Out of the Depths I Cry to You

“Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord” proclaims the psalmist (Psalm 130:1). In so doing, the psalmist gives voice to a heartfelt plea emanating from the dark abyss of human suffering, pain, and despair. Sadly, it’s a forlorn cry that many of us know all too well; life experiences that make us feel helpless, alone, and frightened.
• The loss of a job
• The nagging sting of failure, of not being good enough.
• Living with the consequences of bad choices.
• Silently struggling with depression, anxiety, and other afflictions.
• Mourning the end of a relationship we hoped would last a lifetime..
• Grieving the deaths of the people we love.
• Struggling with a chronic disease or debilitating illness.
• Worrying about loved ones battling cancer.
• Living with the fallout brought about by addiction or alcoholism.
• Surviving physical, emotional, or sexual abuse.

“Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.”

The plea for divine help calls to mind images of mending torn garments. Kind of like the way I try to mend the rip in my blue jeans. Or, like the way I find myself trying to repair tears in my dog’s chew toy after it has been torn apart after excessive use. Interestingly, the language of fixing suggests that the evidence of the problem will disappear and the problem will go away. But mending is different than fixing, isn’t it? Mending preserves the item, tattered and torn though it may be. One might say that mending by its very nature involves an orientation of hope. Instead of discarding that which is broken, mending seeks to save that which has been torn so that it may be used once again for the purpose for which it was made.

The reality of  mending is, I believe, at the heart of the human condition so eloquently expressed in the psalmist’s confession: “If you O Lord, should mark iniquities, Lord, who could stand? But there is forgiveness with you…I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in the Lord’s word I hope…” (Psalm 130:3-5)

Notice how the psalmist cries out with a hope that trusts that God will both hear and respond.

It’s a trust rooted firmly in the promise that God is gracious and merciful. It’s a trust grounded in the reality of the One who died on a cross of shame and descended to the dead always meets us in the midst of our own personal hells. It’s a trust rooted in the promise that Emmanuel, God is with us, always redeems, restores, and renews.

The evidence of sin and brokenness in our world is plain for all to see. Anyone who follows the news knows this all too well. Yet, when we look at things through the eyes of a faith grounded in hope we begin to notice the many and varied ways that Jesus has a knack for always showing up when the darkness of the world threatens to overwhelm us.

It’s a reality that Bishop April Ulrig Larson brought home to me in a very powerful and personal way. Bishop Larson, the first woman elected bishop in the ELCA, was invited to be the commencement speaker at our Wartburg Seminary graduation ceremony. The graduating students asked Bishop Larson to speak to us not only because of her pioneering leadership role within the church, but also in light of the knowledge of her own experience with loss, grief, and the transformative power of faith.

It’s hard not to attend Wartburg without hearing about Ben Larson. Like his mom, Ben felt a call to ministry. Ben was a gifted musician and song writer. He was blessed with many gifts for ministry. And like all Wartburg Seminary students, Ben had the opportunity to participate in an international cross-cultural January Term. So in 2010 Ben and his wife Renee travelled to Haiti with two other Wartburg students. A short time after they arrived, a devastating earthquake struck; killing Ben and more than 300,000 other people.

“Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.”

Speaking of her own experience in the abyss of grief, Bishop Ulrig-Larson shared with us that in even in the midst of the profound darkness and despair that followed her son’s tragic death, she felt Christ’s presence. And because Christ was with her, she noted that she knew that in time, she would make it through the ordeal. “I knew that it would be different,” she declared. “Different, not necessarily better.”

You see, mending doesn’t say, “This never happened.” Mending does not rush us through the grieving process. It doesn’t say “Get over it” as we, each of us at our own pace, meander our way through the valley of grief and loss. Instead of glossing over our experiences, mending bears witness to the loss. Mending acknowledges the reality of pain, suffering, and grief. Mending is a visible reminder that “something or someone was broken here, but with God’s grace it will rise to new life.”

And that is why when I stand before the cross as a beggar in need of the mending that only God can give, I do so trusting that Jesus meets me in the midst of whatever it is I am going through. For the One who descended to the dead repeatedly descends into the darkness of our personal torment, despair, and loss. The crucified and risen One shares in our suffering and pain. And, when we’re ready, Jesus accompanies us toward the light of God’s redemption.

“Out of the depths we cry to you, O Lord…

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in the Lord’s word I hope…

For with the Lord there is steadfast love,
and with the Lord is great power to redeem.”  ~ Psalm 130:1, 5, 7

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Scatter Those Seeds!

