If the Lord had not been on our side,
let Israel now say…

Thus begins Psalm 124, appointed for this coming Sunday.  It is a song of praise, of thanksgiving, to God for deliverance.  In the stories of the Old Testament, the Israelites were troubled by many enemies; their nation was conquered, carried away, delivered, brought back, and conquered again.  It is no wonder these men and women waited with great excitement and anticipation for the promised Messiah; over and over, they learned their own helplessness in the face of the powers of this world.

You may be surprised to learn that I can occasionally be a little bit stubborn.  Okay, so by occasionally I mean all the time, and by a little bit I mean a whole lot.  In my own story, I’ve noticed that the lessons I’ve had to learn over and over — like the children of Israel learning the lesson of their own helplessness — are the ones I never seem to completely get, to fully embrace… or the ones that I argue and rail and fight against, in my own stubborn and stiff-necked ways.  The lessons that I fight the hardest against, each time I encounter the lesson again, it becomes more difficult, more frustrating.  I refuse to admit the truth of the lesson to myself — I’m not helpless!  I’m in complete control here! — and I refuse even to admit it to God.

Flooding in the Conyers Nature Center, by jramspott

Every single one of us is helpless in the face of the powers of this world.  We do have some little power, some little control.  But we cannot change the thoughts and feelings of another, just as we cannot change the path of the weather.  Not one of us can prevent our enemies from rising up against us.  Not one of us can stop the flooding in the southeastern US, or the suffering it brings, though I’m sure every one of us would stop or prevent it if we could.  At the same time, none of us wants to admit this.  We have to be strong!  We have to be independent!  We have to be powerful!  We have to be capable and competent and in control!  Because if we’re not — if we are not all of these things — then what are we?  Lazy?  Incompetent?  Powerless?  Helpless?  Dependent?  Weak?

Our readings for Sunday give us some answers to this.  Beyond confirming that yes, individually we are weak and helpless and powerless, we hear three responses to our helplessness (if not to our stubbornness and pride).

The first response appears in the story of Esther — the only book in the canonical bible that does not refer to God.  Esther is a woman — weak, helpless, powerless in a society of males — and though she is a Jew, she is chosen by the Persian king to be his queen.  Esther’s adopted father Mordecai learned that one of the king’s closest advisers planned to destroy the Jews in the kingdom.  Mordecai is helpless, with no response to the power of this earthly king.  So he turns to Esther, and he places his trust in her.  He has done this once before, when he learned of a plot to assassinate the king.  And so now he does it again.  This first response to our helplessness is to trust.  Mordecai trusted in Esther to help the Jewish people; Esther, in turn, trusted in the king to save her people from death.

Queen Esther before King Ahasuerus, photo by Lawrence OP

We also see this response in the gospel, when Jesus tells us to trust those who work in his name: If they are not with us, they are for us. And the psalm concludes with a magnificent statement of trust:

Our help is in the Name of the LORD,
the maker of heaven and earth.

Trust, by Jean-François Chénier

We respond to our own helplessness and powerlessness with trust.  We trust in God, in God who formed us and breathed life into us, in God who has our names written on God’s hand, in God who loves us perfectly and without limit, in God who weeps when we do, in God who knows every single hair on our heads.  Who better is there for us to trust, than the One who created all there is, who established the rules of physics (including the parts we don’t understand), who invites us into deeper and deeper relationship with God?  And just as we trust in God, we trust in each other.  Our relationship with God leads us into relationship with each other; the love we receive from God manifests in the love we share with each other.  We’re all in the same boat; we all lack control over the powers of this world.

Trust doesn’t get us completely off the hook, though.  Trust doesn’t mean that we just let go of everything.  Oh, that’s someone else’s responsibility.  I trust them to do it. Ultimately, everything is God’s responsibility, and yet, at the same time, we are God’s hands and feet and eyes and ears in this world.  So we trust in God, and there is a further response for us, too.

This brings us to the second response to our helplessness, which also comes up in Esther’s story.   When Mordecai comes to Esther, giving her his trust, how will she respond?  Esther can’t contradict the king’s orders.  Esther does not have the power to arrest and charge Haman, who spearheaded this betrayal.  So Esther does what she can: she speaks up at the king’s banquet, asking her husband to save her people.  Esther does not have the power or the ability to do much, but she does what she can.  This action involved some risk to Esther, potentially embarrassing her powerful husband in front of his court and subjects, but she still did it.  And what Esther was able to do, this was enough to save her people.

So this is the first response to our helplessness: we need to do what we can, even though this may be risky.  The letter of James addresses this, too, in the context of a Christian congregation.  We may not be able to take away someone’s illness as though it had never been, but what we can do is pray, anoint them with oil, and help take care of them.

Healing at the Abbey (c.1915) (Vintage photographic postcard of Hôpital de Royaumont - Salle Blanche de Castille © Casas-Rodríguez Collection, 2009)

And on the other side, we also should not prevent others from doing what they can; if we do not let our church family know that we are sick or otherwise in need of prayer, then they cannot do this for us.  Sometimes, as awful as it can feel, the only thing we can do is pray.  So that’s what we do: we do what we can.

But when each of us when each of us trusts in each other, and when each of us does what we can do, then we can do a whole lot together.  This applies to both big things, like global warming or starvation or malaria, and small things, like the cobwebs in the church basement or our next door neighbor’s gallbladder surgery or our pastor’s ailing puppy.  God’s not going to reach down with a broom and sweep out those cobwebs.  But we can — or some among us can — and so that is what we do.

The third response to our helplessness may seem strange at first: this response is to be thankful, to give praise.  In Esther’s story (parts we don’t hear in this lectionary reading) we see the institution of the Purim holy day, a day of celebration and generosity and forgiveness and thanksgiving and praise.  Our psalm for Sunday is, in its entirety, a song of praise and thanksgiving to God, for delivering us all from our helplessness in this world.  After describing the enemies, the torrent, the raging waters that overwhelm us, the psalmist shouts out his praise.

Blessed be the LORD!
he has not given us over to be a prey for their teeth.

We have escaped like a bird from the snare of the fowler;
the snare is broken, and we have escaped!

Ticker tape! by Nick J. Webb

It is important to show our gratitude to God, of course, because we know that everything we are, everything we have, everything we see is a gift from God.  It is also important to show our thankfulness to each other, to lift one another up with encouragement and praise.  The healthy congregation that James envisions in his letter is one where we lift each other up; we help each other, we trust each other, and we give thanks and gratitude to each other.  After Mordecai, speaking through Esther, revealed the plot to assassinate King Ahasuerus, the king gave Mordecai great honor and praise, to express his gratitude.  While we might not have crowns and royal horses and kingly robes to give to those who help us, the very least we can give them is our words of gratitude and praise.

This world is not perfect, and we are not perfect.  We cannot do everything, and we lack the power to make everything right and good and whole.  We’re not in control, and there are days when we feel like all of the powers of this world conspire against us, like we are utterly helpless and defenseless.  This may even be true.  But Sunday’s readings give us these responses, these tools to help us.  We put our trust in God and in one another.  We do what (little) we can, trusting that those around us will be doing what they can as well.  And we give thanks; we give praise.  We might even thank God (though maybe a little grudgingly) for the lessons we have learned through our struggle.  Or, if you’re as stubborn and stiff-necked as I am, you might not. 

Kaz running, by Kol Tregaskes

O God,
you declare your almighty power chiefly
in showing mercy and pity:
Grant us the fullness of your grace,
that we, running to obtain your promises,
may become partakers of your heavenly treasure;
through Jesus Christ our Lord,
who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.

Amen.