This Fearful and Wonderful Life

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Psalm 139:1-18

O Lord, you have searched me and known me.

You know when I sit down and when I rise up;


you discern my thoughts from far away.

You search out my path and my lying down,


and are acquainted with all my ways.

Even before a word is on my tongue,


 O Lord, you know it completely.

You hem me in, behind and before,
 and lay your hand upon me.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;

it is so high that I cannot attain it.

Where can I go from your spirit?

Or where can I flee from your presence?

If I ascend to heaven, you are there;

if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.

If I take the wings of the morning and

settle at the farthest limits of the sea,

even there your hand shall lead me,


and your right hand shall hold me fast.

If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,

and the light around me become night,”

even the darkness is not dark to you;

the night is as bright as the day,


for darkness is as light to you.

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.

My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in

secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes beheld my unformed substance.


In your book were written all the days that were formed for me,


when none of them as yet existed.

How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God!
   

How vast is the sum of them!

I try to count them—they are more than the sand;
    

I come to the end—I am still with you. 

Sermon: This Fearful and Wonderful Life

I sat with her in that sterile, falsely bright hospital room.  She was quite anxious by then.  I prayed.  I took bread and broke off a tiny piece, dipped it into grape juice until it was soggy enough for her to swallow and held it to her lips.  She coughed violently with the effort of swallowing that sacred morsel, but she got it down.  I also read to her:

“O Lord, you have searched me and known me.

You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
 you discern my thoughts from far away.” 

We both knew rising up from that bed was something she would not do again, and that her thoughts were scattered and confused.  I continued…

“Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence?  If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.” 

But that hospital bed might as well have been a prison cell…she could not flee, she was there until the end.

I continued…

“If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night,” even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day,
 for darkness is as light to you.” 

I imagine she was longing for some darkness to cover her in that moment, instead of that harsh, fluorescent light.  She longed to sleep, but with scary noises and lights flashing, there was no rest for her.

I continued…

“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.”

Fearful and wonderful: she was fearful, fearful that the next bite would get stuck in her throat and stop her feeble breath.  I’m not sure that she could even remember her mother’s face clearly at that point, much less have an understanding of being knit together in her womb.  But still, frail in that horrible pastel hospital gown, she was wonderful.  Because she was my Nana.  When I saw her, I did not see an old woman, sick in some strange room. 

I saw the woman who made me (constantly burned) chocolate chip cookies when I came to visit, who had been an avid tennis player in her younger years and who always called me “little preacher lady.”

I finished reading to her with these final words,

“In your book were written all the days that were formed for me,
 when none of them as yet existed.  How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God!
   How vast is the sum of them!  I try to count them—they are more than the sand;
    I awake —I am still with you.”

Those last words say, in our version of the Bible, “I come to the end.”  But they can also be translated, “I awake.”  That was the version I chose to use that day in the hospital room.   Perhaps I didn’t want to make her scared of the end, even though it was staring us in the face, and perhaps I knew somewhere in my being that this wasn’t really an ending. 

My Nana passed away two days later.

It might seem odd to read words about being fearfully and wonderfully made to a woman who was about to die, whose body was failing her.  But I don’t believe those words were ever more important than they were in that moment.  And I know that I will never be able to read this favorite Psalm of mine without picturing that moment we shared soggy, grape-juice-soaked bread together.

It was important that she knew that she was – and will always be – fearfully and wonderfully made.  It mattered that she knew that God had every day of her life counted, and that she did not have to worry about what came next, because God would take care of that, too.   

Psalm 139 is not meant as a sweet, docile poem for those sailing through life without a care.  Psalm 139 is meant for those who face death, who know that this life is only temporary, and who know that it is both fearful and wonderful.

And, really, this should describe all of us, whatever our age and whatever our health.  We are not promised tomorrow; we are promised that God has all of the days we will need counted like precious coins. 

We are not promised that today will be easy or comfortable; we are promised that whatever we face – whether we feel we are in our own personal hell or whether we feel on top of the mountain – God is there. 

So let us not mistake these words for easy comfort or superficial platitudes.  These words are a matter of life and death; my Nana knew this. 

You (and I) need to know that we are made of stronger stuff than this one life can use up.  We need to know that when there comes a day when we cannot swallow or remember the faces of those we love, God knows even our most confused thoughts.  We need to know that when we reach the completion of this life – whether you call that an ending or an awakening – God is still with us. 

So, if we are going to read these words, and even more than that, if we are going to live them, we must let go of many things.  We must let go of the assumption we can number our own days by what we do or do not eat or drink, by what someone in a doctor’s office says or by how financially prepared we are to live comfortably for many years.  None of that gives us ultimate control over the number of days we have in this life; God takes care of that, and God does not need our help.

We must also let go of the thought that life is not worth living when it is not wonderful.  This life is a precious gift.  Our very being is created by a God who poured God’s very image into us, and that image is a fearful thing.  That image has the ability to bring God’s kingdom of hope and healing to each person we meet, if only we will recognize it in the mirror looking back at us. 

If we are to live this Psalm, we must understand that we cannot create or re-create ourselves.  We need one another for that, and we need God.  But the good news is, God needs us, too. 

God needs us to acknowledge that this life is fleeting, yes, but that at the very same time, it is bursting with a holy potential.  Perhaps that’s why God invites us to a Table of grace, where somehow something as ordinary as bread, soggy with grape juice, becomes something fearfully and wonderfully holy. 

If you feel that you are ordinary, and that this life is more burden than beauty, come to this Table.  If you feel that you might not be able to swallow the grace you receive here without choking, come to this Table.  If you feel that life slips through your weary fingers way too quickly, come to this Table.

Jesus Christ is here, patiently welcoming us not just as friends, but as family, holding soggy bread to our lips and saying, “you are wonderful, do not be afraid.”  Amen.