearance with preternatural joy but with understandable terror. I doubt they joined arms and blissfully sang “Do you hear what I hear?” I think they probably grabbed each other by their robes and cried “Did you hear what I heard?!”
By the way, the story goes on to provide a wonderful little detail. Once the shepherds felt somewhat reassured, they did precisely what most of us would do: they talked amongst themselves before settling on a plan. These days, they would have formed a committee.
The gospel of Luke thus belies the idealized image of the shepherds as perfect disciples who eagerly received God’s word and immediately responded to God’s instructions.
Once we recapture a sense of the shepherds’ humanity we can imagine some of the thoughts and feelings they must have entertained. Surely, like all of us, every one of those shepherds had from time to time prayed for a sign of hope. Well, on that midnight clear they got a whopper. But it seems fair to assume that they did not get what they expected and they did not get it when they asked for it. In this respect, the experience of those shepherds is probably very like our own.
We can also empathize with the shepherds’ decision to go see for themselves. Perhaps that decision came from faith, perhaps from skepticism, but in any event who could resist? And then we can imagine the excitement, the mad dash to Bethlehem, the crazy search through town for a baby wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.
Now, we know how the story ends—but they didn’t. So imagine—if you possibly can—the utter and inexpressible amazement they must have experienced upon discovering exactly what the angel had described. Surely, this was an occasion for turning to each other and asking “Do you see what I see?!” Then they told all who were gathered what the angel had declared; and Mary treasured all those words, and pondered them in her heart.
But I am particularly intrigued by what happened next. It is recounted in a verse that is often overlooked—in fact, you probably didn’t miss it when you read the passage cited above. Luke tells us that “[t]he shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.”
I can’t help but wonder: and then what? Did the shepherds become disciples who devoted their every waking moment to spreading the “good news of great joy?” Or did they go back to their flocks and fields, treasuring and pondering like Mary?
And how did they preserve the immediacy and reality of the amazing experience they had shared? How did they avoid falling into doubt and skepticism and rationalization? How did they keep themselves from concluding that the voice of the angel was probably just the sound of the wind in the night? How did they avoid shrugging the whole thing off, telling themselves that anyone who went looking for an impoverished child in Bethlehem would surely find one? If the shepherds were human beings, just like you and me, then how did they keep from falling prey to those very human questions?
Well, we don’t know. The gospels don’t tell us. But I think the answer is this: they remembered. After all, sometimes memory—and only memory—can make faith possible. And I suppose that we are like the shepherds in this way, too.
It often feels to me that during this season we long to reconnect to something very old, something fundamental, something deeply embedded in our collective Christian memory. Certainly, Christmas brings forward-looking feelings of hope and renewal and the promise of peace on earth and goodwill toward all. But there is simply no denying the backward gravity that sets in at this time of year.
For many of us, this means memories of wonderful holidays. Every December, I re-read a delightful essay called “Recipe for Christmas” by Pulitzer Prize winning author Robert Coffin. Coffin grew up in Maine and argued that any Christmas worth celebrating had to correspond with his experiences as a child. According to Coffin, a decent Christmas therefore requires—among other things—a farm, an ocean, a cold snap, a big fall of snow, a blazing fireplace, a hand-cut fir tree, a horse-drawn sled, a father who tells stories and sings and shoots a goose for roasting, and a mother who strings popcorn and cooks the goose—along with three steamed puddings and twenty-five pumpkin pies.
Of course, most of us never had a Christmas that fits this description. In fact, many of us remember Christmases we’d prefer to forget. Perhaps you’re having one of those Christmases this year.
But the “good news of great joy” is that we share a memory that can sustain us—each and every one of us. It is the same memory that must have offered endless comfort to the shepherds when that miraculous night had ended and the drudgery of everyday life had resumed.
It is the memory of an angel’s voice. It is the memory of a light in the darkness.
You have heard it, even if not while you were watching your flocks. You have seen it, even if not in the sky over Bethlehem. But, as sure as I stand here, I am certain that the voice and the light have come to you, too.
Did you see what I saw?
Did you hear what I heard?
I think you did.
This week, like all the weeks after it, will do its best to distract you from the voice and the light. It will do all it can to drag you to that terrible and sad place called forgetfulness. I think that the shepherds offer us a simple, two-thousand-year-old lesson about how to contend with that challenge. And it can be summarized in just one word: remember.
