I don’t remember the topic or even the text, but I remember clearly the details surrounding the most difficult sermon I have ever preached. It was while I was serving as an associate pastor near Baltimore, Maryland, on a Sunday when the senior pastor was scheduled to be away. Sunday morning arrived, and I got to church and went about my normal routine of greeting people and making sure Sunday School was going smoothly. I took a bit longer than usual to get to my office, but otherwise was a normal morning. I turned on my computer and sat down, only to discover that our internet was down. This wasn’t totally surprising. I went to our router and reset everything, which usually did the trick. Not this morning. I tried a few other things, following what our tech savvy person had suggested in the past. Nothing. Worship was in about 10 minutes. My sermon? That one I’d spent time and thought putting together – was sitting in my e-mail inbox, and the only one saved on my computer was a really early draft that was pretty awful. No amount of coaxing or prayers brought our internet back that morning. But alas, I had a cell phone. I could get it on my phone at least. Surely I would remember it well enough. I had this. I was a preacher, of course, with years of seminary training under my belt. And I would look so up to date preaching from my iphone. I put on my robe and worship began. It was maybe 30 seconds into the sermon that I realized how colossally bad my plan was. I did not remember what I had written well enough, and could not read the tiny words on my screen that I swear got smaller the more I tried to discreetly look at them. Touching the screen to scroll meant I instantly lost my place. I bumbled through some semblance of a sermon, and thanks to the grace of the congregation, no one got up and left. Hopefully the Holy Spirit was speaking to them, because I was pretty sure that what I was saying was less than inspirational.
After the service, the husband of our senior pastor, Jack, came up to me. He had heard of my tech issues, and reassured me that it wasn’t all bad and things would be fine. Then he paused and said, “you know you could have called me. I would have been happy to help. I could have gone home and printed it out for you, or found someone who lived even closer to do it – we would have made sure it was there before the sermon started.” His words struck me. In all of my panic and anxiety of the situation, my reaction had been to try to take care of it all myself. As scared as I was of the idea of preaching without the words in front of me, I was more scared to admit that in the 11th hour, I didn’t have what I needed. I wasn’t fully prepared. I had made a mistake and didn’t have a back-up plan. My own stubbornness and fear stood squarely in the way of my asking others to help. My pride prevented me from reaching out to others and potentially making this a fun story rather than a nightmarish one. “I would have been happy to help,” Jack said. He was a friend, someone I respected and joked with, someone I trusted. I like to think that, had this happened again, I would have remembered our conversation and turned to him for help. Fortunately, that was never put to the test. Although I am sure he would have come through, I’m not sure I would have been humble enough to remember to ask for help.
Have you ever been in this type of situation? When something goes terribly wrong and you’re in a position where you probably should just ask for help, but for whatever reason you don’t? Many things seem to stand in our way of getting the help we need. In my case, it was stubbornness and pride. Kind of like when I try to carry in all the grocery bags at once, insisting it isn’t too heavy. We live in a culture that values self-sufficiency and accomplishment. We start this pattern at a young age. Stubborn toddlers take forever to get dressed or put on shoes, retorting “I can do it myself, mom.” Rather than ask for directions, we drive in circles or get lost, insisting we know the way. When putting together that new bookcase, the instructions are tossed aside. After all, how hard can it be? Surely we can figure it out on our own. No need for the helpful instructions that were provided by the manufacturer. If we’re lucky, the times we refuse help merely inconvenience us or make simple tasks take a bit longer. A successful businessman may boast that he is a self-made man. No one has given him anything. He has accomplished things entirely on his own. We wear this like a badge of honor, even though if we dug a bit deeper we might realize it’s never fully true.
This human tendency to refuse help or pretend we don’t need it can make for a difficult, if not impossible, journey of faith. You see, to have faith means, from the very beginning, that we acknowledge there is a higher power at work in the world, God, and that we are not him. The famous Reformed theologian John Calvin insisted that we as humans are “utterly dependent” on God. We can do nothing apart from God. That is at the core of what it means to journey through the season of Lent. It is a time when we become more and more aware of just how deeply we are reliant on God’s grace, and perhaps shift how we live our lives in response to what God has done for us. Lent prepares us for the good news of Easter by reminding us just how much we need God to overcome the powers of sin and death – because clearly we cannot do it on our own. Lent reminds us that we need help. The Psalmist reminds us where that help comes from.
Psalm 121 is part of a collection of 15 psalms (Psalms 120-134) that are labeled as “Songs of Ascents.” Many assume that this group of psalms were the songs and prayers sung by pilgrims on their way to celebrate one of the great Jewish festivals, such as Passover. One translation even labels them as “songs of steps[i].” They were the road trip songs of God’s people, ones that accompanied them along the way.
