Devotionals/Sunday Psalms – Page 31

I Will Yet Praise Him

Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God. Psalm 42: 5, 11 and 43:5

Three times in these two Psalms, the writer admonishes himself. In D. Martin Lloyd-Jones book, Spiritual Depression, which I read years ago when I fought serious depression, he references these verses as he talks about “taking ourselves in hand.” That’s the phrase I recalled as I slogged through July.

In previous years, it was a revelation that I didn’t have to let myself live in what I felt. I could, to some extent,”take myself in hand,” and step outside it, into more objectivity.

When we’re seriously depressed, though, there’s no objectivity. We see only what’s right in front of us. Our perspective narrows. But the blahs come in several shades of gray. And my July experience, rather than the nighttime of severe depression, was about the color of our house–a pewter hue of slowed-downness.

One of the secrets of coping with feeling down is not to shame oneself for it. That down mood is our cue to ask for insight and wisdom from our Father-God who loves to give us what we need. We need to know what’s feeding the depression so we can pray more effectively.

I don’t know all that burdened me those weeks. (Even therapists don’t always make sense of their own issues.) Jerry’s cancer, my extra few pounds, feeling professionally stymied, all contributed. I assume Satan had a hand in it.

Whatever. Under stress, I’m prone to depression. We all have our weaknesses. Unlike some other periods of my life, I got out of bed every day. I cooked and did my usual duties. But I read a lot, wasn’t creative, and praise required choice.

I chose to remind myself, daily, that my hope is in Jesus. Not ministry, or a healthy husband, or weighing what I weighed in high school.

When we cannot muster deep-hearted praise, it’s time to remind ourselves that we will again. God will bring us back. He will bring us out. Jesus promises his peace.

Jesus, thank you for all the times you’ve carried us through. Meet us again, today, with your truth and your smile.

Keeping Company

“Audience, audience, audience.” That’s what Dr. Morris at Parkland Junior College repeated in the Creative Non-Fiction class I took in spring, 2005. “Who is your audience? Are you writing for teenagers, Christians, Midwesterners, Asians, baby boomers, tattoo artists, working class, white collar, atheists?”

“Who’s your client?” That’s what I learned in psychotherapy training. What’s on their mind when they walk through the door? Does the world feel safe or scary? What have they tried to solve their problems before they sat in your chair? What’s their educational and social background? What are their deepest beliefs about themselves, others, life, and ultimate reality? Imagine yourself in their place.

“Who are you talking to?” It’s what I try to remember in everyday life. How’s their day been? What are they feeling–tired, scared, happy, sad, angry, lonely? How’s their family? What small word or gesture might help them bear their load? Or, if they’re rejoicing, how can I join with them?

Whether we write or do psychotherapy or talk to neighbors, friends, and acquaintances, we fulfill Jesus’ command to love each other (John 13:34) when we put ourselves in the other person’s place. Discerning the recipient’s perspective allows us to join them in their space. Love means being company for each other through this fallen world.

God set the agenda when he came to be company for us, in Jesus. He put himself in our place. He knows his audience and sends his messages in words we can understand. “Come to me.” “Trust me.” “Watch for me.”

Jesus, thank you for knowing each one of us. Thank you for your empathy. Thank you for simple words that we can receive. More, Lord. More.

Heavy Fellowship

“Take up your cross and follow me,” Jesus says. Three of the four gospel writers record this statement, Matthew twice. (Mark 8:34, Luke 9:23, Matthew 10:38 and 16:24) What does he mean? Growing up on the farm fifty years ago, a neighbor referred to her husband as her “cross to bear.” He didn’t go to church with her, but I don’t think he beat her. To my nine-year-old self, he seemed okay.

I haven’t heard that phrase lately. Not even in church. Certainly not in Atlantic Monthly or O Magazine. Twenty-first century Americans don’t like to hear of bearing crosses. We’d be more likely to divorce the bum.

We follow our own north star. We find our bliss. At least, that’s the advice, applicable, of course, only to those of us still working and living in our own houses.

The first century Roman cross was the instrument of capital punishment, meant to kill slowly, with great humiliation. Wikipedia describes the horrors.

What, exactly, did we sign up for when we signed up with Jesus? What kind of gruesome call is the call to carry our own cross? I much prefer finding my bliss.

And yet, we all know what he’s talking about. The cross that Jesus carried was made heavy by sin. Not his own, but ours: sins of violence and self-absorption, of neglect and narcissism.

And isn’t that what our cross is also made of? Unlike Jesus, our cross is also weighed down by those unavoidable consequences of our own sin. Like Jesus, though, our cross includes the consequences of others’ sin against us.

If you’re a married survivor of sexual abuse, you’ve know the price you’ve paid for your perpetrator’s sin. If you’re the sister of a murdered sibling, you ache with that deprivation. If you’ve watched a child self-destruct, you, too, are carrying a cross.

Jesus carried and died on that Roman cross, for the “joy set before him.” (Hebrews 12:2) And so it is for us. Carrying our crosses in fellowship with him, we thank him for the sure hope of sharing that joy.

Jesus, please give us grace today to take up our cross, with hope.