Remember, brothers and sisters in Christ.
Remember the voice.
Remember the light.
Remember.
Remember.
Remember.
Amen.
The nativity set that my parents lovingly displayed every Christmas season left something to be desired. Over the years, the stable had loosened around the joints and had taken on a dangerously wobbly quality. I doubt that any Little Town of Bethlehem Safety Inspector would have allowed its occupancy, let alone by the Lord and Savior of Mankind.
The set featured about a dozen animals, most of which had lost at least one limb as the result of careless packing or unpacking. The only way to make the poor creatures stand up was to lean them against one of the stable walls. This explains why, for many years, I mistakenly believed that Jesus was born in an animal hospital.
My parents were more fastidious about the human figures and replaced those that turned up missing an arm or a leg or a head. But the new figurines were never the same size as the old ones—and in some instances they were quite a bit larger. This will help you understand why I affectionately nicknamed their nativity set “The Attack of the 50-Foot Shepherd.”
I take that figure as a symbol of sorts, because many of our Christmas traditions seem to make the shepherds into outsized and unreal characters. We portray them in paintings and films as improbably holy, improbably meditative, and improbably clean. We sing Christmas carols about them, including one (“Do You Hear What I Hear?”) where a shepherd and a lamb engage in a conversation, transforming the shepherd into some sort of desert-wandering Dr. Doolittle.
I love these traditions as much as anyone, but I think it is important to notice that they come at a price: they can cause us to lose sight of the shepherds’ humanity.
The gospels make clear, however, that these shepherds were ordinary human beings, just like you and me. Luke tells us that they did not react to the angel’s appearance with preternatural joy but with understandable terror. I doubt they joined arms and blissfully sang “Do you hear what I hear?” I think they probably grabbed each other by their robes and cried “Did you hear what I heard?!”
By the way, the story goes on to provide a wonderful little detail. Once the shepherds felt somewhat reassured, they did precisely what most of us would do: they talked amongst themselves before settling on a plan. These days, they would have formed a committee.
The gospel of Luke thus belies the idealized image of the shepherds as perfect disciples who eagerly received God’s word and immediately responded to God’s instructions.
Once we recapture a sense of the shepherds’ humanity we can imagine some of the thoughts and feelings they must have entertained. Surely, like all of us, every one of those shepherds had from time to time prayed for a sign of hope. Well, on that midnight clear they got a whopper. But it seems fair to assume that they did not get what they expected and they did not get it when they asked for it. In this respect, the experience of those shepherds is probably very like our own.
We can also empathize with the shepherds’ decision to go see for themselves. Perhaps that decision came from faith, perhaps from skepticism, but in any event who could resist? And then we can imagine the excitement, the mad dash to Bethlehem, the crazy search through town for a baby wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.
Now, we know how the story ends—but they didn’t. So imagine—if you possibly can—the utter and inexpressible amazement they must have experienced upon discovering exactly what the angel had described. Surely, this was an occasion for turning to each other and asking “Do you see what I see?!” Then they told all who were gathered what the angel had declared; and Mary treasured all those words, and pondered them in her heart.
But I am particularly intrigued by what happened next. It is recounted in a verse that is often overlooked—in fact, you probably didn’t miss it when you read the passage cited above. Luke tells us that “[t]he shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.”
I can’t help but wonder: and then what? Did the shepherds become disciples who devoted their every waking moment to spreading the “good news of great joy?” Or did they go back to their flocks and fields, treasuring and pondering like Mary?
And how did they preserve the immediacy and reality of the amazing experience they had shared? How did they avoid falling into doubt and skepticism and rationalization? How did they keep themselves from concluding that the voice of the angel was probably just the sound of the wind in the night? How did they avoid shrugging the whole thing off, telling themselves that anyone who went looking for an impoverished child in Bethlehem would surely find one? If the shepherds were human beings, just like you and me, then how did they keep from falling prey to those very human questions?
Well, we don’t know. The gospels don’t tell us. But I think the answer is this: they remembered. After all, sometimes memory—and only memory—can make faith possible. And I suppose that we are like the shepherds in this way, too.
It often feels to me that during this season we long to reconnect to something very old, something fundamental, something deeply embedded in our collective Christian memory. Certainly, Christmas brings forward-looking feelings of hope and renewal and the promise of peace on earth and goodwill toward all. But there is simply no denying the backward gravity that sets in at this time of year.
