The Most Annoying Prayer

Some fragmented thoughts on Psalm 34

Thursday, May 6
Grand Rapids, Michigan

Hello, dear reader.

It’s been a hell of a week. My heart has been heavy, my mind preoccupied, my writing too slow. So I don’t have much for you, I’m afraid. But I did lead prayers for a lovely group of people the other day, and in preparation, I spent some time with Psalm 34.

Of all the ancient Jewish prayers, Psalm 34 must be one of the most absurd. “I will bless the Lord at all times,” the first line says. “God’s praise shall be ever in my mouth.” Are you serious? At all times? Ha. Newsflash: I do not feel like blessing the Lord at all times. Not while I’m trying to kill the fungus gnats that are plaguing my pepper seedlings. Not when I’m remembering the anniversary of a dear friend’s death. Not during my personal pity parties.

That first line of the psalm is so utterly annoying, like something that might come out of my spiritual director’s mouth—because while it’s annoying, it’s also true. By “true,” I don’t mean the most common definition; that would be a lie, as I’ve already made clear. By “true,” I mean that it reflects a kind of faithfulness, a sort of disciplined loyalty that I aspire to. By “true,” I mean that those unrealistic words align me with what I want my reality to be. By “true,” I mean that this ancient confession of faith compels me to sit quietly for a moment, stilling my whines and complaints, and reflecting on the bigger picture.

A couple lines later, the psalmist says: “O magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt God’s name together.” My pity parties are almost always parties of one. When I am reminded of Tristan and Fozzie, of beloved friends, of my family, of communities of faith, of my spiritual ancestors, I remember that together, we can sometimes do things that, alone, we can’t. Together, we can often hold onto hope in a way that, alone, we don’t have the strength or resolve to. Together, we’re better off than we are apart. 

A picture of Fozzie, because why not?

Then, two lines after that, the psalmist says: “Look to God, and be radiant; so your faces shall never be ashamed.” Nobody who truly knows me will ever say that I am living sunshine—the embodiment of sweetness and light; I keep a stuffed Eeyore on the bookshelf beyond my desk, because if I had a patronus, it would probably be him. I think the point is that our radiance is not self-generated but divinely given. If we shine, it’s because the refracted glory of God shines through us—incomplete but evident, partial but nonetheless there.

So that’s where I am. I’m trying to hold onto the glimmers of God’s goodness, whether it’s in the beauty of the blossoming redbud in our next-door neighbor’s yard or Fozzie’s contented grumbles, Tristan’s generous hugs or the memory of a loving friendship that endures beyond bodily death, a text message of encouragement that arrives when it’s most needed or an unexpected sprout where nothing seemed to be growing. I’m doing my best: I’m reciting the opening line of the psalm even when it feels much more aspiration than it does reality.

The redbud next door. It’s not ugly.

I will bless the Lord at all times. God’s praise shall be ever in my mouth.

May it be so for you, too, friends. 

In closing, I offer to you the same blessing I gave on Wednesday to my prayer group:  Go in strength and go in peace. Go to love and to serve, to remember the grace of the air in your lungs and to know the glory of the sunshine on your skin, to shine in your God-given radiance and to bless the world with good news. Thanks be to God.

As always, I’m so glad we can stumble through all this together, and I’ll try to write again soon. Maybe next week, I’ll go back to the regular format. Thanks, as always, for your grace.

Much love,
Jeff