"I to the hills will lift mine eyes, from whence doth come mine aid?
The old Scottish paraphrase of Psalm 121 is that strange literary hybrid - it lacks literary sophistication, but for those who know it, and have sung it in a Scottish congregation, its homely imagery and verbal simplicity vibrate with spiritual power generated less by liturgical formulae than by an immediate sense of dependency.
Mountains are a challenge, there to be climbed, but often dangerous, demanding and for ancient travellers on foot, full of risk. The Psalmist is engaged in a risk assessment; what are the dangers of the journey? Treacherous screes of broken shale and rock, thieves and wild animals at night, long miles without water in a baking sun, and the threat of madness in moonlight as an ancient fear of the night - all these, and much, much more. Until the Psalmist reduces all the imaginable dangers to a simple theological equation; the Lord and maker of heaven and earth is the protector and guard for every eventuality so that all harm is disarmed, the whole of life is protected, and on the journey, whether coming or going, now and always, the Lord is an ever present help and defence.
Life is risk, and risk aversion can never be the stance of faith. Risk assessment, however, is different. Risk assessment can never exclude danger, but it does avoid both the paralysis of fear that never wants to journey at all, and the reckless certainties of those who think they have life sorted, or that they have God contained in a theology afraid of questions. There are times in our lives when the football cliche rings with a truth that threatens to test our trust to breaking point, when "we've now got a mountain to climb".
Two weeks ago, at our daughter Aileen's funeral, we sang that same old Scottish paraphrase (the full version is below). It was a prayer for ourselves; and it was a prayer for Aileen entrusted to the protective love of the God who never sleeps, God who always watches over, and sees all our comings and goings on earth, and on into the presence of a love eternal and inexhaustible in welcome and blessing.
We are now climbing the mountain of grief with all its ache, risk and questions, and singing from the deep wells of the heart, "From whence doth come mine aid?" And borne and carried by the prayers and kindnesses of our companions on the way, singing also, "My safety cometh from the Lord, who heaven and earth hath made."
No, that doesn't settle everything. The journey is harder than we could have imagined. Faith is not unruffled serenity, but a grasping at hope. Faith is a grappling with questions better asked than ignored. Faith is a trust in the preciousness of life and the deepest bonds of love, but also a relinquishing of more than we ever thought we had. And at the heart's core, faith is a vision of a love that understands and comes alongside us on this lonely road, an Emmaus walk that is also a via dolorosa.
The Emmaus road is an upward road, and broken-hearted disciples of Jesus walk it with questions and sorrow, and the bewilderment of those trying to make sense of a life shattered from within. And the Stranger comes near, walks with them, speaks new things into ears desperate for truth and meaning, and some assurance that all shall be well. Grief is an Emmaus road, up dangerous paths and through dark nights, in the company of the risen Christ.
1 I to the hills will lift mine eyes:
from whence doth come mine aid?
My safety cometh from the Lord,
who heaven and earth hath made.
2 Thy foot he'll not let slide, nor will
he slumber that thee keeps.
Behold, he that keeps Israel,
he slumbers not, nor sleeps.
3 The Lord thee keeps; the Lord thy shade
on thy right hand doth stay;
the moon by night thee shall not smite
nor yet the sun by day.
4 The Lord shall keep thy soul; he shall
preserve thee from all ill;
henceforth thy going out and in
God keep for ever will.
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