Are the Psalms Gendered?

I am reading Poets on the Psalms, an intriguing book edited by Lynn Domina (published in 2008 by Trinity University Press). I never thought about the Psalms as being particularly gendered until I read Alicia Ostriker's essay, "Psalm and Anti-Psalm: A Personal Interlude."

Ostriker observes, "Psalms contains no women at all" (26). Before my recent, intense reading of the Psalms, I would have said that the Psalms contain no individual humans, so much as we read the voice of a universal narrator. But Ostriker goes on to observe that "the Psalmist often seems less a generic human than a public man. A politician, a warrior" (26). When I read that page of her essay, my first reaction was denial: "Surely not."

After reading her essay, I decided to turn to the Psalms for my daily 15 minutes of Bible reading. And much to my shock, she's right. I am surprised at the tone of the Psalms I've read thus far. I know that some of the Psalms have a reputation for their fierce anger, but I wasn't expecting so many of them to be like that. I wasn't expecting so much battle imagery.

And I'm reading the Psalms through the lens of gender, a lens that isn't unfamiliar to me (I began my life as a literary critic as a feminist reader; gender issues would always be the first thing I noticed, and then I'd return to issues of race, theology, class, nationality, figurative language--or whatever else the professor told me to observe). Ostriker is right. The lack of female experience is startling. How could I have gone through my whole church life and not have noticed this before?

Of course, it makes sense that since the Psalmist is male (we presume), the Psalmist would make use of imagery that was familiar to him. It makes sense that a male Psalmist would not refer to miscarriages, to bodies that betray us in particularly female ways.

Sure, some of the bodily betrayals presented in the Psalms are probably universal; most of us won't make it through old age without feeling that we are "poured out like water" (Psalm 22). I am familiar with the weeping episodes that the Psalmist describes.

I am most familiar with the Psalms as I encounter them daily, in the fixed hour prayers composed by Phyllis Tickle, in her The Divine Hours series. I like them better in small chunks. But am I letting the Psalms off the hook?

No. I know that I'm participating in a patriarchal religion, and that some of the books are more male-dominated than others. One of the things that many people appreciate about the Psalms is their fierce honesty. And if it's honesty written by a male Psalmist, that doesn't mean we must discount them, just because we're feminists.

It does give me an idea for a writing project--what would the Psalms look like, if penned by a modern, female poet? Hmmmmm.

Feeding Souls and Stomachs

I'm having one of those Advents that so many church folks have--and secular folks for that matter--I feel like I am never home. I go from work to church to home to sleep and then I wake up to do it all again. There's choir rehearsal and cookie swaps and extra services and rehearsals for extra services.

Our church runs a food pantry for people who are having a food emergency, and we're seeing more business than usual, as you might expect this time of year. I filled in on Thursday at the food pantry, and then on Friday evening, I went for the candlelit labyrinth contemplative time.

I drove home thinking about how happy I am that our church is committed to both a food pantry (as well as other social justice programs) and a labyrinth. How rare is that, I wonder? I suspect it's rare, but I have no statistics to back it up. Especially with smaller churches, where choices must be made, I suspect that churches commit more to either the social justice side of mission or the worship side. Then there are the churches that don't do any of it particularly well.

Today, after service, a homeless man came to the door. He needed food, and he thought the church might have some--and because we run a food pantry, we did have some food to give him. I'm glad that people still see the church as a place to go in times of crisis. And of course, I'm sad that there is still aching hunger in the world.

Reading our Way through Psalms

Carl and I finished reading Luke this week. Interesting to read the Good Friday-Easter story during Advent.

Then we moved back to the Psalms. Here, too, interesting to read the Psalms so soon after reading the Good Friday passages. We noticed, as we were bound to notice, how much of the language of Luke's Good Friday material came directly from Psalm 22.We talked about whether or not Luke knew that he did this.

