Justin Appel

‘Out of the depths I have called to you, O Lord;
Lord, hear my voice;
let your ears consider well the voice of my supplication.’

Dear Friends,

One of the psalms apportioned to this evening is Psalm 130, known in the West by its Latin title, De profundis. This beloved psalm has traditionally been associated with Vespers, where it was often grouped together with Psalms 117, 142, and 140 – the last of which includes the phrase ‘Let my prayer arise as incense, and the lifting up of my hands as an evening sacrifice.’

I think this ‘normal’, daily context for Psalm 130 is worth considering, because we may be tempted to think of this psalm as ‘extraordinary’, as an expression of despair and deep pain. While it may certainly be that, on one level, it also beautifully phrases a state of being to which we may aspire.

The ‘pit’ referenced in the psalm may certainly be a dark place, a situation characterized by inexplicable suffering. One the other hand, our own souls certainly form the ‘depths’ from which we cry out to God. Our souls are already a kind of battleground, a place where temptations and evil thoughts may bombard us, and where we struggle with our passions. One needn’t look beyond our own internal life to see the ‘depths’ the psalmist describes.

I suppose what I am trying to say here is that the psalm portrays an attitude, a posture, an intent which could well characterize the whole of our lives: waiting, silence, crying out, struggle, repentance. It’s not a particularly attractive notion, in a sense, because it eschews the feelings of confidence, the optimism, the pride with which we tend to live our lives.

The psalmist paints a picture of humility, and humility is repugnant to our natural selves. Humility requires a kind of dying – the death of our cherished egos – as Deacon Anne reminded us in her sermon last Sunday.

On the other hand, that place of death, of selflessness, can lead to the possibility of peace, that illusive state that is a gift from God. I love the picture of the watchman waiting for the morning, or of the imagery – often referenced in early liturgies – of ‘waiting for God’s rich mercy’. Surely we can do no better than to wait, to wait quietly, in darkness if need be, for God’s rich mercy, until the end of our lives?

Yours in Christ,
Justin