For many of us, this means memories of wonderful holidays. Every December, I re-read a delightful essay called “Recipe for Christmas” by Pulitzer Prize winning author Robert Coffin. Coffin grew up in Maine and argued that any Christmas worth celebrating had to correspond with his experiences as a child. According to Coffin, a decent Christmas therefore requires—among other things—a farm, an ocean, a cold snap, a big fall of snow, a blazing fireplace, a hand-cut fir tree, a horse-drawn sled, a father who tells stories and sings and shoots a goose for roasting, and a mother who strings popcorn and cooks the goose—along with three steamed puddings and twenty-five pumpkin pies.
Of course, most of us never had a Christmas that fits this description. In fact, many of us remember Christmases we’d prefer to forget. Perhaps you’re having one of those Christmases this year.
But the “good news of great joy” is that we share a memory that can sustain us—each and every one of us. It is the same memory that must have offered endless comfort to the shepherds when that miraculous night had ended and the drudgery of everyday life had resumed.
It is the memory of an angel’s voice. It is the memory of a light in the darkness.
You have heard it, even if not while you were watching your flocks. You have seen it, even if not in the sky over Bethlehem. But, as sure as I stand here, I am certain that the voice and the light have come to you, too.
Did you see what I saw?
Did you hear what I heard?
I think you did.
This week, like all the weeks after it, will do its best to distract you from the voice and the light. It will do all it can to drag you to that terrible and sad place called forgetfulness. I think that the shepherds offer us a simple, two-thousand-year-old lesson about how to contend with that challenge. And it can be summarized in just one word: remember.
Remember, brothers and sisters in Christ.
Remember the voice.
Remember the light.
Remember.
Remember.
Remember.
Amen.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Make Some Noise
Scripture: Psalm 100
Psalm 100 is, by any measure, among the most beloved and influential scriptures in the entire Bible. Its verses are familiar. It has a special place in the daily worship of Jews and members of the Anglican Church. It has been set to music by composers as diverse as Leonard Bernstein, Benjamin Britten, Charles Ives, and Henry Purcell. Biblical scholar James Mays has said that, “[w]ere the statistics known, Psalm 100 would probably prove to be the song most often chanted within the history that runs from the Israelite temple on Mount Zion to the synagogues and churches spread across the earth.”
In addition, Psalm 100’s memorable phrase “joyful noise” has found its way into every corner of our popular culture. It is the name of an Indianapolis record label, a Colorado drum shop, a North Carolina community arts center, a Michigan music studio, countless bands and choral groups, dozens of preschools across the country, and a movie starring Queen Latifah and Dolly Parton. Clearly, we like this idea of “joyful noise.”
And yet, for all this, it might appear that there isn’t much to say about Psalm 100. It is simple, lovely, and uplifting. It is pleasant to read, more pleasant to sing, and most pleasant to hear sung well. Unlike, for example, Paul’s letter to the Romans, Psalm 100 does not demand that we undertake major interpretive excursions just to understand what it is getting at.
But it is important not to underestimate the richness of Psalm 100. There is a lot going on here. And if we look upon this old friend with fresh eyes we may see and celebrate things we had not noticed before.
Let’s start with that phrase “joyful noise.” At first blush, it might almost seem like a contradiction in terms—an oxymoron—because noise irritates us much more often than it inspires us. In this sense, “joyful noise” may remind us of other oxymoronic phrases, like “airline food,” “motel art,” “family vacation,” “organized religion,” “disco music,” and—my personal favorite—“adult male.”
If you think about it, however, you’ll realize that the Bible is actually a very noisy book. The phrase “joyful noise” appears in four other Psalms: 66, 81, 95, and 98. And the Psalms include a lot of shouting as well. Psalms 32, 35, 47, 65, and 132 all urge us to “shout for joy” to the Lord.
Indeed, the Bible is full of famous shouting. In the sixth chapter of Joshua, a great shout brings down the walls of Jericho. The third chapter of Ezra tells us that the people shouted in praise when the foundation was laid for the Temple in Jerusalem. Matthew reports that the crowds who followed Jesus into Jerusalem were shouting “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!”