I thought that Luke did, that he intentionally used the language of the Psalms. It's like a contemporary poet using Biblical language or alluding to great works of literature--it roots the modern poem to an ancient tradition. Carl wondered whether or not Luke was trying to prove that Jesus was the answer to a prophecy, which I thought was possible too. One explanation doesn't have to cancel out the other.

I asked, "If we weren't so familiar with this language as Good Friday language, would we see this Psalm as being about crucifixion?" We read Psalm 22 again, and realized that it could be about any number of events that makes one say, "I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax, it is melted within my breast; my strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue cleaves to my jaws" (Psalm 22, verse 14-15a). In fact, I read that part and hear illness, not persecution.

Of course, there are plenty of parts of this Psalm that are about persecution. It's a perfect Psalm to echo in a crucifixion story, but it also fits with so many of us, who may be feeling personally persecuted by an individual or just buffeted by forces, societal or otherwise, that we cannot control.

And it's interesting how the Psalm moves from lament to praise. The Psalmist moves from feeling persecuted and abandoned by God, to proclaiming that God will grant deliverance. That's a hopeful message in these turbulent days.

Anniversary of the Death of Thomas Merton

Yesterday was the 40th anniversary of the death of Thomas Merton. If I made a list of the top ten most important spiritual figures of the twentieth century, he'd be on that list, and for many scholars, he'd be number one (I might give the number one slot to Pope John Paul II. Or would it be Archbishop Oscar Romero? Or Mother Theresa? Or Archbishop Desmond Tutu? Or Dorothy Day? Interesting how thus far, only Catholics are on my list . . .).

I heard a great interview with an author and documentary filmmaker yesterday on the Diane Rehm show. Luckily, we live in the age of the Internet, where even though we've missed a show, we can still listen. Go here to hear the show (it's the 11:00 hour, so you might have to scroll down).

That interview made me think of an episode of a different NPR program, Speaking of Faith. Paul Elie was on the show to discuss his book, The Life You Save May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage, which came out in 2003, and is a fabulous book. It's also a heavy book (as in long, not as in too deep to read on a plane, which I did, when I couldn't put the book away), so if you want to just listen to the discussion about it, to get a sense of it, go here.

Merton is one of those writers that I feel like I've read, because I've read a lot about him, and read portions of his work collected in many different places. But as I consider, I'm a bit shocked to realize that I haven't read one of his books all the way through.

Let me add that to my to-do list for 2009. In fact, a reading list for the year might be a very good idea. Off now, to ponder my list . . .

A Picture of our Candlelit Labyrinth at Sunset

Today, I'll try something new as a blogger. I'll include a picture of our labyrinth. It was taken on All Saints Day (Nov. 1, 2008) at sunset. That's not me in the picture; that's my new friend Eileen.

You might wonder what we used to construct it. We used old roof tiles (barrel style) from a hurricane damaged church to the north of us. They're somewhat damaged (chipped at the edges), so they're not worthy of stealing.

I like how we recycled, how we made something good come out of Hurricane Wilma. I like how the tiles are low maintenance, unlike shrubbery, and how they blend into the landscape. I like that we didn't pave over a space to create a labyrinth.

I REALLY like that I'm part of a church that has a labyrinth, the largest one in Florida, at least for now. We actually have two--not pictured is our Roman style labyrinth, which turns at sharp angles, and is more of a box shape than a curving shape.

This week, I'll try taking a picture of the labyrinth at night, and if I'm successful, I'll post it.

Meditation on this Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, December 14, 2008:

First Reading: Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11

Psalm: Psalm 126

Psalm (Alt.): Luke 1:47-55 (Luke 1:46b-55 NRSV)

Second Reading: 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24

Gospel: John 1:6-8, 19-28

Today's Gospel returns us to John the Baptist. John proves to be such a compelling figure that the religious people in charge try to determine who he is. This interchange between John and the priests and Levites fascinates me. I love that John knows who he is, but he's not interested in explaining himself to institutional figures. Still he'll answer their questions.

