October 7, 2007
Psalm 137
If We Forget
I had recommended to the young couple that they
reconsider the idea. They had planned an
outdoor setting for their wedding and had carefully thought their way through
from where the various attendants would process, exactly how much music would
need to be recorded, and what actions would take place during which song. But it was the unity candle I was concerned
about – the unity candle which, as you recall, actually involves three
candles.
As is often the plan, the
mothers were to light the two side candles at the beginning of the service, and
later, after the vows and the exchange of rings, the bride and groom would use
those two lighted candles to ignite the larger, central candle. The ritual action is intended to graphically
represent with flames what is implicitly occurring with the people: two individuals, from separate places and
different families; two individuals whose priorities and accountabilities have,
heretofore, been their own now creating something bright and alive between
them. It is to be a covenanted union
built on romance, to be sure, but even more importantly on the promise
of fidelity
and mutuality
that undergird it. The “I”
remains, but it is now joined in equal intensity and guiding importance by a “we.”
It
is a powerful comprehension that lies at the core of what it means to be
married, and while there are no doubt many ways to dramatically represent it,
candles are as good as any. My concern,
I suspect you can already anticipate, was that they were planning to do all
this outdoors. The “outdoors” usually
involves some measure of breeze, and candles and breezes just typically don't
come together in a very satisfying way.
“Have you thought about the wind?” I tried to gently ask. A blown out unity candle, after all, rather
makes for a negative symbol, it seemed to me.
But
I began to get the idea that the candles were less about “symbol” than they
were about decoration and ceremonial drama.
The unity candle, in other words, had become, in the thinking of these
two, just one of those things you are “supposed to do” in the course of a
wedding -- like ending with a kiss and throwing the bouquet at the
reception. What the candles are supposed
to be “about” was less significant than just having them
included. “Never mind the wind. We are having a wedding!”
And
“have a wedding” we did – outdoors, with candles that remained lit about as
long as it took the mothers to be seated after lighting them.
But
the unity candle is not the only symbolic element of weddings whose substance I
worry gets too often forgotten. The
wedding ring, I fear, is too often simply a gift of jewelry rather than the
constant reminder, in the thick as well as the thin of married life, of a love
that is willed and not merely felt; of promises made and publicly – even
divinely – attested.
The truth is, as a pastor
I have come to have something of a love/hate relationship with weddings. Don't get me wrong; I'm in favor of
them. But I loathe officiating at those
whose motions are perfunctory; whose actions are ceremonial; and whose values
are principally aesthetic – where the most important questions are “Is the
aisle runner straight?” and “Do the flowers match the bridesmaids' dresses” and
“Does the gown appropriately highlight the bride's tattoo?” You know:
the really important stuff.
They
aren't all like that, of course. I have
participated in many wonderful nuptials – more than once getting choked up from
the emotional and spiritual power of what was taking place between two people
only inches away from me; often swelling with the joy of happy promises and the
deep affection positively sparking the air in the chancel or the living room or
the park. But there have also been those
times I've wanted to turn around and simply leave out the back door – or worse,
throw up at the hollow trivialization of the ceremony that as far as those
gathered were concerned merely represented the necessary perfunctories to get
out of the way before the party could begin.
The
problem certainly isn't confined to weddings.
How many people in the football stadiums on Friday night or Saturday
afternoon gave much thought to the words they may or may not have been singing
when they stood for the National Anthem?
Assuming you can remember the words to the Pledge of Allegiance, have you
given much thought to them lately – beyond the two controversial ones, “under
God”? Or when we are singing Amazing
Grace, are we simply singing a favorite, traditional song, or are we, indeed,
humbly professing our gratitude for a love beyond our imagining, let alone our
deserving?
In
all these examples, just to ask it more succinctly, are we performing something
that has two dimensions, or three? Or to
lay my cards completely on the table, there is something important, I believe,
about remembering why we do certain things – remembering what's inside of the
familiar patterns and practices and words and songs.
