The beginning of Psalm 13 laments, “How long, O Lord?” Have you ever asked that question? Most of us have. They say, “Into each life a little rain must fall,” bur there are times when the rain becomes a monsoon, and we feel like we’re drowning in the deluge.
There is a pattern in Psalms. They begin with an intimate address naming God as a friend. Then there is a complaint telling the problem. Next comes a petition, asking and sometimes demanding that God do something. Followed by a motivating word that appeals to God’s vanity - fix this so everyone will see how great you are. Sometimes there’s a desire for revenge - “Get ‘em, Lord!” And finally, the assurance that the prayer has been heard, therefore a word of praise.
With that in mind, listen again to Psalm 13. “How long, O Lord, how long?” After chemo and months of radiation treatment, the blood counts are not good, the cancer is back. “Will you forget me forever?” When your child has lapsed once again to the addiction that has plagued their life. “How long will you hide your face from me?” When the insurance company denies your claim for life-giving medication. “How long must I wrestle with my thoughts,” asks the victim of sexual abuse who can no longer trust anyone. “And every day have sorrow in my heart?" asks the mother who has lost two sons in the senseless killing in the West End. Lamentations everywhere. But then verse 5 and 6, and suddenly a change, “I trust in your unfailing love, my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, for he has been good to me.”
In between verses 4 and 5, something changes. Born out of memory, hope arrives. Yes, things are bad, but I remember when they weren’t, when I knew God cared about me, and I know that day will come again.
It seems to me that the church, when it is at its best, lives its life between verses 4 and 5, when tears are shed, but hope is alive. We remember the despair of Good Friday, knowing that the joy of Easter is coming. Tony Campolo recalled the most powerful sermon he ever heard. It was a simple message, starting softly, building in volume and intensity until the entire congregation was involved:
It’s Friday. Jesus is arrested in the garden where he was praying. But Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. The disciples are hiding and Peter’s denying that he knows the Lord. But Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. Jesus is beaten, mocked, and spit upon. But Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. Those Roman soldiers are flogging our Lord, and they press the crown of thorns down into his brow. But Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. See him walking to Calvary, the blood dripping from His body. But Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. See those Roman soldiers driving the nails into the feet and hands of my Lord. But Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. Jesus is hanging on the cross, bloody, and dying. But Sunday’s coming.
It’s Friday. Jesus is hanging on the cross, heaven is weeping, and hell is partying.
But that’s because it’s Friday, and they don’t know it, but Sunday’s a coming.
Between verses 4 and 5 it’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming, and that is where the church finds its meaning.