Living with the Psalms: Take 4

At last night’s Vespers service, we chanted Psalm 139 (“O Lord, you have searched me and known me”) and Psalm 140 (“Rescue me, O Lord”). I reflect on God’s mission to the world, which is always one of search and rescue.

This has been a week of searching: I came seeking God and discovered I was the one who was found. Unlike the small trickle of spiritual tourists who have wandered out here for the photo ops and the Catholic gift shop, this has been a time of pilgrimage for me. All the luxuries and titles of my life have been stripped away during this stay. Nobody knows how many sermons I’ve preached, how many funerals I’ve done, what kind of car we drive, how much money I make, where my family lives, or whether I even have a last name.

In fact, the brothers are strangely indifferent to the fact that I’m a pastor. It’s refreshing. I may need to visit a place like this more often just to keep my head on straight. The monks really don’t care about what I do back home.

What they do care about is that I am seeking God. When I answered Brother Scott’s query about my visit that way, he gazed intently and whispered, “May God bless you and grant you his holy presence.”

All of us hunger to be known, not because of what we do, but for who we are when nobody’s looking. We’re tempted to put up facades, or stand behind our achievements, or declare that we’re important because of the people we know. Last week, for instance, I ate dinner at Montreat with, not one, but four former General Assembly moderators. (Woo-hoo - am I important or what?) Yet the reality is that all of their terms of office are long over, and they have had to return to people who knew them before they were famous.

We hunger to be known, received, accepted, and taken as we are. It’s hard to do that when we’re accumulating our own adjectives. Psalm 139 promises if you scrape away all our external decorations, God sees us as we are. Psalm 140 prays for God to looks on us kindly. The kindness happens quietly. We can miss it if we’re not awake.

Last night, the most austere looking monk in the whole monastery bumps into me at the dessert table. To my shock, it’s intentional. With a British accent and uncharacteristic twinkle in his eye, he whispers, “It is quite possible that yellow cake can increase one’s weight.” It blows me away. If I could recall where scripture says “taste and see that the Lord is good,” I would have quoted chapter and verse so that he could look it up later. But his sudden humor undoes me. Not to be outdone, I put a second piece of cake on my plate and he feigns astonishment.

Should I miss the playful honesty, the Abbot comes with his Holy Sprinkler at the end of Compline, the last service of the night. After our prayers for a good night’s sleep and a peaceful death, he shakes holy water on us. When he approaches me, he gives an extra shake and whispers, “Must drive out the devil whenever we can.”

These guys don’t know me from Adam. For all they know, I am the same sinful dullard who eats whatever Eve wants me to eat – and they’re right. But the brothers also know me as Brother Bill, a child of God, a pilgrim on a shared journey, and a partner in prayer. And they affirm that our God is capable of rescuing every single beloved child.

Even me.