Selective Memory

More and more, I’m realizing that the things I remember and the things I forget aren’t just coincidences.

A few weeks ago, Psalm 23 was one of the readings assigned by the Revised Common Lectionary–the schedule of Old Testament, Psalm, New Testament, and Gospel readings that most all Lutheran, Anglican, and Roman Catholic churches use to plan their Sunday services.  The 23rd psalm was one of the first bits of Scripture I memorized; it’s long-since become so familiar to me as to sometimes feel calloused–overused.  I no longer turn to it for comfort or for inspiration, I’ve let it grow cold and unfamiliar in my mind and heart the last decade.

Saying it with a hospital patient this week, I stumbled in the middle, suddenly unable to recall the next verse; I skipped on to the next bit I could recall, and we finished strong, but I wondered what the little phrase was that I’d forgotten.  I looked it up.

It was verse 3: “He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.” (KJV)

More than believing that I’m not alone in the valley of the shadow of death, or that goodness and mercy shall follow me, I wonder that God binds up and brings back our souls to health.  God promises to restore our souls, to upright the fallen, spilled, perhaps broken, vase of our lives, and to put it back where it belongs (we may not even know or remember where it belongs, exactly, but I suspect that if we ever get there–“restored”–we’ll know).

Psalm 102

“a prayer of one afflicted, when faint and pleading before the Lord.” (prescript NRSV)

Psalms offer words for us to pray when we have none. They offer language for us to use when we’re not quite sure what to say, and are perhaps feeling empty or exhausted (or jubilant! or overflowing!). Psalm 102 offers a narrative: the first half describes in painful, vivid detail the condition of the supplicant, “my bones burn” (v. 3), “I lie awake. I am like a lonely bird on the housetop” (v.7), “I… mingle tears with my drink” (v.9). The last few verses move toward hope–recognizing that God remains no matter what circumstances may prevail in the life of the author (or pray-er) and their environment. Not only does God remain no matter what, but he promises rescue, redemption, resurrection, and blessing.

Jerusalem and Zion loom large in this psalm (“You will rise up and have compassion on Zion” v. 13; “For the LORD will build up Zion” v.16; v. 21); how do they reveal what God promises and what he’s doing? Jerusalem and Zion are the Promised Land–even when God’s people are in exile and diaspora, these places are held up as the site to which we will one day return. They are sort of like Heaven–they’re the place at the end of time where all things will be put in order again. So this psalm has a very long view–waiting for God to bring restoration to His people; they wait for peace and for the rebuilding of their true home.

There are sometimes geographical places, and chronological moments in time in our lives that give us a little taste or feeling of what this kind of togetherness and homeyness might be like. For me, that place is Durham, North Carolina.


I went there this past week to witness a friend’s ordination (see yesterday’s post), and while I was there, I drove around in circles to visit all my dear old familiar places. I drove around to see and be in the midst of everyday places–not even “dear old” ones, but that one stoplight that takes 2 minutes to turn (I’ve timed it with eager soccer & ballet class attendees in my backseat), and that stretch of road I’ve driven thousands of times to get downtown or to get to the mall. I remember thinking to myself, “man, these lucky trees! they LIVE here their whole lives!” (how silly I get, driving down the highway…)

One of the verses of Psalm 102 spoke deeply to me on my visit. In the NRSV, it goes, “for your servants hold (Zion’)s stones dear, and have pity on its dust.” (v.14) The 1979 Book of Common Prayer renders it, “for your servants love her very rubble.” The BCP version alludes to the destructed state of the Promised Land, but both get at the feeling that even the dirt and the bricks and the trees of a place might bring one to awe and silence at their precious place in your life.

What places or experiences have felt to you like a “thin spot” or a glimpse or fleeting feeling of Heaven and Home?