Noticing Contrasts
I once spent a year in the southern hemisphere, and it turned my theology upside down. Well, not my theology per sey, but my sense of the Christian year and how it felt in my body and spirit. Through this change in geography, I suddenly became aware of the larger context in which I had been interpreting the Christian year due to my surroundings.
In the southern hemisphere, Jesus, at Christmas, was not a baby born in defiance of the darkest nights of the year “in the bleak mid-winter.” He was, instead, new life amidst a throng of new life breaking forth all around. In a similar juxtaposition, the Lenten journey toward Christ’s passion and resurrection in the southern hemisphere was a journey into deeper darkness as the days around grew shorter. Lent in Fall, moving toward winter, was a discipline of dying to self as creation itself was dying and falling into the decay of winter dormancy. The resurrection would occur, entirely unlikely and unexpected in the darkest of early morning vigils. In contrast, the Lent to which I was accustomed was sustained by the slowly lengthening days and the signs of creation nudging us toward the idea that life would emerge despite the killing impact of a cold, harsh winter.
This disorientation in place reminded me how much I find comfort in contrasts. Being in a new space helped me see these familiar patterns with new eyes.
Noticing contrasts guards against my tendency toward totalizing narratives. Does that happen to you? Do you feel as though the season you are currently in is the only one that will ever be? Today’s reading from the Psalms invites us out of totalizing narratives to remember and notice the undulating rhythms of grace that mark our lives. This disciplined litany of contrast is a tutor in the art of noticing.
The Psalmist encourages us to give thanks to the Lord, for God is good, and God’s love endures forever. This is not just an admonishment to be grateful and look on the sunny side of things. The redeemed of the Lord are encouraged to notice the rhythms of their story. This story has both deep distress and a God who listens and responds in love. In the familiarity of the present moment, the Psalmist calls the reader to remember another reality, and in light of the contrast to give thanks.
Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;
his love endures forever.
Let the redeemed of the Lord tell their story—
those he redeemed from the hand of the foe,
those he gathered from the lands,
from east and west, from north and south.
Some wandered in desert wastelands,
finding no way to a city where they could settle.
They were hungry and thirsty,
and their lives ebbed away.
Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble,
and he delivered them from their distress.
He led them by a straight way
to a city where they could settle.
Let them give thanks to the Lord for his unfailing love
and his wonderful deeds for mankind,
for he satisfies the thirsty
and fills the hungry with good things.
Some sat in darkness, in utter darkness,
prisoners suffering in iron chains,
because they rebelled against God’s commands
and despised the plans of the Most High.
So he subjected them to bitter labor;
they stumbled, and there was no one to help.
Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble,
and he saved them from their distress.
He brought them out of darkness, the utter darkness,
and broke away their chains.
Let them give thanks to the Lord for his unfailing love
and his wonderful deeds for mankind,
for he breaks down gates of bronze
and cuts through bars of iron.
I don’t know about you, but I have had a harder time observing Lent since the pandemic. It’s not just the pandemic; there are things in the world that are hard and heavy, and in many ways, it feels like the weight that settled in with the heaviness of pandemic realities hasn’t really lifted like we all hoped and expected.
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