One answer in particular keeps banging around my brain: "I am not the Christ" (verse 20). Some interpretations have him say, "I am not the Messiah." He's also not Elijah, not the prophet. When asked to explain himself more fully, he refers to Isaiah: "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, 'Make straight the way of the Lord,' . . ." (verse23).

I had an argument with an atheist friend who traditionally views Christians with the same sort of horror that the priests and the Levites viewed John the Baptist (how we are friends is a mystery to me, because I make no secret of my beliefs). She expects Christians to be unable to control themselves, to testify all the time. In our recent argument, she said that the message of Christianity is that believers have to go out to convert non-believers, and that Christians have that as their mission. I told her that she needed to go back and read the Gospel.

The first lesson from Isaiah seems more appropriate as a mission for the modern Christian, with its language of binding up the brokenhearted, proclaiming liberty to the captives, and comforting those who mourn. We are to be a garland, instead of ashes, to be the oil of gladness.

And yet, some days I feel it might be easier to be one of those old-fashioned Christians, who have the mission of telling everyone that Jesus loves them. And of course, the next question from many people would be, "Yeah? How does that change anything?"

My atheist friend and I argue over whether Christianity is a series of beliefs (which she says it is) or a series of actions (which I say it is). Of course, we're having a centuries-old argument. You might even say the whole history of the Protestant Reformation, which continues today, is over this issue of creeds and who believes what.

I believe this issue of creeds leads us away from the important question. I remember watching Religulous earlier this fall, the movie which shows Bill Maher going all over the world to ask Christians whether or not they really believe in talking snakes and Virgin births. And I spent the whole movie shaking my head over how he was missing the point.

One of the main points of Christianity is that God comes to us, in the form of Christ, to show us what is possible in a human life. The Christian mission is to emulate Christ in our behavior.

The message of today's Gospel is that we must be careful to remember that we are not the Christ. There are days when I shake my head and think, "I've been working on hunger issues most of my whole life: writing letters to legislators, giving away money, working in food banks. Why isn't this issue solved yet? How long will it take?"

I must practice saying, "I am not the Messiah." That doesn't mean I'm off the hook in terms of my behavior. I can't say, "I am not the Messiah," and stay home and watch reruns of The Simpsons and do nothing about injustice in the world.

But I am not the Messiah. We struggle against a huge domination system, as Walter Wink termed it. The story of John the Baptist and Jesus serve as cautionary tales to me, when I get too impatient with how long it takes for the arc of history to bend towards justice (Martin Luther King's wording). They struggled against injustice and died in the maw of the system they worked to dismantle.

This week I shall practice a John the Baptist approach. I will recognize the importance of making the pathways straight, while continuing to insist, "I am not the Christ."

Reading the Bible Together

My church launched an initiative on Dec. 1. Many of us have covenanted to read the Bible 15 minutes a day until Easter. We signed documents, which I must admit, makes me take it seriously. We took partners in our efforts, in hopes that we'd all be more accountable.

It was the thought of my signature that came back to me on Dec. 1, when I realized that I hadn't read my 15 minutes, and neither had my covenant partner, my spouse. We sat down to read together. It seemed only natural to read the same passage, so we returned to Luke, which he had been reading during the time when our pastor challenged us to read one Gospel from start to finish, straight through.

We have continued reading our 15 minutes of Bible reading out loud. One of us reads and the other listens. Some nights we trade off--one reads for half the time, the other for the other half.

Some nights I feel we've become our grandparents, although I'm not sure that they read the Bible to each other out loud, the way that we're doing. It feels very earlier-century to me.

And yet, I find myself looking forward to it. One of the things that I miss most about my younger school days is that it was the last time when I was surrounded by people who were all reading the same thing. There was always a discussion partner near by.

It's interesting to see what parts of our reading jump out at him. They're often parts that I'd have just zipped right over. It's interesting to read out loud, which keeps me from my obnoxious habit of reading quickly, but not deeply. It's interesting to be part of a project together.