When God Seems Far (Thoughts on Psalm 27)

February 27, 2017 By Shelly Durkee

Truly, there are times in which I do not sense God’s presence.

At all.

These are usually dull moments of “feeling” nothing when approaching Him in prayer and study. While always mildly disconcerting, I’ve been engaged in these disciplines long enough to know that there are just days like that—maybe I’m tired and unfocused. Maybe my mind is on work or a parenting issue to tackle, or even looking forward to something on my calendar for the day. It may be that the scriptures I am studying do not seem to particularly move my soul or motivate me to action. Or, it could be just that, well, there are days like this.

While I used to fret–and even panic some if a stretch of days like these seem to drag on–but I don’t any longer. I know the answer is to stay disciplined. To be diligent in prayer and study, because while I may not “feel” anything in particular toward or about God on those days, I have accumulated enough evidence to know that the work I am doing in prayer and study is still working on my mind and soul, even when it seems it is not.

So, no……those moments do not cause me to despair.

But, there are moments that do tend to ramp up that old familiar enemy of despair and even fear.

Because some days it seems not as if I am unengaged, but rather that God is far away. Unreachable. Unhearing.

Oh, I know that He is not. I know that He is always near. But knowing with my mind and sensing His presence with my soul are two things that are quite different from each other.

There are times when I am fully engaged—when I am deeply moved to repentance for my sins, or when I am beseeching God to ease the grief that is wracking my soul, or when I am crying out for Him to intervene—and what greets me is a profound sense of silence.

Of words bouncing off of a brass ceiling, with a hollow and echoing “ting. ting. ting.”

Those are times that slay me. Wreck me.

I think that may be why, when I read the words of Psalm 27, I feel a deep kindred with the author.

A word about the Psalms–and if you’ve read my writings before on the Psalms, this should sound very familiar–I view the reading, reflecting and praying through of the Psalms as a cherished gift and honor, because, to me, it is as if we have been invited to peer over the shoulder as the psalmist takes pen or quill or whatever in hand, and puts the words of his very soul to paper. It is a privilege that is not to be taken lightly.

Many people turn to the Psalms for comfort, and that makes sense. There is much comfort to be found. But there is also anguish. Fear. Joy. Uncertainty. Certainty. Anger. Despair. Gladness. Wonder.

In fact…..I can not think of a single human emotion that can not be found in the pages of this book.

Which is why I often turn there, when I am not so sure where else to turn–when I have no words of my own to express to God, I can often find words to pray in the words of the psalmist.

And this is very much the case, with Psalm 27.

To me, Psalm 27 starts off with a sort of “preaching-to-himself” vibe—he seems to be reminding himself who God is: Light. Salvation. Stronghold. He protects from enemies, and causes those enemies to fall. We can have confidence, even when the odds are stacked against us.

It is beautiful. Uplifting. Encouraging.

But in verse 7, we see something of a shift:

Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud;
    be gracious to me and answer me!
⁸You have said, “Seek my face.”
My heart says to you,
    “Your face, Lord, do I seek.”
⁹    Hide not your face from me.
Turn not your servant away in anger,
    O you who have been my help.
Cast me not off; forsake me not,
    O God of my salvation!

Verse 8 particularly grabs me….and I’ve echoed these words to God dozens of times: “God—you said seek your face. I’m here. I’m seeking. I. Am. Seeking. You. Please. Please do not hide your face from me.”

Have you, too, breathed out these words to God from the depths of your very self?

Surely, I am not the one.

“Do not turn away from me God. You have helped me before. You are my only help. You are my only hope. Do not cast me off, do not forsake me. You are my only means of salvation in this situation. You are my only means of salvation, for my life.” (Verse 9).

Yes.

These are words that bubble up out of my mouth and from my pen as I write out the words of my own prayers that become echos of this prayer from this man here in Psalm 27.

But sometimes, even in the throes of such pleas, I may not sense His presence. And it is unsettling.

