Psalm 23, Beloved Prayer Song Re-potentiated

A word is dead when it is said
Some say
I say it just begins to live
That day
        Emily Dickinson, 1924

Hear an old favorite psalm with just a few fresh words that change its complexion. 

Psalm 23 translation, Pamela Greenberg The Complete Psalms

God is my shepherd; there is nothing I lack.
You lay me down in lush meadows.

You guide me toward tranquil waters,
reviving my soul.

You lead me down paths of righteousness,
for that is your way.

And when I walk through the valley, overshadowed by death,
I will fear no harm, for you are with me

Your rod and your staff—they comfort me,
You spread a table before me
in face of my greatest fears.

You drench my head with oil;
my cup overflows the brim.

Surely goodness and kindness
will accompany me all the days of my life

and I will dwell in the house of the Holy
for the length of my days.


The psalms are prayers—startlingly honest emotionally. No feelings are absent from these prayers, even violent ones, the ones that let us know where and how we are hurt and want to hurt back. Yet psalms are also poetry and we chant them. Pamela Greenberg has translated the psalms in creative new ways without allowing them to lose their poetic power and spirituality.

I love familiar words that lull me; I love fresh words to awaken me even more. These latter force me to pay attention, to tune in. That’s how I grow. Even in discomfort, there is soul. Besides, who says scripture must always comfort or edify?  Poetic words soothe and disturb in equal proportion, and psalms are poetry.
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The Rev. Dr. Judith Fentress Williams, Old Testament professor at Virginia Theological Seminary, spoke to the Massachusetts clergy recently about the Old Testament—its value and its power, its connectedness with the fullness of earthly expression and experience. “Don’t be afraid of it. Preach from it,” she said.

I’ve always loved Old Testament. It was required in seminary, and the very first course I took at Yale Divinity School. The instructor began in solemn tones; “In the beginning, God potentiated……….. 

I wrote that down and tried to still my heart. Potentiated felt more powerful than created. It signaled the spiritual power behind/within everything that lives breathes and has being. It spoke to me of God’s agenda: ongoing potentiation. Whenever you are potentiated, by anything at all, you awaken. You feel suddenly lifted….in a word, resurrected. It’s a scary and a wonderful feeling.

The Spirit of God potentiates Life in the beginning, at the end, and in every second in between.
                                               *  * *  *


What do you notice in Greenberg’s translation of Psalm 23 that is different from what your ears are used to hearing? Say it aloud.

This translation is familiar —and brand new. The first thing I notice is: “God is my shepherd”— not the Lord. God is a name not a noun. God is free of royal role and all its accoutrements.

Then I notice is “there is nothing I lack.” It sounds different from: “I shall not want” or “I shall not be in want.”  “Nothing I lack” means I have everything I need. Do I? Even as I age and feel lacking in many joints, every sag of skin, every short-term memory lapse: what did I have for breakfast today? But with God I lack nothing.

This 23rd psalm hums along, and all of a sudden your mind is jarred. You expect: “You lead me in green pastures” And you hear: “You lead me in lush meadows.” The words mean the same and yet have different tonality, sensuality. Lush!

“You spread a table before me in the face of my (fill in the blank)—enemies, we all say. But we hear: “my greatest fears.”  What is potentiated by these new words? Are your fears like enemies? Do they not make you skulk, cringe, cower and hide? Are they at war with your aspirations? Do they help you sin against goodness? Is this translation as accurate as the idea of having real enfleshed enemies out to get you?

And “I will dwell in the house of (fill in the blank)…the Lord, we shout?  We hear instead: “the Holy.” Lord implies ruler; Holy suggests a quality of Being, a Presence within and without. This Holy Presence  “drenches” our heads with the oil of healing. “Drench” is more literal and stronger than “anoints.”

What do these new words potentiate in you? Maybe contempt or distaste? For me, it’s the knowledge that great words I love do not die when they are altered, but they do acquire a different flavor; they inspire me to think—again and again. As the poet says, these newly spoken and heard words live.

What am I saying? What am I thinking? What am I meaning? What words do I use?

Lastly, the image of the shepherd is softened by these new words. Real shepherds are rough and tumble, not so gentle with sheep. The divine shepherd accompanies yet neither drives not coddles. This shepherd is just be a little more, well, divine.

2015.03.08 Now I Ask You! ? A Lenten Rant.

Now I ask you...... Would anyone think, or in their wildest imaginings draw a mental picture, of  anything womanly or feminine at all, while joining a joyous congregation in lustful song: “O, praise him! Oh, praise him! Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleloooo-ya!”? (Hymn #400, “All creatures of our God and King.”)  ALL creatures! The text was written by none other than St. Francis of Assisi, a saint greatly to be admired and imitated for his capacious spirituality. I love St. Francis, and I love his current namesake, Pope Francis I. I love the Ralph Vaughan Williams music. I would never not want to sing this great hymn. Alleluia means: Shine your praises on God. It's a beautiful bright word.

