To receive these posts by email each Monday, sign up.
For more commentary on this week's readings, see the Reflections on the Lectionary page. For full-text access to all articles, subscribe to the Century.
A gazillion years ago I was invited to go to Ireland to lead a two-week retreat/reflection tour on Celtic Christianity. There I saw Celtic high crosses for the first time in person. They’re stunning works of art, ancient—the oldest examples are about 1,500 years old—and large enough to be seen from a distance. But they’re not just relics from the hoary past, dusted off for the edification of the tourist trade. They served multiple purposes, but one of the most important was education for the faithful.
Sculpted in the stone were stories of heroes and heroines from the biblical record. So, on one side, folks might have seen—and still do—depictions of Noah with raging waters and Adam and Eve with a talkative snake and Moses leading a ragtag band of former slaves; pick your favorite characters from the Hebrew Bible and you’ll probably find them still visible on these ancient monuments. On the other side are depictions derived from the life of Jesus and Paul and Mary Magdalene and of the disciples from the earliest stratum of the nascent church. And, this being a cruciform object, at the center of storied stone is the crucified Jesus.
The culture that created these marvels used them in part for catechesis to a largely illiterate population. Beauty wed with tradition: sculptures displayed on a cross large enough to be seen by a crowd, stories dancing across the surfaces. Genius.
A bit later, stained glass windows began to appear in monasteries, nunneries, and churches. Again, it’s magnificent art—in color this time—that describes some of what our ancestors deemed the most important biblical moments, joined now to depictions of the remarkable people we call the saints. Art and story are wed in glass for education of the faithful in attractive and attracting ways.
But prior to both of these, and stretching back more than a thousand years (in biblical reckoning) before the Christian era, there was music and singing and dancing. Recall Miriam and company celebrating their freedom from Pharaoh and his armed minions (Ex. 15:1-21). Which brings us, finally, to Psalm 107, much of which is omitted in the lectionary, alas.
The book of Psalms is, of course, the prayer book of both synagogue and church. Like its heirs, high crosses and stained glass, our Psalm 107 rehearses some of the story of Israel and its God, especially the mighty acts of that God. And music, particularly singing, imprints the story of that relationship in catchier and more inviting ways than mere recital. Singing the songs of liberation, redemption, and homecoming offers robust glimpses of hope, particularly in times of trouble, when despair is a close companion.
Even as it recalls times of turmoil, helplessness, and terror, Psalm 107 also celebrates and nudges folks to remember that time after time, distressed people turned in desperation to the ever-faithful God who had always come through for them in times of what must have seemed to them chaotic and insurmountable crises. Four times they sing the ecstatic refrain: “They cried out to the LORD [from their affliction] who saved/rescued/set them free.” (verses 6, 13, 19, and 28). It was at once catechism and memorial and gift of profound hope, especially when oppression and need and calamity threatened.
