Do Not Be Far From Me

Southern trees bear strange fruit / Blood on the leaves and blood at the root

“Strange Fruit” sung by Billie Holiday. Written by Abel Meeropol

Strange things did happen here / No stranger would it be
If we met at midnight / In the hanging tree

Songwriters: James Newton Howard, Jeremy C Fraites, Suzanne Collins, Wesley Keith Schultz
“The Hanging Tree” lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., Universal Music Publishing Group, Warner Chappell Music, Inc

Some days you feel far away. From everything. Or maybe from everyone. It is a common human condition, unfortunately. We wonder about those who are important to us, particularly if they are a long way away from us. I called my parents a week ago, and since then, I have wondered how they were really doing. It is as if the miles between us are even longer than usual.

We don’t do well with distance. I know there is the “absence makes the heart grow fonder” idea. But there is also the “out of sight, out of mind” reality. Both are true. Both war within us. I have a close family. No, I had a close family. We were close, in one house, falling all over one another, getting in each other’s way, getting on each other’s nerves. We were close.

But now we are far apart—from coast to coast, north to south. We get together from time to time, and it is great. We pick up where we left off and then pledge to keep in touch. But we don’t. And most of the time, we’re okay with that. We’ve got lives to live; we’ve got responsibilities and structures. We’ve got new lives, different lives, lives that don’t always include those we were close to.

I had a good friend in high school. Well, a couple of years of high school anyway. We did all sorts of things together; we were as close as friends could get for those couple of years. But then I moved away, and we lost touch. I learned that his father died some years ago. I got his address to send him a note. But the address sat on my desk as I tried to think of what to say. “I’m sorry for your loss” seemed inadequate, but the common ground between us seemed to be gone. I feel distant, disconnected, unsure of what to say, how to bridge the gap that had grown between us.

That’s life, some say. We can’t stay connected to everyone. And that’s true. But then there are times when we wonder if we can stay connected to anyone. It is as though we live in an isolation chamber, cut off, misunderstood, ignored, alone.

Psalm 22 is about just such an experience. It is one of the personal lament psalms, expressing the human pain of disconnection. The cause of the pain is not clear from the context. It could be an illness of some sort, or it could be an attack from enemies of one kind or another. But in the end, it is a spiritual problem, regardless of the genesis of the experience. “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me” is the most famous first verse of the psalm. The feeling of abandonment, of disassociation. For nearly twenty verses, the psalmist struggles with this lack of connection, with the sense of the void, the emptiness of life.

The imagery is powerful and painful at the same time. It’s painful because it evokes memories of suffering and even death. Jesus recalled this psalm as he was dying on the cross. We can’t read that opening line without picturing that suffering. And while we have never had to endure such a degree of pain and sense of abandonment, there are still echoes in our own soul. “I am poured out like water; my bones are out of joint.” That resonates to some degree. “I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest.” We’ve had those sleepless nights, those lonely days. And we’ve wondered whether anyone is listening, whether there is anyone who loves us still.

Keep reading, however. Psalm 22 makes a change and turns a corner. And it sounds very different. Dramatically different. Something changed from the first half of the psalm. But what happened? Well, maybe the psalmist got well; the illness that was afflicting him has broken, and now there is healing. Maybe. Perhaps the enemies that were besieging wandered off to harass other victims. Could be. The moment of despair has passed; the cause of concern has abated. “Whew,” we think, “Glad that is over. I’m ok now. Back to normal.”

Except there is the small grain of doubt that sits in a corner of our hearts, saying, “What about next time?” Will it all come rushing back? Will the doubts rise up? Will the loneliness overwhelm again? Is it possible that this sense of being alone in the universe creeps back into our thoughts and fears in the next weak moment? In other words, is Good Friday over and done with? Or does it hover around the margins?

Almost assuredly, if the change in the tone of the psalm has an external cause, then the worries will continue. If the writer is able to now speak of praise and comfort and satisfaction because the illness has abated or the enemies have wandered off, then all will crash down again if and when those circumstances change again.

But what if the change in the psalm is not due to an external difference? What is the writer is still fighting an illness or an enemy? What if the change is an internal one? A spiritual rather than physical difference? What if we are still wrapped up in Good Friday, and the nails tear at our hands, and the sense of abandonment is almost overwhelming? What then?

The singer-songwriter Sara Groves has a song titled “It Might be Hope.” The refrain goes like this:

“Hope has a way of turning its face to you / just when you least expect it / you walk in a room / you look out a window / and something there leaves you breathless / you say to yourself / it's been a while since I felt this / but it feels like it might be hope.”

Songwriter: Sara Groves
“It Might Be Hope” lyrics © Music Services, Inc

Hope is what happened in Psalm 22—not a feeble wishing for a change in circumstances, but a robust hope based on faith in a loving God who will not leave us abandoned forever. It is hope in a God who desires wholeness for all God’s children, who creates community by connecting hearts, who provides enough for all to be satisfied. The effect of hope on the psalmist is obvious: where once there was separation and fear, now there is community - an ever-widening community that includes all of creation - from the offspring of Jacob to the great congregation, to the poor, to all nations, to those who have gone before and those who are yet to be.

Hope reminds us that we are not alone, despite our existential experience. Our faith tells us that God has not abandoned us, even when we no longer hear God’s voice or sense God’s presence. Hope also reminds us that when we have lost our grip, we can find it in the community around us. By reaching into the void, we find there are others who will take our hand and lift us up. By seeking a connection, we find ourselves being put back together again.

Hope can leave us breathless. Hope grows from our faith. Hope reminds us of love. Even on Good Friday, there can be a hope that lets us say with confidence, “God heard when I cried out.”