BUT it’s Lent, and we've banned alleluia until Easter. So I get to reflect on serious things, not just my own sins and flaws but the Church’s. I have given up restraint for Lent.

It’s easy when singing to get caught up in a trance of crowd-sourced praise. It’s the music. I’ve been quite conscious of words we use to define—and confine—God, but with hymns, the music takes over. However, I’ve begun to be aware that hymn texts sink into our hearts, embed themselves into our flesh, just as much as the music does.

What are our words communicating— over and over? To our children, girls and boys, to our own souls, to the world? I want us to remember all creatures, not just male ones. I want us to remember God as Creator/Author, not just King. A creator/author makes something beautiful and then lets it go,  in hopes of course that it will please and be appreciated, not trashed.

When I sing this hymn’s refrain, I sing, “O praise God. Alleluia.”  I do the same with the Doxology. It’s easy to let God be known by name, rather than by a masculine pronoun.
            Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
            Praise God all creatures here below.
            Praise God above ye heavenly hosts.

I know I’m in my personal porti-pulpit, and some will say I have spiritual OCD. So I stop my rants for a while, until something hooks me.

Recently we sang, “The Church’s One Foundation”— a great old Christian chestnut. I was singing along with nary a thought until I hit the word “consummation,” and, I’m sorry, but all I could think of was the sexual meaning of that word. The female Church was awaiting her consummation with the male God. I laughed it off.  UNTIL a woman came up to me after the service, agitated, and said, “Did you hear what that hymn was saying about women? Awaiting consummation? Being bought?” We laughed together—half-heartedly.

We had just sung a hymn in which a female Church was “oppressed,” “scorned by men,” “rent asunder,” “distressed,” and crying out, “How Long?” Sounded like a theme song for female domestic violence victims, waiting for their divine male rescuer to change their “night of weeping into a morn of song.”

OK, it’s mystical, visionary, allegorical, metaphorical, intensely Christian, and written long ago. It’s only words. It means Christ. It's not real-world. AND, still,words matter. Pronouns are small and mighty. They alert us that the one done unto is identified as female, and the one to save her is male. Ah, Cinderella! I’m being overreactive, silly. Why all this spleen? (I really should have that organ removed!) I calmed down until two things appeared before my wondering eyes.

First, a  FaceBook posting of a friend and colleague, Elizabeth Kaeton, one-time president of the Episcopal Women’s Caucus, about the historic consecration of Bishop Libby Lane in the Church of England, a first. Kaeton reported the “dust up over whether or not the bishops who consecrated her have 'tainted' their hands and therefore must show 'gracious restraint' when next consecrating Philip North to the episcopacy because he - and three remaining consecrating bishops - do not believe women have 'sufficient ontological matter to be an efficacious bearer of sacerdotal presence.'" What? 

Does this mean we women don't have, well, proper sacerdotal anatomy, lodged between our legs? Yes, I know the carefully chosen word, “ontological” means dealing with the nature of being itself, not just the flesh. Now I ask you: how do you separate the two? God apparently did not when Godde became human and the Spirit inhabited all flesh, not just human flesh, and not just Christ’s.

I scolded myself, called myself cranky and too literal. 

Then.........  (Boston Globe, Op Ed, 1.26.15) . . .   Tennis U.K. wonderboy, Andy Murray, has a new logo, aka brand name, that will appear on a full line of clothing and accessories—everything   but tennis balls, or any balls—though who knows? What’s wrong with that? Laying aside any issues about the accumulation of wealth in the hands of too few, I had a fit of pique about the logo itself: “77 AM”. What’s wrong with that? Seven is my favorite number, and a lucky one at that, and AM are his initials. Doesn’t he deserve this kudos as a sign that he is the first British man to win the Wimbledon singles title in 77 years?

“In reporting Murray’s victory, numerous commentators and media outlets stated that he was the ‘first Brit’ to win Wimbledon in 77 years. As I noted at the time, that statement is true—unless you think women are people.” (Chloe S. Angyal, a senior columnist at Feministing.com. Italics mine.)                        
AM was not the “first Brit to win, only the first male Brit. Four female Brits won the equivalent title (Venus Rosewater Dish) at Wimbledon in women’s singles within that 77-year frame. But then don’t we all know that “winning Wimbledon” is shorthand for winning the men’s singles title? It is still assumed, without much thought, that what counts is what men do. To me, such ongoing assumptions discount women’s achievements and take away their worth. Some women let this happen easily, and some don’t, but we all feel it. 

