This has been a brutal week:  racist murders, terrorist beheadings, tourists gunned down, hate mail, and another brother forced to resign from his ministry.  It was the mail, and my grief over what this brother and his family are going through, that prompted this psalm, a cry from my own fractured soul–and a glimpse at the hope that gets us through another day.  I dedicate it to those friends who understand what the good news is, and show it at times like these.

A Psalm of the Hated

 

It isn’t about my performance.

It never was, never will be.

The lie is there every day,

Sniping, casting doubt, veiled threats, boogeyman curses,

the spectre of a god who cares more about punishing the oppressed

than speaking good news.

 

But there you are washing my feet,

catching my eye across the courtyard,

escorting this dying thief into Paradise.

 

The world sneers at humble efforts to follow your footprints

then snarls sanctimoniously when I fall on my face:

“He’s no follower.  Look, he can’t even stay upright!”

Bloody, injured and insulted, I turn my head.

There you are, bleeding beside me,

hearing the hate I hear, feeling the rejection I feel.

 

Another crowd is watching.

Most of them are timid, frightened,

afraid to get too close,

nursing their own wounds.

Those I look to for help

point their fingers and hiss:

“He did it wrong.  See the failure?

Come, see the failure and hold him accountable!

Cast your stones carefully, with tough love.

Brand him with a scarlet letter.

Don’t accept him until he thanks you

for wounding him so intently.

Of course, he won’t thank you properly,

So you need never accept him at all.”

It is their ritual to shoot the wounded.

 

The thief rasps.  “Don’t they fear God?

We deserve this.  Yet the man of sorrows isn’t among them.

He is here receiving their darts alongside us.”

And I see that it is true.

When I am most despised

you’re not in that crowd.

You’re covering me,

taking all the bruises upon your bleeding back.

I am in remarkable company—

not because of what I have done, but because of what you have.

 

The crowd is not static.

Figures gently emerge from the mob.

An arm cradles my head, and it feels like your arm.

A hand raises a cup to my lips, and it moves like your hand.

A face looks into mine and smiles, and it looks like your smile.

A voice speaks a gracious word, and it sounds like your voice.

 

Even as the gentle figures raise me,

holding my arm as I resume my staggering walk,

the hateful hissing begins again.

Once more I stumble.

As my heart sinks I hear your voice:

“They hated me first.

Come on.  I am taking you somewhere.

It isn’t about your performance.

It never was.”

 

 

David Shelley

June 24, 2015

 

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