Why, why does He choose to not make Himself known in such moments? Why does it seem as if He doesn’t hear, and therefore does not act upon our earnest requests?

I don’t know. I wish I did.

Maybe it is because there is something we must learn. Or, maybe it is because there is something in us that must be eradicated or changed or worn down like a river stone. Or maybe the truth is that He is acting upon our imploring words–but in a way that we can not perceive. Or, are not meant to be able to perceive.

Because, truly He is near. He is not far off. Our very breaths each morning are proof of this.

And the psalmist knows this.

His knowledge is reflected just a few short verses later, in these settling words:

I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord
in the land of the living!
14 Wait for the Lord;
be strong, and let your heart take courage;
wait for the Lord!

And, reading his settledness, helps create settledness in my very own soul, as I peer over his shoulders and recite these own words as if they were my very own: I, too, believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord–yes, in the day that He welcomes me to my true eternal home–but also here in this world, as I wait for Him.

Therefore, as the psalmist preached to his very own soul so many years ago, I, too, will preach to mine:

Be strong.

Take courage.

Wait.

Let the Redeemed of the Lord Say So

January 11, 2017 By Shelly Durkee

I am struck tonight, by Psalm 107.

I’m reading through the Bible for 2017, using the Five Day Plan. Psalm 107 was a part of my reading this morning, and I have found the words weaving in and out of my mind and soul all day long.

Do you ever read something in scripture, and see yourself? Do you ever read a passage, a chapter, a verse, a story, a Psalm and think, “This writing is autobiographical. This is me.”

Oh, we do have to be careful in those moments. We can not lose sight of context or original audience. To do so would be foolish, and wrong.

However, the Scriptures were given to us, and meant to do all the things we read in 2 Timothy 3:16: to teach us, to convict us, to train us, and to correct us.

And, I think they were also given to us to remind us, of what God has done. Because in remembering all that He has done, we learn deeper who He is.

That’s where I am today, with Psalm 107.

Reading it, I feel as if I could have written it. As if I am looking over the shoulder of the Psalmist, who is penning the truth of what I have experienced. In one sense, it is a bit unnerving. In another sense, it is incredibly comforting.

I’d like to share with you some thoughts and my prayer, based upon this Psalm. The Psalm is long, so I’ll not share all that I wrote this morning in the wee early hours of the day. But I would like to share some of it, in hopes that you, too, may see yourself in these words of Psalm 107.

And that you, too, can be one of the redeemed to say so.

Oh give thanks to the LORD, for he is good,
for his steadfast love endures forever!
2 Let the redeemed of the LORD say so,
whom he has redeemed from trouble

God, you are good. You are the God whose steadfast love endures forever. I did not see that before, in my early life.

I did not see that You are good.

And I did not trust that your steadfast love would endure.

And, for many years, I did not believe that you were real.

But now, O God, I know. I know, because I am redeemed.

Redeeemed is such a beautiful word. It means “to gain or regain possession of (something) in exchange for payment”. You redeemed me from my sins. You paid the price that I should have paid, in the sacrifice of your son. How beautiful is that dreadful scandal that took place on the cross, where Jesus died for me.

You are good. Let the redeemed–let me–say so.

Some wandered in desert wastes,
finding no way to a city to dwell in;
5 hungry and thirsty,
their soul fainted within them.

I know those desert wastes God. Those vast empty stretches of years where the hunger and the thirst was so strong, that I tried to satisfy it in destructive ways. I tried to slake that hunger and thirst in ways that would never, ever let me reach the end of the hunger or thirst–in ways that only deepened the thirst.

And my soul fainted within me, into a hopeless heap of dry, cynical, angry dust.

To this day, I remember the thirst, and at times it returns. But You, oh God—I know You are the only thing that satisfies. Verse 9 tells us this, undeniably:

For he satisfies the longing soul,
sand the hungry soul he fills with good things.