Photo by Gelgas on Pexels.com

I love the Parable of the Sower recounted in Matthew 13:1-9, especially the way that the text calls to mind the wonder and awe that I experienced as a child each spring as we prepared seedlings for the family garden. Perhaps like many of you, each spring we’d head off to the local store and carefully select seed packets for our family garden — most often carrots, radishes, tomatoes, cucumbers, and watermelons.

And then, as the days warmed my mother would teach us how to prepare seedlings, carefully filling each biodegradable container with soil, and positioning the seeds just so. And, then, having finished our work, we watered our containers and placed them near windows facing the sun. Then we waited. And waited. Anxiously watching for the first sprig of green to poke through the damp soil. Waiting and watching for signs of growth and new life.

We children carefully nurtured our seedlings in the warmth of our home until the danger of a killer frost had passed. But even after the plants had been transferred to our garden plot, threats still remained in the form of insects, hail storms, a prolonged drought, and hungry critters. Getting a ripe juicy tomato or a tasty watermelon at the end of summer seemed like a miracle, especially considering all of the care and protection that our precious crops required.

In many ways, the Parable of the Sower echoes the same process. Except in the account from Matthew, not every seed receives the same loving care that we children gave our seedlings.

In the Parable of the Sower some seeds are recklessly scattered on the path, only to have birds quickly snatch the seeds away. Other seeds are tossed on rocky ground. And since there is little soil the seedlings grow quickly, but lacking protection for the roots, the sun scorches the plants and they dry up. Some seeds fall among thorns and are choked by them. Notice, in only the last instance do the seeds fall on good soil and produce an abundant harvest.

Although a parable opens itself up to multiple interpretations, one message seems clear enough – the extravagant abundance and reason-defying exuberance in which the seeds were scattered with wild abandon and unfocused aim. Especially when understood within the context that seeds were precious commodities. Seeds were to be scattered economically and carefully, not tossed to and fro with reckless abandon.

Today many farmers use GPS devices to precisely place each and every seed. But in the parable that Jesus tells, this isn’t the case. Precious seeds are scattered everywhere, without regard to where they might land. Be it a path, rocks, thorns, or good soil.

To the members of Matthew’s community the parable was sure to raise eyebrows. Then again, perhaps the author’s intention was to sow encouragement in the face of opposition, hostility, and rejection. It was, it appears, a message of abundance in the face of perceived scarcity. A message carefully crafted to resonate with an agrarian audience. One that encouraged persistence in spreading the good news of the saving gospel of Jesus Christ, knowing full well that not all of their efforts would bear fruit. Some seeds would land on fertile ground, yet others would be lost. Ultimately, however, God would see the process through.

It’s a message that’s also relevant for us today. We will not always succeed in our ministry together. In fact, we may “fail” more often than we care to admit. Petty bickering, long-simmering turf wars, and self-righteous behavior often divides us; or worse – drives people away.

We can become so preoccupied with happens behind the closed doors of our sanctuary space that we lose sight of the bigger picture of how God is calling us to be the body of Christ in the world. A people called together by the Holy Spirit. A diverse people, from all walks of life, nourished by Word and sacrament. A people sent out into the world to be Christ for our neighbors, especially the hurting ones, the frightened ones, the broken ones.

Critical to making sense of this parable for our own lives and for our lives together is the command to “Listen!” To listen to God’s convicting and life-giving Word. The very Word that speaks existence into being (Gen. 1:3; JN 1:1-3). The same Word that called a little girl (LK 8:40-56) and his friend Lazarus to life (JN 11:1-44). The Word that “became flesh, and lived among us” (John 1:14).

Yet, listening is not easy. In our 24/7, plugged-in, social-media-preoccupied world, it’s easy to be distracted, unaware, or even resistant to God’s Word. In a world full of noise, it’s hard to hear how God might be calling us to participate in God’s mission for the world.

Too compound matters, we may find ourselves so preoccupied with petty disputes and perceived slights, that the thorns and weeds of our own self-importance, our self-righteous attitudes, and our self-appointed role as gatekeeper of all things Lutheran chokes out the good news of the gospel for us.

“Listen!” Listen deeply to God’s Word, trusting that God’s Word does not return empty. As surely as rain and sunlight cause seeds to grow, God’s Word will bring about what God intends.

Like the sower in the parable who scatters the seed carelessly, recklessly, seemingly wasting much of the seed on ground that holds little promise for a fruitful harvest, Jesus invests in disciples who look similarly unpromising. After all, Scripture teaches us that Jesus spends a lot of his time with tax collectors and sinners, with lepers, the demon-possessed, and all manner of outcasts.

Ours is a God who sows with gracious abundance; scattering the seed of the good news far and wide — on the path, in the weeds, on the poor soil, and in the rich soil.

And the living Word, Jesus Christ, is present in all of those moments.