A Religion of Complaint
Psalm 26
Proper 22B
October 7, 2012
Proper 22B
October 7, 2012
Rev. John M. Caldwell, PhD
First United Methodist Church
Decorah, IA
First United Methodist Church
Decorah, IA
I was disappointed
to learn that the flush toilet was not invented by Thomas Crapper as I
had long thought. The first patent for
the flushing toilet was taken out by Edward Jennings in 1852. Crapper did hold three patents for various
improvements to the design. His real
contribution to plumbing was in merchandizing.
Crapper was the first person to assemble showcases for plumbing
fixtures, a daring thing to do during the Victorian Era when table legs were
covered to prevent anyone from getting a glimpse of a bare leg.
I am grateful to
whoever invented the flush toilet. I
have known people who grew up using outhouses.
I have never known anyone who remembered the experience fondly.
There have been
refinements since Jennings’s day, including those introduced by Crapper
himself, but the basic idea has remained unchanged. The heart of the system is the tank. There is a drain valve that holds the water
in the tank until the toilet is flushed.
The tank empties and the drain valve closes—or at least it’s supposed
to, on which more in a moment. A fill
valve opens to refill the tank and, when the tank has filled to right level, the
fill valve closes and it’s ready for the next customer. The idea of using a float on the end of a rod
to sense the water level and shut the valve is one of Crapper’s ideas.
The trouble with the
whole thing is that it often does not work as advertized. The two principal sources of trouble are the
two valves. Most of the time when a
toilet isn’t working correctly, it’s because the valve that keeps the tank full
doesn’t seat correctly. The tank stays
empty, so the fill valve continues to remain open. One fix for this condition is to replace the
valve, but I have noticed that they often fail.
The fact that there are two or three designs for the drain valve suggests
that there isn’t a permanent solution for this problem. Another fix goes by the technical phrase:
“jiggle the handle.”
But I have noticed
that the willingness to use this simple adjustment in technique tends to be
structured along gender lines. The women
in my life have tended to regard a toilet that doesn’t shut off as having a
flaw, a flaw that could be fixed, or, to put it more precisely, a flaw that I
could fix. I tend to regard a running
toilet as the victim of operator error, requiring an adjustment in technique.
Now, believe it or
not, I have said all of this for a reason—beyond giving myself an excuse to say
“Crapper” in church. And the reasons
have something to do with the Psalms. But
before I get to that, let me push my toilet analysis just a little
further. A toilet is a piece of
technology. It embodies in porcelain and
bits of metal, plastic and rubber a notion that we can control our world. A toilet is sanitary, relatively odor-free, and
spares us a dash to an outhouse in the dead of night in the middle of a snow
storm. Best of all it deals with our
waste so that we are not required to give it much thought.
Like a toilet, all
technology is supposed to simplify our lives.
If we do certain simple things, like pushing a handle, it will reliably
do other things, like removing the waste, and preparing itself for the next
operation, without the drudgery, the thought, or toil that would be required
otherwise. This frees us to do other
more useful things, things like sending a text message to vote for our favorite
contestant on Dancing with the Stars.
When a toilet
doesn’t work, my assumption is that either my technique is wrong or that the
toilet is broken. My suspicion is that
this is common among men. When a toilet
doesn’t work the women in my life have tended to regard the failure as
relational. That is to say that the
problem is not really in the toilet; the problem is in the relationship with
the man who has a wrench and can speak “hardware” if parts are needed. A working toilet is part of my covenant
obligation. If the toilet breaks, that’s
the toilet’s fault. If it stays
broken, it is on account of my covenant failure, and it is my covenant failure
that will be addressed.
Now for the
connection with the Psalms. In a culture
and economy so driven by technology it should not be surprising if we regard
God and religion as parts of a technological system. We should not be shocked that we are deeply
convinced that if we only we use the proper technique, the system will give us
what we want: peace of mind even when we are implicated in great guilt; wealth
even in a system that favors those who already have it; healing for our loved
ones even if they have fallen into the hands of a system that is more
interested in profits than in outcomes; and, safety for our sons and daughters,
husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, even as they go into combat where bits
of flying metal will be entirely uncaring about who or what they hit. If we pray and we do not get what we have
asked for, then we conclude that there is something wrong with the technology or
with our technique.
I think this partly
explains why some kinds of religion are so attractive. They provide assurances that they have the
best technology and the correct technique so that religion will yield the
hoped-for outcomes.
The psalmist knows
better. The psalmist knows that when
human life ceases to be humane and just, that does not mean that her technique
is wrong. She does not go about
adjusting herself to the unfairness of life, performing the inner equivalent of
jiggling the handle. Still less does she
shop around for a different God, having concluded that hers is broken. No, instead she regards her crisis as a
crisis in the covenant.