You, alone, are my only hope. You feel my soul with good things–joy. Peace. Compassion. Settledness. The only drink of living water that will quench the thirst and revive my soul when those dark days come.

You are good. Let the redeemed–let me–say so.

Some sat in darkness and in the shadow of death,
prisoners in affliction and in irons,
11 for they had rebelled against the words of God,
and spurned the counsel of the Most High.

This, too, have I known.

I have known utter darkness. I have sat in the shadow of death and longed for it to come.

I have been imprisoned by my own sin–the sin of despair, the sin of cynicism, the sin of unbelief, the sin of addiction.

Each of those sins–and all sin–ultimately stems from pride. And pride is the highest form of rebellion against Your almightyness. Against Your holiness. And against the very core of who You are–Your love.

I ran far from You, because I did not think that You were good.

I was wrong.

And in the moment–or, rather, moments, for the shattering of my darkness did not happen in an instance because my soul often turned back to the familiarity of rebellion–in those moments of recognizing repentfully the deep wrongness I was mired in…

I cried to You.

And you delivered me from my distress and brought me out of darkness and the shadow of death.

Truly, you burst my bonds apart.

You are good. Let the redeemed–let me–say so.

You make my storms be still.

You say “Shh” and hush the waves of the middle-of-the-night seas that threaten to swamp me.

And I am glad when the waters are quieted.

And today?

Today you are turning my desert into a pool of water and the parched land of my soul into a spring of water.

There are still days, God. There are still days, when I am diminished and brought low through oppression, evil and sorrow.

But you raise me out of those dreadful moments. And you make my family safe, secure–and joyful. And that makes other things pale and become distant shadows, to see my children standing fast–the ones that are, and the ones that I pray will some day.

Whoever is wise, let him attend to these things;
let them consider the steadfast love of the LORD.

Cause me to be wise, God. Remind me to attend to these things. Help me to consider your steadfast, non-abandoning love, because…

You are good.

Let me, who has been redeemed, say so.

Teach Us to Pray

November 2, 2016 By Shelly Durkee

(**Part One on Prayer)

I don’t understand prayer.

I suppose that is an odd way to begin a book about prayer. And also a very strange way to begin a book containing prayers.

Which is the intent of this book.

But it is true.

I don’t understand prayer.

And yet, as I grow older and more reliant on the daily spiritual discipline of prayer, I find it to be ever-increasing in its indispensability to my every-day-living.

I would go so far as to say that I need it—rely on it—depend on it….as much as I do upon food, water, and even oxygen.

Does that sound fanatical? Over-the-top?

Maybe.

But maybe not.

Maybe it is not that radical of a statement, because of the very definition of prayer itself.

Definition of Prayer

Webster defines “Prayer” with the following words: “…an address (as a petition) to God or a god in word or thought.” (Encyclopedia Britannica)[1]

That’s a good starting place, I suppose. It supplies us with the noun “Address”. Prayer is language, directed at someone. The recipient or hearer of the petition/address, according to this dictionary entry, is “God” or a god. And, because the object is language (address), the delivery method is word or thought.

This definition is helpful. It provides some boundaries for a discussion on prayer. However, while it may be a good start, it is not the best start.

The best start, as Christ-followers, is always scripture. Always. And while a dictionary entry is useful in helping us put our thoughts and questions into language, it does not give us the needed foundation of truth upon which to stake those thoughts, questions and language. We need an anchor. We need a base that will not rust…that will not evolve or change as cultures and worldviews change definitions.

We need the Bible, in order to begin to wrestle with this odd thing that prayer is. We need the unchanging, always inerrant truth that the Word of God is, in order to delve into the depths of the mystery of prayer.

So, that’s where we will begin.

But first, a disclaimer.

I am no expert. There are many, many men and women far wiser and more knowledgeable than myself, that I am indebted to. Some are authors whose books I cherish: Tim Keller. Philip Yancey. C.S. Lewis. John Piper. John Stott. And so, so many more.