It's
often true that we remember such values most dramatically when we see someone
abusing them – like burning a flag or spray-painting a swastika on the wall of
the synagogue – or simply appropriating them with disregard, as just another
souvenir. Think Native American
artifacts or team mascots; think cross necklaces or cartoons of the prophet
Mohammad. They are not just stones and
strings and words and shapes, after all; they aren't mere lines on a page – at
least for those who hold them as somehow sacred. For them they are windows into meaning and
identity, memory and experience, history and even heaven, itself; and to walk
on them like garbage, or play with them as toys wounds the hearts of those who
hold them significant.
That
sort of wound lies at the heart of the Psalm we read together. The 137th is one of the few Psalms
that includes significant clues as to the historical setting in which it was
written. In 587 B.C.E., the Babylonian
army overran the city of Jerusalem, destroying the Temple and carrying into
exile many of the people of Israel. This
agonizing and eventually vengeful Psalm affords a glimpse into the spirit of
those exiled Jews. In the words of
Robert Alter’s new translation, the psalmist reports that:
By
Babylon's streams,
there we sat, oh we wept,
when we recalled Zion.
On
the poplars there
we hung up our lyres.
For
there our captors had asked of us
words of song.
And
our plunderers – rejoicing:
“Sing us from Zion's songs.” [1]
Think
of those songs as something like our hymns, and what it would feel like for
someone who neither knew nor respected our religious tradition – and only marginally
understood our language – to force us to sing them for their simple
amusement. Joyful, Joyful We Adore
Thee, while they stomped their feet, danced and clapped their hands; O
Sacred Head Now Wounded while they dealt their cards and swilled their
beer; Beautiful Savior or When
I Survey the Wondrous Cross while they fondled our wives and leered at our
children. For the Babylonians in the
Psalm they were simply delightful ditties; for the Hebrews forced to perform
them they were sacred songs that meant something special. To the Babylonians the songs were
entertainment; for the Hebrews they were prayer – trivialized by the
Babylonians' desire. [2]
How
can we sing a song of the Lord
on foreign soil?
Should
I forget you, Jerusalem,
may my right hand wither.
May
my tongue cleave to my palate
if I do not recall you.
Notice
how the self-invited curses related to forgetting are directly connected to the
refusal to sing: “for the right hand is
needed to pluck the lyre and the tongue to sing the song.” [3]
“Don't
ask us,” the Hebrews were implicitly saying to their captors, “to use our
worship for your simple entertainment.”
Or,
to bring the matter more directly to this table that occupies the central place
of honor in this particular room and on this particular day celebrated as
“World Communion Sunday”, “do not let us, God, say the words or go through the
motions without being mindful of all the grace and promise and presence they
represent.” If the importance of respect
for the religious sensibilities of others jumps out as a lesson from this
prayer – and it should – let it also underscore the importance of mindful
respect for our own.
Like
reciting the words of the Lord's Prayer, we do this deed so often – gathering
here every week, eating the bread, drinking the wine; chewing, swallowing,
going on our way. It's easy to make of
it “routine” – like shaving in the morning or putting on makeup; like making
coffee or filling the car with gas.
Habits, routines, perfunctory acts we accomplish mindlessly while in the
background the news anchors rehash for us the headlines.
It's
easy for it to become simple motions – an assemblage of words and deeds we
check off and move on to the next thing without so much as a thought...
♥
...of
how deep can be a love;
♥
...of
how awe-fully high the cost of forgiveness
♥
...of
how willingly the price is paid;
♥
...of
just how hardy that little morsel of bread can actually be; and O how sweet
that tiny taste of wine!
Should
I forget you, beautiful savior, and all your love has done;
Should
I forget not simply your love for me, but for all those within your embrace,
may my right hand wither.
May
my tongue cleave to my palate
if I somehow fail to remember.