Psalm 31, Psalm 42

I was raised by my family, my community, and my church to be honest. To tell the truth, with one significant exception. When someone asks you, “How are you doing?”
Perhaps if your upbringing was anything like mine, you know that there is only one “right” answer to this question. And what is it? I’m doing just fine. I’m ok. I’m great! I’m doing well. (Don’t say “I’m doing good”, that’s bad grammar!) I’m all right. I’m fine. I’m just fine.
I don’t know about you, but I find myself saying it so much that it’s almost an involuntary reaction. Before someone has even finished asking me that customary, ‘polite’ greeting of “How are you?” I’ve already started my response to assure them I’m fine. You understand what I’m talking about, don’t you? It’s woven into the very fabric of our society. Whether we are experiencing immense joy, or deep grief, or anything in between – “How are you doing?” “I’m fine.”
Not that long ago, I went through a difficult season of life, and this whole “I’m fine” thing started to really get to me. It bothered me at times when I heard it from other people, but it bothered me, even more, when I heard myself say those words – I’m fine. Because you see, I didn’t always know how other people were feeling, but I knew how I was feeling. And I knew I was not fine!
As time went on, I became more and more uncomfortable with this standard response. I started to feel like my dishonesty disguised as “politeness” was, in fact, contributing to the whole problem. I felt like by telling people “I’m fine” when I was actually feeling sad, or angry, even broken to my very core, I was helping to perpetuate that myth that we’re all doing just “fine”. And the related, more harmful, the myth that if we’re not “doing fine”, there must be something wrong with us. And so, for a period of several months, when someone would casually ask how I was doing, I tried my best not to respond with “I’m fine” or any equivalents: “I’m all right, ok,” etc.
Friends, let me tell you, it was hard! Especially when I was feeling particularly not-fine – sad, lonely, angry, broken, weary, scared. On those days in particular, I found myself getting very creative in my responses, some of which included, “I’m putting one foot in front of the other”, or “I’m making it through the day,” or one of my most frequent responses, “I’m really grateful that it’s lunch time!” Which is true. I’m always really grateful when it’s lunch time!
And you know what? During my several-month moratorium on the word “fine”, two very intriguing things started to happen. First, as I searched for responses that were honest but that didn’t bear my whole soul to an unsuspecting co-worker just trying to be friendly, I found myself intentionally looking for things that I was grateful for that day. Lunchtime, of course, was always a favorite, but sometimes, I’d run into people and it wasn’t lunchtime. I’d hear myself saying, “I’m grateful that it’s so nice out today” or “I’m excited about a concert I’m going to this weekend.” Ironically, by being honest with myself about my own brokenness, by refusing to pretend I was “fine”, it became easier for me to recognize the places in my life where I was experiencing grace, and simple pleasures, and even…dare I say it? – joy.
But the second thing that happened was even more profound and even more important, I think, for those of us gathered today. When I would admit to someone, even in simple, passing conversation, “You know, I’m just putting one foot in front of the other,” or “I’m feeling exhausted”, or “I’m frustrated today,” or even “I’m feeling sad,” people responded with kindness, and compassion, yes, but they also started to let down their own guard a bit. They
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became more honest with me, loosened their own grips on that cultural determination to be fine. They’d say things like, “I’m kind of sad today, too. What are you sad about?” Or “You know, I hear you, I’m really feeling exhausted and weary these days.” I learned that by being vulnerable and real, by being willing to name my brokenness, to acknowledge that I was in fact not fine, I was, without even knowing it, inviting other people to do the same. And as it turns out, many people were actually quite relieved and ready to accept that invitation.
This is why I appreciate the psalms, especially psalms of lament like we heard this morning because the people who wrote these prayers make no pretense about being “fine.” Imagine having a casual conversation with the author of Psalm 31. “How are you doing today?” “Well, my strength fails me because of my misery, and my bones waste away; I have become like a broken vessel!” Or how about the author of Psalm 42? “Oh, you know, my tears have been my food day and night.” These people are experiencing pain and brokenness, and they are not shy about naming that pain and lifting up that brokenness to God. They name their trust in God, they express their gratitude for how God has delivered them in the past, but that does not stop them from crying out to God for that which is hurting them and breaking their hearts today.
Friends, I believe that these psalms are offering us an invitation. We are all broken people, and we live in a broken world. Some days we feel fine, but many days we don’t. And it is ok for us to acknowledge that. In fact, to do so is courageous, holy work. For remember, friends, we worship a God who says to us, “Come to me all you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” A God who promises to wipe away every tear from our eyes. Which means, we can admit that we are weary, that we carry heavy burdens. We don’t need to hide our faces; we can let God see the tears in our eyes.
Today we will participate in a symbolic, liturgical act of releasing our brokenness to God. Perhaps it will be meaningful for you, or perhaps it won’t…we all experience and express our brokenness in different ways. But friends ultimately, what I ask of you and hope for you today and every day, is that each of us may be courageous enough to acknowledge our broken pieces, to name them and let them be visible to God, and perhaps even to one another. That we would let go of this preoccupation with being “fine”.
None of us are fine. But we are, all, in the hands of a loving God who can take broken pieces and broken people, and create something beautiful. Thanks be to God.