And some are dear friends, who have patiently answered my questions and heard my frustration as I’ve walked this journey both before I became a Christ-follower, and in the years since. Pastors who have boldly and bravely and unapologetically preached biblical truth from the pulpit week after week. And friends who have modeled the discipline of honest, earnest and real prayer for me, as they have addressed our God in both the joyful times and in times of great grief in their own lives.

And, of course, friends who have prayed with me and for me during some of the darkest times of my life.

I am deeply grateful this “cloud of witnesses” that has and continues to surround me.[2]

Even though I am certainly no expert, I am a fellow sojourner bumbling and stumbling through the spiritual discipline of prayer. And as a non-expert, I invite you and hope that you will join me over the next 30 days, as we work together to implement the things we see and learn about prayer in scripture—and particularly in the Psalms. You will not find this to be a deeply academic tome, or an exhaustive examination of all aspects of prayer. I will leave that to those far more qualified than myself. But I do hope to stir you to think a bit deeper about prayer—its purpose and its practice. Because, truly, it is practice. It is not something we will ever perfect. It’s not meant to be perfected, because if we could ever perfect it, then there would be no place for grace and that sweet yet challenging need to be dependent upon the one who has granted us the very gift of prayer. His accessibility, and our dependence upon him culminate in the words we utter to Him.

Each day will consist of a short essay on an aspect of prayer, followed by a prayer reflecting on a Psalm or other passage of scripture. The prayers I share are nothing special. They are not eloquent. They are not magic formulas. I share my prayers as a window into my attempt to address our gracious and merciful God, who sees us, knows us, and listens to us.

Your Words, O God: A Prayer with Psalm 119 in Mind

Our words often fail us, God.

We approach you in our fumbling attempts to pray to you. This very strange and wonderful and odd act of addressing you in thought and word—how does it work? How do you hear us? Why did you choose prayer as the form in which to communicate with you our deepest fears and griefs and joys and anxieties and elation and frustrations?

Why did you create language and sentences and words and letters to foster communication not only among ourselves as humans, but more importantly with you—our creator and savior and sustainer?

It is a marvelous mystery.

A beautiful mystery.

At times, a comforting mystery.

At other times, a hollow mystery.

We are bewildered by it, yes. But we are also grateful for this avenue to be heard by You.

And, to hear you.

So.

Teach us God, how to pray. What to pray. When to pray.

Teach us, because prayer does not come naturally to us.

At least, it does not come naturally to me.

Teach me, O God.

Through the wise words of those who have walked this path before us—yes.

Through those around us who are gracious to mentor us from the pulpit are as they walk—and pray—beside us: yes.

But mostly teach us through your very own words God, in scripture. Give us a hunger to seek you out in scripture, and to seek out what You would have us learn about prayer, in scripture.

It’s the words in Psalm 119, God—such a beautiful intertwining example of a passion for Your words and a longing for the very core of who you are. The two are inseparable. The Psalmist cries out, in 119:94, “I am yours; save me, for I have sought your precepts.”

Yes.

And we pray, too, alongside the Psalmist in 119.

We are yours.

Save us…..for we have sought your precepts.

Teach us to long for your precepts. Teach us to long for you.

Teach us to pray.

References

Encyclopedia Britannica. Merriam-Webster Dictionary. 2016. <http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/prayer>.

The Holy Bible: English Standard Version. Wheaton: Standard Bible Society, 2016.

[1] (Encyclopaedia Britannica)

[2] (The Holy Bible: English Standard Version)

Keep Your Soul, Dilgently

October 24, 2016 By Shelly Durkee

I can sense when it happens. Most of the time, anyway.

Sometimes I miss it, until it suddenly dawns on me and I find myself scratching my head, a bit bewildered and asking myself, “Well, how the heck did I get here, yet again?”

But, most of the time, I can sense it.

