Walking in the dark (a hospital memorial text on Psalm 46)

Reading: Psalm 46.

The earth shatters. The mountains crumble.

The waters rage.

I love Psalm 46 because it captures what life feels like sometimes. It is hard.

Every day we see Pikes Peak. Sometimes the snow is on the peak. And sometimes the leaves on the trees turn and sometimes it is purple and sometimes it is covered in fog.

But one thing we know about Pikes Peak is that when the fog clears, when the morning comes, it will be there. In all of its glory and majesty and beauty. It does not move. It is constant and sure.

And here is the psalmist saying: O God, I am sad. I am shaken. I am afraid. My world is turned upside down. It is as if the earth has shattered and the mountains have crumbled. In my soul. In my heart.
I am disoriented and lost.

When your loved one died, expectedly, unexpectedly, old, young, tragically or slowly, you probably knew what the psalmist was trying to say, trying to express.

It is as if you woke up one morning and you looked towards pikes peak and it was no longer there. It had crumbled in the night as you slept.

It would be disorienting, yes?

Like the death of a loved one is disorienting, confusing, alarming. The way forward is unclear.

When I was in seminary, I worked at the University of Maryland hospital in Baltimore. Old hospital. Old chapel. And I would work overnights on Tuesdays and the weekends. And the chapel was this interior space, very dark at night. And the place where i would sleep was in the back of the chapel. When the pager went off, an emergency or a trauma or a death, I’d wake up in a dark little room in a very dark big chapel. And this was a time well before iPhones had flashlights on every phone. I’d have to slowly make my way. Taking one small step in front of the other. Reaching out to grab the end of a pew, to make sure I was on the right path.

I learned to walk in the dark. You learn things you wouldn’t otherwise in such moments. What is trustworthy. What endures. Your own resilience. You slow down. You take your time. You probably have learned things about yourself after the death of your loved ones, how a heart can break and yet still beat.
And here’s the thing about that dark chapel in Baltimore. After my visit, when it was all done. I’d return to that dark chapel. And make my way to the room where I slept. It was still dark. And over the bed, that little futon where I slept, there was a small source of light. A pair of praying hands, the kind that glow in the dark, the kind you buy at the dollar store.

Those praying hands lit the way to rest and restoration and renewal. And it reminded me what the Psalmist says in our reading. That God is always with us. That we are never alone.

That God’s presence, in the form of friends and family and faith and hope and love, endures, remains, and lights the way for us to restoration.
An ever present time in trouble.

And how does the Psalmist say that we get there? Be still. Listen. Feel it deep in our beat and beating heart, the presence of love, the love of your loved one that you memorialize tonight, is always with you. And God never ever leaves us to carry our burdens alone. An ever present time in trouble.

Therefore will I trust you always though
I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
Amen.