“It Ends with the Doxology”

I just finished another read-through of the Psalms. Inspired by my friend and mentor Gary Straub’s longtime daily discipline, I modified what Gary does (three per day) and focus on just one. I start at Psalm 1. Five months later – 150 days – I finish with Psalm 150. Truth be told, it takes more than five months because often I get distracted pondering and journalling something else and never get to the psalm of the day.

I’ve been doing this for seven years (seven – a good biblical number) and anticipate continuing for the rest of my life. The Psalms feel like old friends now. You stay in touch with old friends. I do, anyway. Plus, they always offer something new to ponder. Call it psalm psavoring. The late Eugene Peterson, whose book Praying with the Psalms accompanied my psalm reading in 2019, testified to the new meaning to be discovered in the Psalms (and all scripture) when he wrote,              

“We have not seen all there is on the pages we already have. It is not another book we need, but better attention to the book we have; it is not more knowledge we require, but better vision to see what has already been revealed in Jesus Christ”

It is not another devotional book I need, but better attention to the book I have – the Psalms. They offer me a menu of moods and emotions – praise and perplexity, gratitude and grief, hope and heartache, awe and anger, assuring me all of life can be translated into prayer.

Dr. Bill Paulsell, who preceded me in ministry at North Christian Church in Columbus, IN, then was a member, friend, and mentor at Central Christian in Lexington, KY, asked a monk at the Abbey of Gethsemani what he could do to develop a deeper prayer life. “Do what we do,” the monk said. “Pray the Psalms.” Good advice then and now.

Which brings me back to last week’s completion of another psalm cycle and a precious memory that Psalm 150 spurred.      

Jennie and I had a Sunday morning ritual during COVID when we were in Lexington that we kept without fail for the 50+ Sundays we were not in person for worship. We drove downtown at 9:45 am and parked in front of the church. Shelley Ferguson, who died a few years ago at 93 – a dearer soul you will not meet – met us each Sunday.   

Jennie would don mask and gloves and walk around the church buildings picking up trash. As she harvested the detritus of the week, I leaned against the stone wall in front of the sanctuary awaiting Shelley’s arrival. She would don her mask and step onto the sidewalk at the requisite social distance, her arm in a cast, the result of a fall she took getting up to answer the phone one night. We’d then check in with each other.

How’s Walt? (Shelley’s husband who preceded her in death by 15 months)

Not well. They want to move him to Memory Care.   

I’m sorry, Shelley

How’s your family, David?

All are well. We have a Zoom call with our son and his family, our daughters, my sister, brother-in-law, and their daughters every Sunday afternoon at five o’clock.

By this time, Central’s carillon would begin to ring. When it did, Shelley and I paused our catching up and looked up to the bell tower for a ten-minute concert. Michael, our Music Director, always started with the iconic melody of the Westminster Chimes followed by ten bells tolling the hour. Then followed three or four hymns, the first notes of which signaled Shelley and me to “Name That Tune.” First one to name the hymn got bragger’s rights until the next one was played.

By the time the hymns began, Jennie was back with her catch of the day, a black plastic trash bag filled with bottles and cans, Styrofoam carryout trays from the nearby rescue mission, a pair of men’s underwear, an orphaned sock, a glove, and who knows what else. A few walkers and bikers would pass by and greet us with a kindly “Good morning.” We were joined as well by a couple dozen birds perched on the ledge of the bank’s parking garage across the street.

The hymns were followed by the Doxology: “Praise God from whom all blessings flow / Praise God all creatures here below (all creatures: David, Shelley, Jennie, birds, dog walkers, bike riders) / Praise God above ye heavenly host / Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost”

As the concert concluded one week, I said to Shelley, “It ends with the Doxology.” The next morning, as I sat journaling in my prayer chair, those words came back to me. I saw in my mind’s eye an image – Jennie, Shelley and I in front of the church. Shelley in cast and mask bemoaning Walt’s decline. Jennie masked, her burgeoning bag of trash in gloved hand. Me leaning against the weathered stone wall. Mid-pandemic. Church closed. Downtown desolate. Woe were we.

Then a caption for the above image came to mind: “It ends with the Doxology.” It was a paradoxical epiphany. The woe, the gray, the littered streets, Shelley’s broken arm and Walt’s diminished mind, the planet in pandemic lockdown juxtaposed with a blessedly dissonant declaration: “It ends with the Doxology.”   

The Psalms begin with a flurry of laments, but by the end they give way to full-throated praise. Psalm 150 pulls out all the stops. The Book of Revelation, that vexing book that growls with loud noises and paints menacing images ends in a cascade of praise. In so doing, it brings the sweep of Scripture to a soaring acclamation. The Bible ends in Doxology.

We’re in another trying time. Many people I know and love are dragging tail. I watched last Sunday as a dear friend and colleague paused in the midst of his communion meditation to wait for the catch in his throat to subside. Fighting off tears, he poured the fruit of the vine from pitcher to chalice saying, “The cup of the world’s suffering; Jesus’ lifeblood poured out for you.” As he did, Shelley’s visage and the memory of our weekly COVID vigil came to mind, a godsend. I needed to be reminded that in spite of the current pandemic of soul-wearying devilries, it all really does end with the Doxology.

You can take that to the bank, as they say, on whose parking garage the birds listened to the carillon as if they, too, welcomed the reminder that God is sovereign, Christ is risen, accountability and vindication will have their day, and God’s kingdom will come on earth as it is in heaven.

The Bible ends with the voice from the throne saying, “Write it down. These words are trustworthy and true” (Revelation 21:5). Write it down: It ends with the Doxology. Upheld by that blessed assurance, do the next right thing, relieve the world of whatever trash is within your sphere of influence, and hold fast to the One who steadfastly holds us all.