Of course, the Bible has a lot more in it than shouting. It also has trumpets—lots of trumpets. And some scriptural passages even include shouting and trumpets. For example, in his first letter to the Thessalonians, Paul describes Jesus’ return using this language: “For the Lord himself, with a cry of command, with the archangel’s call and with the sound of God’s trumpet, will descend from heaven.”
So this idea of “joyful noise” is not unique to Psalm 100. It permeates the Bible. Yes, the Bible says that God speaks to us in a “still, small voice.” But it also says that God speaks “with a voice of thunder.” And, yes, the gospels tell us that when we pray we should speak softly and make no great show of it. But they also say that sometimes nothing will do but an unrestrained, full-throated, toss-your-head-back shout.
Still, Psalm 100 is singular in the energy it conveys to us and the activity it demands of us. Indeed, if you look closely at Psalm 100 you’ll notice that its few verses include not less than seven imperative verbs: “make a joyful noise”; “worship the Lord with gladness”; “come into His presence”; “know that the Lord is God”; “enter his gates with thanksgiving”; “give thanks to Him”; “bless his name.”
The only word that seems even remotely soft or passive here is “know,” which might seem to suggest some kind of intellectual process. But, in the Hebrew Bible, “knowledge of the Lord” does not just refer to what we believe; it refers to how we live. So, for example, when the book of Hosea tells us—repeatedly—that God was angry with Israel because its people had no “knowledge” of Him the point is not that they hadn’t heard of the Lord; rather, the point is that they were acting as if they hadn’t heard of the Lord.
With all this talk of knowing, making, entering, giving, worshiping, and blessing we might lose track of what the psalmist actually wants to say to us here. But, if we return to the top of the psalm and note the superscription, the point is hard to miss. This psalm, it turns out, is about how we give thanks to God.
And what the psalmist wants us to understand is that true thankfulness consists of more than a mental state. True thankfulness is expressed through how we choose to live. To paraphrase an old saying, we should live so that if we were accused of being a truly thankful people there would be enough evidence to convict us.
But there is more. The psalmist wants us to understand that living thankfully means taking your bearings, recognizing God as your True North, and setting your course accordingly. That is why biblical scholars have described Psalm 100 as an “orienting” scripture—because it directs our attention away from ourselves and toward higher things. Or, as Hebrew Bible scholar Walter Brueggemann has put it, “Obviously our world is at the edge of insanity and we with it. In a world like this, [the one-hundredth] psalm is an act of sanity, whereby we may be re-clothed in our rightful minds. Life is no longer self-grounded without thanks but rooted in thanks.”
On September 8, 1860, a boat called the Lady Elgin floundered on Lake Michigan near the Northwestern University campus. A ministerial student named Edward Spencer rushed to its aid and rescued some seventeen people. Spencer’s health was so permanently damaged from the exposure that he was forced to discontinue his preparation for the ministry. Surely, the people he rescued were grateful. But, years later, when Spencer died, his obituary reported that not one of the seventeen people he saved had ever bothered to thank him.
It is a good and pretty thing to have thankful thoughts and thankful hearts. But Psalm 100 tells us that we must also have thankful lives. And it tells us that we must express our thankfulness with all the “joyful noise” we can muster.
Amen.
Psalm 100 is, by any measure, among the most beloved and influential scriptures in the entire Bible. Its verses are familiar. It has a special place in the daily worship of Jews and members of the Anglican Church. It has been set to music by composers as diverse as Leonard Bernstein, Benjamin Britten, Charles Ives, and Henry Purcell. Biblical scholar James Mays has said that, “[w]ere the statistics known, Psalm 100 would probably prove to be the song most often chanted within the history that runs from the Israelite temple on Mount Zion to the synagogues and churches spread across the earth.”
In addition, Psalm 100’s memorable phrase “joyful noise” has found its way into every corner of our popular culture. It is the name of an Indianapolis record label, a Colorado drum shop, a North Carolina community arts center, a Michigan music studio, countless bands and choral groups, dozens of preschools across the country, and a movie starring Queen Latifah and Dolly Parton. Clearly, we like this idea of “joyful noise.”
And yet, for all this, it might appear that there isn’t much to say about Psalm 100. It is simple, lovely, and uplifting. It is pleasant to read, more pleasant to sing, and most pleasant to hear sung well. Unlike, for example, Paul’s letter to the Romans, Psalm 100 does not demand that we undertake major interpretive excursions just to understand what it is getting at.
