Psalm 13
Just
before I make my way to the pulpit to conduct a funeral service, the funeral
director will hand me a document titled the Clergy
Record. It contains among other things the name of the deceased, date of
death, and a list of survivors. If someone had handed me a Clergy Record Tuesday it would have read, “Dorothy Jane Gober
Andrews, died March 10th, 2020. She was survived by four children,
their spouses, seven grandchildren, and four great grandchildren. She was preceded
in death by her husband.” Everything on the Clergy
Record is correct. But it tells you nothing about my Mom.
Mom
first laid eyes on my father when she was in the eighth grade. The Andrews clan
had just moved to Cedartown, Georgia. According to Mom it was love at first
sight. Not even World War II could keep them apart. On Dad’s return from
Europe, they were married and eventually started a family. Dad ended up in
seminary and served three churches. Mom began the most thankless job known to
humankind, the wife of a preacher.
She
raised four children. The three girls were a handful. The son was perfect. Mom
and Dad were married for over seventy years. He received all the accolades. She held
everything together. Mom was the embodiment of beauty and grace. She
surrendered herself to the role of wife and mother and the five of us became
better people because of her sacrifice. Last Tuesday, every person she had ever
known felt empty as she quietly passed from us.
This is the story we
would like to discover behind each Clergy
Record. But sometimes life deals a
cruel hand.
Thomas
Dorsey was a brilliant gospel musician in the 1930’s. His genius as a pianist
was known throughout the Midwest. He was the first African-American to
transcribe gospel music and make it available to local congregations. Dorsey is
known as the Father of Gospel music. His wife’s name was Nettie. She grew up in
the church and loved to sing in the choir. Together they composed songs that
are still sung in churches today.
In
1932 Nellie became pregnant with their first child. They were living in a small
apartment on Chicago’s Southside. Dorsey had been asked to lead the music at a
huge revival in St. Louis. Reluctantly he left Nellie and traveled south. The
next evening, after the service was over, he was handed a telephone and heard
these devastating words. “Your wife just died.” After making a call to confirm
the news a friend drove him back to Chicago. There he learned his wife had gone
into labor prematurely. The doctors had delivered a son but could not save Nellie.
The following evening, the child died. After burying his wife and child in the
same coffin, Dorsey fell apart. He later wrote, “For days I locked myself in my
house. I felt God had done me a great injustice. I swore I would never write or
sing another gospel song. I decided to use my talents in jazz clubs and drown
my sorrow in smoke and alcohol.”
A
few days later Dorsey went to a local music school and asked if he could borrow
a piano for the afternoon. Dorsey wrote,
“It was quiet. The late evening sun crept through the windows. I sat down at
the piano and my hands began to run over the keys. Then something happened. I
felt a peace come over my soul. As I touched the piano I felt I was actually
touching God. I found myself playing a melody I had never heard or played
before. And then the words just fell into place and I began to sing.”
Precious
Lord, take my hand,
Lead me on, help me stand.
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn.
Through the storm, through the night,
Lead me on to the light,
Precious Lord, take my hand,
Lead me home.
(Stop)
When
the Clergy Records proclaims, “She lived 93 years and is survived by four
children, seven grandchildren, and four great grand children,” the appropriate
song of praise is Psalm 100.
Make a joyful noise to the Lord.
Worship the Lord with gladness.
Come into God’s presence with
praise.
For the Lord is good;
God’s steadfast love endures
forever.
God’s faithfulness is to all
generations.
But
sometimes the Clergy Record reads, “He lived one day and was preceded in death
by his mother.” That is when our Bibles fall open to Psalm 13.
How long O Lord will you forget
me?
How long will you hide your face
from me?
How long must I bear pain in my
soul?
Answer Me!
Give light to my eyes or I shall
die.
The after a long pause the Psalmist continues.
I trust in your steadfast love.
My heart shall rejoice in your
salvation.
I will sing to the Lord.
For
the Psalmist the pause did cease quickly. Sometimes there is a need to “Rage
against the dying of the light.” The uniqueness found in the Psalms of Lament is
the rage of the poet against God. Something horrific has happened. The poet
believed the tragedy could have been avoided if God had not been absent. Remember
the story of Lazarus? When Lazarus died and Jesus finally showed up Martha
screamed, “Where were you? My brother would not have died if you had been
here.”
Psalms
of Lament were not written by a person with a shallow faith. The poet has a
deep resounding belief that when she enters “The valley of the shadow of death”
the presence of God will be with her. When the poet feels deserted …… betrayed
….. vile words of anger gush forth. “Where were you” is not a question. It is
an accusation addressing God’s irresponsible absence.
Then
there is silence as we wait until hell itself freezes over for a response.
Eventually the angst begins to cool, the anger begins to withdraw, and our
vision begins to return. We extend our hands toward the source of our salvation
placing our fingers on the keys of life itself. Quietly, ever so quietly, we
hear ourselves begin to sing,
Hear my cry, hear my call,
Hold my hand, lest I fall,
Take my hand, precious Lord,
Lead me home.
Amen
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