“God has said ‘I will bring y’all back from Bashan. I’ll bring ya back out the dark depths of the sea; so you might splash in bloody puddles, and your dogs’ll devour the dead'” (Psalm 68:23).
Rather nasty image on this Resurrection Sunday, isn’t it? On a morning when we are reminded that dawn can bring new possibilities after the long night, it’s jarring to run into this violence. No, not just violence but a reveling in the death of those we believe to be our enemies.
It is a stark contrast to the scenes in the Gospels. Instead of the intimate encounter between Mary and Jesus in the garden, we have folks wading barefoot through blood. Instead of the mysterious traveler on the Emmaus road, there are dogs devouring the unburied dead.
Yet, here they are, both in the same collection of centuries-old writings. On one side the pronouncement of shalom as the shadow of death disperses, and on the opposite a reveling in the dehumanizing destruction of the other. And us, in the middle, attempting to reconcile them both.
Scripture is silent on the Saturday between Good Friday and this Sunday. We move from the setting of the sun on the newly-closed tomb to first light revealing its uncovered opening. It goes without saying that the day in-between was full of grief. Their friend, their teacher was dead. They had, despite their best intentions, failed him in the critical hour—running away instead of standing with him. At least, the men had.
Grief, of course, is not a straight line. Yes, there are stages, but everyone doesn’t move from A to Z at the same time nor the same way. On that Saturday, there were tears and that empty, empty feeling when one we love is no longer alive on this earth. But there was also, likely, silence brought on by shock. Some of Jesus’ closest followers may have sat in a corner of the room, shivering beneath a blanket despite the warmth of the day, unable to process what happened.
And one or two may well have had words like the Psalmist on their mind. Perhaps James and John, the Sons of Thunder, seethed as they paced the floor, slammed hands on counters and doors. Rage in place of silence or tears. And maybe the words of this Psalm echoed in their heads, a litany as they imagined vengeance on the Roman State who’d put their beloved friend to death.
It’s a dark place when your mind begins to contemplate not just violence but to revel in the results of that violence. And that darkness can become a permanent part of us, as it did in the Roman Empire—its emperors, commanders, soldiers—who not only enacted a means of punishment as ugly as the crucifixion but took enjoyment in it. It’s a place that destroys something within us, turning us into those who kick off their sandals and splash in the bloody pools beneath the condemned.
So, is this Psalm, and so many others that celebrate the destruction of another, incompatible with the Gospel or, specifically, the celebration of this day when death is overcome by love? Can we reconcile the One who suffered and refused vengeance with this prayer for retribution?
I believe we have to, or we get stuck only half way to the truth.
The temptation is to dismiss the Psalmist’s words, to call it archaic, part of the “old” and claim to follow the “new.” To look down on anyone who dares speak these words from their heart. To repress, deny, and deceive ourselves that we’ve ever felt this thirst for payback.
But it is also tempting to revel in this desire, this bloodlust. To claim that strength is what is needed in this world against the unrighteous, against those who are both our enemies and God’s. To ignore the One who, bearing the scars of cruelty, declared that reconciliation between all of Creation has come.
In between these two is a honesty that the desire expressed by the Psalmist lives within us. It is part of our broken, wounded natures in this broken and wounded world. And though it’s not fit, amongst most people, to express in our daily lives, it bubbles up from the depths of grief and sorrow within us. And it is there alongside our knowledge, in our minds and hearts, that there is another way.
It’s a way of sanctifying that darkness and bringing it into the bright, morning light. It’s a means of accepting the scars that we hold in our bodies in a world that hurts us and those we love, that does not seem to be the reality we’d hoped. It is a path that leads from the starkness of the stone-hard places of our heart and into a garden of new growth. One where our feet grow wet not with blood but with the cool, morning dew.
And at its end is someone we know, whose face has been seen in friends and strangers who shows us that the dogs of vengeance lie sleeping at our feet.
Risen One, in remembrance of the scars of your hands, side, and feet let us choose shalom over violence, forgiveness over retribution, and follow the love that leads along your Way.