But it is important not to underestimate the richness of Psalm 100. There is a lot going on here. And if we look upon this old friend with fresh eyes we may see and celebrate things we had not noticed before.
Let’s start with that phrase “joyful noise.” At first blush, it might almost seem like a contradiction in terms—an oxymoron—because noise irritates us much more often than it inspires us. In this sense, “joyful noise” may remind us of other oxymoronic phrases, like “airline food,” “motel art,” “family vacation,” “organized religion,” “disco music,” and—my personal favorite—“adult male.”
If you think about it, however, you’ll realize that the Bible is actually a very noisy book. The phrase “joyful noise” appears in four other Psalms: 66, 81, 95, and 98. And the Psalms include a lot of shouting as well. Psalms 32, 35, 47, 65, and 132 all urge us to “shout for joy” to the Lord.
Indeed, the Bible is full of famous shouting. In the sixth chapter of Joshua, a great shout brings down the walls of Jericho. The third chapter of Ezra tells us that the people shouted in praise when the foundation was laid for the Temple in Jerusalem. Matthew reports that the crowds who followed Jesus into Jerusalem were shouting “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!”
Of course, the Bible has a lot more in it than shouting. It also has trumpets—lots of trumpets. And some scriptural passages even include shouting and trumpets. For example, in his first letter to the Thessalonians, Paul describes Jesus’ return using this language: “For the Lord himself, with a cry of command, with the archangel’s call and with the sound of God’s trumpet, will descend from heaven.”
So this idea of “joyful noise” is not unique to Psalm 100. It permeates the Bible. Yes, the Bible says that God speaks to us in a “still, small voice.” But it also says that God speaks “with a voice of thunder.” And, yes, the gospels tell us that when we pray we should speak softly and make no great show of it. But they also say that sometimes nothing will do but an unrestrained, full-throated, toss-your-head-back shout.
Still, Psalm 100 is singular in the energy it conveys to us and the activity it demands of us. Indeed, if you look closely at Psalm 100 you’ll notice that its few verses include not less than seven imperative verbs: “make a joyful noise”; “worship the Lord with gladness”; “come into His presence”; “know that the Lord is God”; “enter his gates with thanksgiving”; “give thanks to Him”; “bless his name.”
The only word that seems even remotely soft or passive here is “know,” which might seem to suggest some kind of intellectual process. But, in the Hebrew Bible, “knowledge of the Lord” does not just refer to what we believe; it refers to how we live. So, for example, when the book of Hosea tells us—repeatedly—that God was angry with Israel because its people had no “knowledge” of Him the point is not that they hadn’t heard of the Lord; rather, the point is that they were acting as if they hadn’t heard of the Lord.
With all this talk of knowing, making, entering, giving, worshiping, and blessing we might lose track of what the psalmist actually wants to say to us here. But, if we return to the top of the psalm and note the superscription, the point is hard to miss. This psalm, it turns out, is about how we give thanks to God.
And what the psalmist wants us to understand is that true thankfulness consists of more than a mental state. True thankfulness is expressed through how we choose to live. To paraphrase an old saying, we should live so that if we were accused of being a truly thankful people there would be enough evidence to convict us.
But there is more. The psalmist wants us to understand that living thankfully means taking your bearings, recognizing God as your True North, and setting your course accordingly. That is why biblical scholars have described Psalm 100 as an “orienting” scripture—because it directs our attention away from ourselves and toward higher things. Or, as Hebrew Bible scholar Walter Brueggemann has put it, “Obviously our world is at the edge of insanity and we with it. In a world like this, [the one-hundredth] psalm is an act of sanity, whereby we may be re-clothed in our rightful minds. Life is no longer self-grounded without thanks but rooted in thanks.”
On September 8, 1860, a boat called the Lady Elgin floundered on Lake Michigan near the Northwestern University campus. A ministerial student named Edward Spencer rushed to its aid and rescued some seventeen people. Spencer’s health was so permanently damaged from the exposure that he was forced to discontinue his preparation for the ministry. Surely, the people he rescued were grateful. But, years later, when Spencer died, his obituary reported that not one of the seventeen people he saved had ever bothered to thank him.
It is a good and pretty thing to have thankful thoughts and thankful hearts. But Psalm 100 tells us that we must also have thankful lives. And it tells us that we must express our thankfulness with all the “joyful noise” we can muster.
Amen.
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