Many hymn texts in the 1982 Hymnal, and most liturgical language, remains patriarchal, discounting  women as people who hold up half of the divine image. Carl Daw and Brian Wren, gifted hymn text writers, are notable exceptions. Thank you, gentlemen.  

I forgive myself this snark, but do not regret it. It is time to change. If indeed the Church is female, she has the resources to change, and ought to consider her own cry, “How long?”

Allow me to share a verse from Psalm 103 (translation of Pamela Greenberg) which gives me a personal blast of hope, and perhaps can inspire Mother Church as well. We are used to reciting or singing this psalm line: “Bless the Lord, my soul . . .”  Here is Greenberg’s rendering:

“Be wild, my soul, for the Source of wonder; let all my insides praise the Holy Name.”  

 

She will return, yes? 

2014.03.16 Stalling Out?

I feel stalled out. Maybe it’s winter blues, or world and church systems run amok. More likely it’s personal disappointment because my consistent, persistent, persevering,very good efforts to get my little memoir published have not born fruit—yet. Plus, it's Saturday with nothing to do.

Thus, I feel like Alexander having his “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day” (1972 book by Judith Viorst)  I’m not a fourth grader like Alexander, therefore I’m having not one but a series of such days. Perfectly age-appropriate, no doubt, yet clever rationalization doesn’t get me out of the stall.

You know what it feels like when your car stalls out, right?  Suddenly you lose your GO-power. The stalling out phenomenon is worse in an airplane. I learned about it when, back in the 70s, I took a pinch-hitter course, learning how to fly a small plane. My then-husband was a pilot and owned a Piper Cub. He was an excellent and safe pilot, and I was confident I’d never have to pinch hit. The real reason I took the course was to write about the experience, and also get a photo of myself standing at the wing of a small aircraft—grinning. Those were my Brenda Starr Girl Reporter days on staff for a small local weekly newspaper—my first paid job ever.

My instructor talked a lot about stalling out, especially while taking off. I know little of aerodynamics but a stall on take off, he said, was more dangerous than a nose-down stall that could cause a tailspin.

Technically, a stall can be described thus:  Sufficient airspeed must be maintained in flight to produce enough lift to support the airplane without requiring too large an angle of attack. At a specific angle of attack, called the critical angle of attack, air going over a wing will separate from the wing or "burble" causing the wing to lose its lift (stall).

When the plane stalls on takeoff it feels as if it starts to slide backwards, hovering there, threatening to descend tail first.  In this image, the lower plane is in stall—like me just now.

A skilled pilot knows how to get out of a stall. My ultra-calm instructor was my co-pilot making sure I didn’t overdo the power trip, a big temptation, and stall out. I loved powering up—rising into the air. In a small plane you really feel, well, as if you yourself are a huge bird. 

But how do you "pilot" your life when a stall happens? I have no idea really. I hovered around for a while, doing nothing purposeful, moping. I gave God my worries, but not my aspirations. Were they too high? I had no idea.

So here’s what I did: I mopped the disgusting bathroom floor covered with winter grit; I went for a walk in 50 degree weather; I met a friend for lunch. She felt blah too, so we ordered pizza, one for each of us. I ate some bread before my pizza arrived. Really!  My friend was more sensible and restrained. We laughed a lot. Back home I ordered some new skinny jeans from a catalog because I’d punctured a small hole with my pointy fingernail in the ones I got for $20 at CVS. I called another friend who wondered if I were "too attached". I told her no, I’m sleeping and eating fine. I’ll detach tomorrow—maybe.

I marvel that the high point of days like this is enjoying a glass of wine in the evening with my husband and watching a British soap, like "Doc Martin"—the local doc in a tiny town in Cornwall.  Martin is perpetually ill-mannered and grumpy as hell—and we love him.

Writing about my stall-days helps. Godde knows why but I feel better just getting it out and onto a page.  Feel free to take it all on yourself but don’t feel too sorry for me. Hope and energy return slowly, like wind on wings. I remember this from other stall times in my life when I didn’t crash.

Behold!  The psalm reading for evening prayer was Psalm 138. I use Pamela Greenberg's translation. Verse 8 flew off the page and into my heart. The psalmist prays: If I walk into the thick of my sorrows, you keep me alive—against the wrath of my fears.

End of slumpy stall for today. I'm alive. Sadness and fear can't kill Soul.

Wisdom of the Psalms at Age 72

It’s my 72nd birthday. It’s also my spouse’s birthday but he’s a mere 69. I don’t know what 72 should feel like but I feel fine and glad to be alive and past the paternal death line.

My dad died when he was 71—way too soon for the length of my love.