The psalm begins with a pilgrim looking to the hills. On one hand, this image is a poetic one, reminding us of the common idea that God is physically located in a high place, like a hilltop or cloud. That is, after all, where the people of Israel had most often encountered the divine. To begin the song this way means that the author is setting his sights on God for the journey. There is a focus and attention that reminds us of a spiritual journey, where God is front and center, where God is the destination. On the other hand, though, to look to the hills might also recognize that the road ahead is not necessarily smooth or easy. Hills require much more energy and physical strength to travel. They will give you more of a work-out, and require you to labor a bit harder. Hills are also known to be less safe. You can’t always see what is around the corner. In ancient times, hills and rocky passes left many places for robbers and thieves to hide. Going to the hills meant certain danger. Some commentators favor this view of the Psalm, as it explains why the question that follows is the plea, “from where will my help come?”
The Psalm continues with a strong affirmation that the God who created all that is, even us, will be the one who provides help. Whether the road is easy or tough, God is there. Our help comes from the Lord. This is good and reassuring news that we do not have to do it alone. Such a perspective reminds us that we believe in a God who is all-powerful and all-knowing, an all-encompassing God who will not abandon ship at the first sign of trouble. In fact, we worship a God who stares the dangers of the hills in the face and will not be moved. A God who is able and willing, and ready, to help. This week, Nathan has been singing a children’s song that goes “my God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there’s nothing my God cannot do!”. That’s the gist of this Psalm.
The challenge, though, I think, is for us to actually let God be our helper. While the reminder of God’s power and might are inspiring, they can also be tough to embrace if we’re honest about it. We don’t often relinquish control over things, particularly our very lives, without a fight. Instead, we try our own way instead, refusing help even when it is readily offered. Our text today asks us to consider letting some of our own tightly held things go, so that we might have room for God to be a bigger part of our journey in the hills. That is the journey we make in Lent.
The first steps to discipleship, or deeper relationship with God, often involve letting go of ourselves a bit. In this way, we might find some helpful parallels with the process that 12-step groups have used for many years to assist those who are recovering from addiction. The first step is admitting that we are powerless and that our lives have become unmanageable. In other words, we admit that we need help. The second step is to come to believe that a Power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity. In other words, that God can provide the help we need. The third step is to make a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understand Him. In other words, to lift our eyes to the hills and seek God’s help.
It isn’t always easy to ask for help. Sometimes we only have the courage to do it in quiet and subtle ways. If we had read the full context for our verses in John’s gospel this morning, beginning with chapter 3 verse 1, we would come across the story of Nicodemus, a Pharisee, leader of the Jews, on a nighttime journey. Under the secrecy and cover of darkness, he dared to come to Jesus with some very important questions of faith. Some scholars suggest that Nicodemus himself believed in Jesus, evidenced by his later involvement at the end of the gospel. Regardless of intentions, though, his questions sought to better understand the God he worshiped, particularly the notion of entering God’s kingdom. I think it’s clear that, in a nutshell, Nicodemus is coming to Christ – to God – for help. And Jesus replied in ways similar to the affirmations made by the Psalmist. He reminds Nicodemus of God’s power and might, of the ways in which God is the very source of life itself. And, in case that isn’t enough, he says those famous words that foreshadow his death and resurrection: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” (John 3:16).
These words of promise are confirmation that God will always be there to help – throughout eternity. Going further, the next verse reminds Nicodemus that God’s way of helping is not through judgment, but through love and redemption. God won’t be that friend who claims to be helping simply by pointing out all of the things you have done wrong. Yes, God absolutely sees and knows the ways in which we are flawed and have made a mess out of whatever we have tried to do. But God also sees through that and into our hearts, and in love reaches out, over and over again, so that our mistakes are not the final word on who we are. This redemption is the work of Jesus Christ. That’s the whole message of the cross that we are journeying to this Lent. And if we don’t recognize just how much we need God’s help, we will miss how big of a deal this really is.
“But what about here and now,” you may wonder, “how does God actually help?” Ask the Psalmist. Six times in these 8 verses, the Psalmist talks about God as “keeper.”To be kept implies a level of care and attention that only comes from love. Writer Robert Fisher notes:
There is a big difference between having and keeping. For instance, I might have a favorite sweater. It is my possession. However, I keep my puppy dog. He is not merely a possession; he is my beloved dog. He is dear to me. Therefore, I watch over him not for my sake, but for his. I protect him from harm because if he suffers, it hurts me too. Likewise, God does not merely have us. God keeps us. We are God’s beloved, and immeasurably dear to God. We are not merely possessions in the eyes of the Lord, because if we suffer, it hurts God too. Psalm 121 celebrates the fact that the Lord is our keeper[ii].
God is that stronghold that will never fail. The steadfast friend who is always there to help. The one we can trust with even our biggest failures, and know that in the end, God will still love us. God is always there, hand outstretched, heart wide open, ready to help. This is a gift of grace. This is a gift of love. It is a gift of help, ready for us to accept. Our very lives depend on it. Amen.
~Rev. Elizabeth Lovell Milford
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[i] John Eaton, “Psalm 121: The Hills of Hope,” The Psalms: A Historical and Spiritual Commentary with an Introduction and New Translation. (London: T & T Clark International, 2003).
[ii] Robert W. Fisher, “Pastoral Perspective: Psalm 121,” Feasting on the Word: Year A, Volume 1, David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, editors. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010).
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