It’s that slow slide away from what I know my mind and soul needs, in order to stay well. And focused. A gradual stepping away from that which keeps my soul focused on the only hope we know in this world. A letting down of my guard. A falling away from the spiritual and physical disciplines that stave off despair and, if I were to be honest, the shadowy, bony fingers of depression.

However, just because I sense it, doesn’t always mean that I take the necessary steps to arrest the spiral.

Maybe, just maybe, you can relate.

In the last couple of months, I have sensed this in my own mind and soul. I’ve tried to ignore it. I’ve brushed it off, because truly, life is good. There is no reason for the nagging discouragement and despair creeping into my mind. There isn’t. Not in the grand scheme of things.

But this is a battle that I have fought for a very long time. A very long time.

And, I know better, than to let my guard down.

I know better, than to shortcut the things I know help fight this battle:

Early morning study and prayer
Personal and corporate worship
Exercise
Healthy food choices
Routine, routine, routine
Caring well for others
Writing
Reading

When I shortchange these areas–when I convince myself that its “Ok” to stray from my daily routine, when I “excuse” myself from prayer and study early in the morning, when I decided that it won’t hurt anything to “skip” exercise for a day…..

…..that’s when despair raises its ugly head, once again.

And once despair gains even a small handhold, it’s grip is tight. And difficult to shake.

And that’s when my old friend and old nemesis of doubt sets back in.

I call it my “old friend”…not because doubt is a true friend, but because it is familiar. Comfortable. You’ve heard of people who say “We hadn’t seen each other in 10 years, but we picked up right where we left off, as if we just saw each other yesterday!” Yes. That is what “doubt” is, in my life.

Familiar. Comfortable, like a worn out security blanket.

But here’s the thing—doubt is also my dreadful nemesis….and when I don’t fight it, it penetrates my thoughts, starting off slowly, but quickly gathering speed.

I can go from “But why….” to full-fledged doubt of not only God’s love, but His very existence, in less than 60 seconds.

Earlier this evening, while sitting on outside on my deck, watching the first leaves of fall drifting down around me, I recognized that my soul, too, is in a season of fall. And I must fight, to stop its progression to the cold cynicism of winter.

This is not a new problem. It is not new to me, for sure. And it is not new to mankind. In Deuteronomy 4, we see Moses imploring with the Israelites to keep their souls and to remember all that they had seen the Lord do for them. And to their enemies. Moses reminded the people that they were in a covenant relationship with God, called to obedience. They were to remember, and teach their children…and their children’s children…all that the Lord had done.

9 “Only take care, and keep your soul diligently, lest you forget the things that your eyes have seen, and lest they depart from your heart all the days of your life. Make them known to your children and your children’s children— (Deut. 4:9)

Do you see, though? Moses didn’t say “remember the things that God has done, in order to keep your soul diligently.

No, it was the other way around.

You may think that this is a trivial, minor, unimportant distinction. However, I do not. I think it is significant.

Because, when I do not keep my soul diligently, I arrogantly forget all that God has done for me.

When I do not keep my soul diligently through regular spiritual and physical disciplines, including study, and prayer, , and worship, and exercise, and rest, and caring well for others through service–when I do not keep my soul in those ways, then I slowly slide towards the erroneous belief that I don’t need God. I sinfully step closer to the edge of doubt and cynicism, thus forgetting the miraculous things I have witnessed as God’s adopted child–and that adoption via salvation being the most miraculous of all the many good and gracious and merciful things He has poured out on my soul and life.

And when I forget those things–and when I stand arrogantly in defiance and stomp my feet like a petulant two-year-old and say “I won’t!” or “I don’t want to pray!” or “I’m too tired!” or “But I don’t sense You, God, so why try?”—

–that’s when despair wins the first battle.

But this is a war. And defeat in one battle means a redoubling of efforts. It means regrouping and returning to measured discipline in order to have the fortitude to fight. It means dusting off the grime and getting back to work.

It means keeping my soul diligently.

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