Ours had been a love-filled but not always peaceful relationship. Dad was an alcoholic and a master putdown artist whom I loved with all my yearning heart. I remember the mix of sorrow and fear I felt. I hadn’t said everything I wanted to and it was about to be too late. Were there enough I love you’s anyway?

The psalmist gave me a birthday present, a prayer line to describe what I had felt and feel now as I age and contemporaries begin to get sick big. Some die.

“IF I WALK INTO THE THICK OF MY SORROW, YOU KEEP ME ALIVE—AGAINST THE WRATH OF MY FEARS." (Psalm 138:8)

Now how true and wise is that!? I don’t know about you but this verse as it is rendered in a new translation by Pamela Greenberg is emotionally true in general and personally.

Think of it. Think of how partnered love and fear are in your heart. Think of how intimate love and sorrow are in your breast. If you truly love someone you immediately fear loss of that love and you touch your sorrow.

Of course we don’t dwell on these feeling connections because we have the psychological capacity for denial, a gift that can hinder one’s capacity to face truth and heal, and also a gift that can shield us from truth before it demands our notice. I for example never knew about alcoholism until I had to know it was a danger. Even when I knew I resisted. I didn’t want to feel the fear and the sorrow of the death of love.

Other translations of 138:8. 1) NRSV Bible: “Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve me against the wrath of my enemies; you stretch out your hand, and your right hand delivers me.

2) Book of Common Prayer: Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you keep me safe; you stretch forth your hand against the fury of my enemies; your right hand shall save me.

3)The Psalter, Liturgy Training Publications: When I face an opponent, you keep me alive. You reach out your hand, your right hand saves me.

The difference is marked. Greenberg’s translation internalizes the prayer language. ENEMY is translated WRATH OF MY FEARS.

I find it true that when I feel injured and deeply sorrowed by something I don’t understand, something I think unjust, I feel afraid, imagine all kinds of enemies and blame externals first, then myself.

How do you cope with such times? Does Godde by whatever name keep you alive? How?

I pray volumes over days and months, often in writing. It brings me back to myself and to Godde who casts no blame but simply listens and keeps me ALIVE AGAINST THE WRATH OF MY FEARS so I can WALK INTO THE THICK OF MY SORROWS.

Spiritual Coping

You think I’m going to say pray, pray and then pray some more. I am—sort of.

First agree to stop talking about the fact that you’re moving and you’ve now moved. You’re in. All your stuff is in with you but you can’t find any of it so you find one thing that make chaos seem orderly and focus on it. (Keep talking to yourself. Safer than talking to your spouse who will always listen, support and understand, then lovingly try to tell you things you already know, things only prayer, patience and the Godde within can remedy.))

I found two things.

The first was the eggs. They were where they were supposed to be, nestled in their cardboard carton on their very own designated shelf in the brand new still clean fridge.

Two of them fried would be delicious but where is their pan? Never mind. These aren’t just any old eggs.

They are laid by “the girls,” chickens parented by a beautiful lesbian couple who gave us the special eggs as a retirement gift. Each egg has a message on it neatly written in black indelible pen. Here are some of the messages: Enjoy retirement. We will miss you.Try me.Thanks for all you’ve given. Fry me. Feel ALL the feelings :) :( You will be forever in our hearts.

Now that’s prayer! You don’t need a pan now. You can’t eat these prayers just yet.

The second thing my traveling eye fell upon was a book we picked up in the best bookstore in the world
Porter Square Books. And it’s in our new ‘hood.

The book is called The Complete Psalms: The Book of Prayer Songs in a New Translation It’s by Pamela Greenberg with a Foreword by Susannah Heschel.

In her introduction Greenberg writes that this translation was an "impulse of shiru l’Adonai shir chadash, the imperative to sing to God a new song." Just what I needed. I’m singing a new song every day now and the Psalter contains every song the human heart can sing—all of it soul-true and all of it offered to Godde.

So I sing a prayer one a day whether it meets my mood or not. That’s no matter because it is not for me but for Godde.

Heschel in her Foreword speaks of her father Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, great Jewish scholar and man of prayer who said: “The beginning of prayer is praise. The power of worship is song. to worship is to join the cosmos in praising God."

The wise Rabbi also said: “To live without prayer is to live without God, to live without a soul . . . To pray is to take notice of the wonder, to regain a sense of mystery that animates all beings, the divine margin in all attainments. Prayer is our humble answer to the inconceivable surprise of living.”

Today the eye of my soul caught this phrase from Psalm 66: “Go and look at the works of the Creator.”

So I do. Then I look back at the chaotic surround of post moving and see that Lo! the coffee pot is perking away and the pot is full of the healthfully decaffeinated brew of coping—best with honey consumed in the sun’s morning light.