In Search of Comfort

Of an evening I like to find a comfortable chair with an easy reading light and sip a smidgen of bourbon, with a little ice, from a hefty glass while reading The Bible aloud to no one. Please understand that this says more about my humanity, my creatureliness, my search for comfort than it does about my righteousness. I make no claim to that. None. Even the act of reading is a selfish search for comfort, for understanding, for purpose. And I confess I often make more time for bourbon sipping than Bible reading.

Humanity is always in search of comfort. We trust in the certainty of our science, we dream of having confidence in our leaders, and we are uplifted when faith and trust in our fellow man is restored. Sometimes all those things fail us, and we are left grasping for something to hang onto, some eternal comfort. Try as we might we never quite understand the fullness of whatever eternal comfort exists, certainly not in this world. This world is too broken. The small comforts of a few verses read aloud, a whispered prayer, the embrace of someone that truly cares for you, the ease of true friendship, a snippet of song or piece of art or a turn of phrase that encapsulates our feelings ... these are our refuge, our meager comforts, our reasons to continue.

My desperate Bible reading this week took me to several passages in Psalms and I found some comfort there.

I read Psalm 133 through 136 and learned, or re-learned, that "his steadfast love endures forever." Many times in my life I have questioned God when bad things have happened, wondering the purpose of suffering. In retrospect, which seems to always have more clarity, I've come to understand that it takes both the good and the bad to appreciate the fullness of life I have lived, and that both have brought me to where I am today. I cannot forget the bad, or discount it, because that diminishes me and makes me a shallow, incomplete person. I will not say that I am grateful for those bad things, but I am grateful that steadfast love endures forever.

I read Psalm 137 through 140 and came across a verse that is burned in my brain, Psalm 139:13-14:

For it was you who formed my inward parts;
You knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
That I know very well.

As someone who frequently feels 'not good enough' this is an amazing comfort. But that's a selfish, personal comfort. This particular verse was also part of my morning Bible reading the day of the memorial service for my dear departed niece, Colby Katherine Finn, in May, 2010. I remember reading that verse and getting stuck on "knit me together in my mother's womb" and "fearfully and wonderfully made." At first I thought, "how cruel." At the memorial service, surrounded by friends and family and witnessing the impact of this innocent little one on her community, I had to acknowledge the truth of it. She was fearfully and wonderfully made and that gives me, a 60 year old man, some comfort that I might possibly be wonderful.

I read Psalm 145 through 150 and found some wisdom in Psalm 146 and some hope in Psalm 149:

Psalm 146:3-4

Do not put your trust in princes,
in mortals, in whom there is no help.
When their breath departs, they return to the earth;
on that very day their plans perish.

Psalm 149:1

Praise the Lord!
Sing to the Lord a new song,
his praise in the assembly of the faithful.

I think we have all seen a prince or two that does not deserve our trust. It's a reminder of human fallibility, our inherent craving of comfort above sacrifice. It's wise to be cautious of those who claim leadership and power, regardless of your political persuasion. Distrust is a good safeguard against tyranny, but it also helps to combat our own pride, our tendency to envision ourselves as completely in control.

And as for the "new song," this, to me, is a call to hope. That our song can be new. It does not have to be the same old song. The Psalms themselves are poetry, songs. There is rhythm and meter and rhyme that provides a foundation, a starting place. Dietrich Bonhoeffer in Letters and Papers from Prison, puts it this way:

What I mean is that God, the Eternal, wants to be loved with our whole heart, not to the detriment of earthly love or to diminish it, but as a sort of cantus firmus to which the other voices of life resound in counterpoint. One of these contrapuntal themes, which keep their full independence but are still related to the cantus firmus, is earthly love. Even in the Bible there is the Song of Solomon, and you really can't imagine a hotter, more sensual, and glowing love than the one spoken of there. It's really good that this is in the Bible, contradicting all those who think being Christian is about tempering one's passions (where is there any such tempering in the Old Testament?). Where the cantus firmus is clear and distinct, a counterpoint can develop as mightily as it wants. The two are "undivided and yet distinct," as the Definition of Chalcedon says, like the divine and human natures of Christ. ... Do you understand what I mean? I wanted to ask you to let the cantus firmus be heard clearly in your being together; only then will it sound complete and full, and the counterpoint will always know that it is being carried and can't get out of tune or be cut adrift, while remaining itself and complete in itself. Only this polyphony gives your life wholeness, and you know that no disaster can befall you as long as the cantus firmus continues.

I know no Latin or music theory, but I get the gist. The cantus firmus is the underlying song, the melody of our life. If that is based in God, or if you prefer the greater thing outside yourself, then as long as your loves, your life, your actions are in "counterpoint" or harmony with that foundational melody, then you are in "the song" ... "the story" ... "the poem" ... "the picture."

I believe that in this world, that is where you find comfort. Not in your own song, not in your selfishness, but in harmony with a true song, something above our mortal abilities, something more substantial than earthly comfort.

My Bible reading this week took me to several passages in Psalms and I found some comfort there. Whether this was God speaking to me or my own desperation to find comfort, I do not know. But it was found.

All of the above is a bit grandiose. Philosophical and epistemological rantings that are well above the pay-grade of a glorified keyboard monkey. My only excuse is that this is the second anniversary of the loss of my love and I still struggle with sorting it all out, with making sense of the joy and the tragedy in the 30+ years of our life together. I'm not as lonely, and I'm not as lost, and I'm not as shocked as I was two years ago, but I am trying desperately to sing a new song, one that is in harmony with something bigger than myself. I'm starting to hum along. A bit. There have been fits and starts and I'm inherently skeptical, but I'm starting to feel the rhythms and anticipate the rhymes. I am hopeful. And comforted. And anticipating the joy of a new song.