August 26, 2007 - Pentecost 13, Year C
Saint James Episcopal Church, Saint James, NY

It's one of those scenes
that you wouldn't believe
if you hadn't seen it.
People standing in the street,
some wearing hospital masks
to protect them from the dust
that was still rising, three days after
an enormous earthquake destroyed much of the town of Pisco
in Peru.
They stood beside the ruins of a church that was the single deadliest place in that earthquake, the Cathedral of San Clemente.
About 200 people were inside at a funeral
on Wednesday evening a week ago,
when the earthquake struck and the roof and walls began to crumble. More than 90 were killed, some buried up to 6 feet deep amid the rubble.
But Sunday morning they were back,
worshiping in a makeshift church made of twenty two plastic chairs and some candles,
a Christ statue strapped to a tree
and beside it a statue of the Virgin Mary.
Two of the priests were killed;
three survived.
And the ruins were still yielding up the dead.

The church's schedule of Masses
has continued as normal,
sometimes in the plaza, sometimes in a makeshift medical clinic,
sometimes down a side street.
And the people come,
they come to pray, they come to worship, the come to adore
their Savior.

I don't know
if I would be there
if that had happened to me.

My instinct
would be to hide, to go as far as I could from that place of death
especially if the earth
was still trembling
as it was
last Sunday.
I'm not convinced
that I'd be one of those
ensuring that the schedule of services
went on uninterrupted.
Nor that I would have the quiet faith
to continue at prayer,
rather than rage and turn my back
against God.
But there they stood, hands clasped
eyes raised to heaven.

It seems as though
maybe they have read the psalm that we read
today.
A psalm that seems all very well in theory, but unlikely
in practice.
It's one thing to read the words
God is our refuge and strength,
a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth be moved,
and though the mountains be toppled into the depths of the sea;
It's another thing to actually believe it, actually live it.
To say, in the middle of a natural disaster,
in spite of all this
I believe that God is with us. I believe
that God will help us. I believe.
And to keep praying, keep trusting,
as the coffins mount up
and the extent of the devastation
is revealed.
Those people in Peru,
worshiping beside their ruined cathedral,
they are living
this psalm.

And yet, and yet I have to wonder.
It almost seems
as if this psalm offers a false sense of security, a misplaced confidence.
Because tragedy happens,
and it seems nothing, not even God
will protect us.
Maybe God could,
but God doesn't
intervene.
This psalm seems to have
a "glass is half full" mentality —
which is fine if the glass really is half full,
but what if
it's empty?
Isn't there a time to rage at God, to scream,
maybe even
to disbelieve?

In the tradition of the psalms
the answer is yes.
Not all the psalms
are as calm, as overtly trusting
as Psalm 46.
Many, many others
are psalms of lament,
psalms that question God.
How long, they ask, how long
must I be in pain? How long will you stay hidden, God? How long
must my enemies triumph?
Why, O God, why do you seem so far away? Why
have you abandoned us? Why are you hidden from me?

If we take the psalms as our guide,
there is clearly a time to rage at God.
There are times of crisis in our lives,
not just natural disasters,
but those of human making as well,
when every part of us
seems to be consumed
with anger and grief,
where it's all we can do
not to shout at everything and anything.
And at those times
we have a choice:
to bottle it all up inside,
keeping that anger inside
and risking that it
will turn sour and poison us,
risking that the effort of holding it in
will create an impenetrable barrier around us
and destroy our relationships.
Or we can let it fly out.
Of course, letting it fly out
can be equally damaging
when we let it out at the wrong person
or do something stupid
because we're angry.
But the psalms offer us a third way,
to let it fly out
at God.
To shout and scream and rage at God
at the suffering we experience,
to place upon God
the burden of our suffering.
That's what the people of God have done
for thousands of years,
raged at God
using the words of the psalms.
That's what Jesus did
as he hung on the cross,
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

It's what I've done, over the years. Shouted and screamed at God
when things went bad
and I couldn't make sense
of it all.
One of the raging, screaming psalms that has meant the most to me over the years
is Psalm 42.

I say to God, my rock,
‘Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I walk about mournfully
because the enemy oppresses me?'
As with a deadly wound in my body,
my adversaries taunt me,
while they say to me continually,
‘Where is your God?'

I remember singing it
over and over and over again
when I was a teenager
and my parents divorced.
Why, God, why?

And it's given me voice
time and time again
over the years.

Raging against God, screaming, questioning,
all of that is our natural response
to suffering.
And it's not a sign of unbelief
but of faith, of faith
and trust.
Because somewhere, deep within, when we rage and scream
we're acknowledging
that God exists
we're acknowledging
that God
might indeed
have something to do
with our lives.

But there are times of suffering
before the raging begins,
when we are still in shock,
and after the raging has ceased
and we feel empty
and lost.
And the prayer of psalm 46
is a prayer for those times.

It's the prayer of the person
who is numb
and holds onto the only lifeline they have
the only thing
that it constant in their life,
God.
God is our refuge and strength,
a very present help in trouble.

And it's the prayer of the person
who is done with their raging and screaming
done with it, at least for now
and doesn't know what else to say
or where to begin.
God is our refuge and strength,
a very present help in trouble.

If you read the New York Times yesterday
you'll know
that the people of Pisco
and not as quiet as they seemed last Sunday.
Then, still in shock, they clung to the only thing left to them,
their faith in God.
And so they prayed, and worshiped.
This week, the rage has caught up with them, and they are asking questions, demanding answers
from the government, as to why the rescue effort took so long,
why so little has been done for them,
and, I imagine, they are demanding answers
from God.
And as they rage, their faith will once again give them words.
And then, when the anger dies down some,
and they are left
wondering how it is
that they can begin life again,
then too
the psalms will give them voice.
God is our refuge and strength,
a very present help in trouble.

And they are words not only for those who survived the earthquake in Pisco,
but for the families of the miners in Utah,
and the people of the midwest who have lost everything
in floods,
and for the families
of all who mourn,
and for each one of us
when our lives crumble
and we struggle to know
how to go ahead.
God is our refuge and strength,
a very present help in trouble.
And whatever happens, whatever happens
God, the Lord of hosts, is with us.
Amen.

©Raewynne J.Whiteley, 2007