Part of the power of
the Psalms lies in the fact that, although the language of the Psalms is
concrete and vivid, they themselves are rather unspecific. Take our psalm for the morning. If we take the first few verses as a clue, we
can reasonably assume that the psalmist’s integrity has been challenged. She asks for vindication from God on the
grounds of her integrity and her unwavering trust in God. She even asks to be put to the test. She is confident that she will pass.
If we press on just
a little further the references to the worthless (literally “the empty men”), hypocrites,
evildoers, the wicked,[1] sinners, the bloodthirsty and the
corrupt[2] suggest that some enemies are
involved. We might conclude that some
bad people have been saying bad things about the psalmist. Her reputation has been attacked and she
finds herself with no way to defend herself.
That’s about as much
as we can guess about the psalmist’s situation, but that’s enough, really. Who hasn’t faced something similar? The other kids make fun of us on the
playground and whisper about us in the lunchroom. The gossip at the office stops as soon as we
come into room and resumes as soon as we leave.
Some of us have even encountered this at church where you’d think it
would be different: people we had thought were our friends have begun to seem
awkward whenever we’re around them.
The psalmist might
take up this issue directly with the adversaries. Perhaps she has. At the point at which this psalm comes to
speech, though, the issue is no longer primarily with bad people saying bad
things. The issue is now between her and
Yahweh, the covenant God of Israel. It’s
clear what she wants. It’s in all those
imperative verbs that she addresses to God: “vindicate me,” “prove me,” “test
[me],” “redeem me,” and “be gracious to me.”[3]
Her adversaries have
acted. Her response is to appeal to
Yahweh. Now Yahweh must act. This request has not yet risen to the level
of a complaint, but my suspicion is that it will if she does not hear from
Yahweh within a couple of business days or so.
She has made it very clear that, as she understands the covenant, it is
God who must act on her behalf.
She has done her
part. She has avoided the company of those
who do not keep covenant with God faithfully.
This doesn’t mean that she walks around with her nose in the air or
refuses to behave lovingly toward those with whom she disagrees. She just knows that we are all shaped by our
primary relationships. She doesn’t want
to be shaped away from that most important relationship of all: her
relationship with the covenant God of Israel.
She has instead made
it a point to be a part of the company of those who attend to God in the
temple. This psalm like many has a high
regard for the Jerusalem temple, the psalmist regards the temple as a
privileged place for encountering God. We
can smile at her naiveté. We know that
God doesn’t “live in” the temple or any other building, including this
one. At the same time, though, the
psalmist knows that nothing can replace the liturgical solidarity with other
Yahweh worshipers that only corporate worship can contain and express. Her relationship with God is not unique; she
is part of covenant community. She will
worship God in a public way.
There is something
fitting about this. Bad people have been
whispering bad things about her in private.
She will publically process around the altar. She will sing a song of thanksgiving right
out loud in front of God and everybody. She
will tell of the saving ways in which God has already acted. A little detail is telling, I think. Verse seven begins “singing aloud,” but the
verb form is actually causative. It
would be awkward English, but it would be closer to the Hebrew to translate
this participle as “causing to be heard.”
She won’t just sing out loud; she will be heard singing. She will be relentlessly public about her
confidence in God’s trustworthiness.
That’s the most
important thing. In the midst of her
suffering at the hands of her enemies, she has focused on God’s peculiar and
particular quality of steadfast covenant love.
This is rhetoric of
course. She lays out her case before
God. She is innocent. She has been the faithful Yahweh-worshiper that
she has appeared to be. She has nothing
to conceal. Those arrayed against her
are worthless hypocrites, wicked evildoers, bloodthirsty and corrupt
sinners. Given those choices, of course
God will choose her over her enemies.
And God is just the
sort of God who will indeed take notice of her plight, who will hear her case, and
who will act. God is trustworthy; she is
witness to God’s steadfast covenant love; God will act in ways that are
consistent with the ways in which God has always acted. God will be gracious because that is who God is. God will redeem and vindicate because that is
what God does.
It’s all rhetoric, but
rhetoric is not a bad thing. Why
shouldn’t the psalmist make as persuasive a case as possible? After all, at bottom, what that means is that
she regards God as able to be persuaded, which is another way of saying that
she regards God as faithful to the covenant and willing to be held to account
within the bonds of the covenant.
What happened to her
prayer? Was it answered? I don’t know.
None of this is a technology. She
and we are dealing with a person, a person with freedom, a person who is bound
to us in covenant, but remains free, just as we do. I believe though that I can guess about a
couple of possible outcomes. If God
vindicated her, proved and tested her, graciously redeemed her, as she insisted
that God do, she would have been found “in the great congregation” giving
blessing to the covenant God of Israel. If
not I suspect that she would have more to say to the covenant God of
Israel. Then, I think, we would discover
more of what a religion of complaint looks like.
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