Lord, you searched me, and you know

I am not preaching anywhere this weekend. I think this Sunday (sometimes called "Homecoming" or "Welcome Back" in places where people tend to be away during much of the summer) is one that diocesan clergy tend to keep for themselves, kind of like Christmas and Easter. So I didn't have any invitations to be anywhere, which is actually kind of nice (especially after a busier than usual summer of commitments.)

Even without a sermon to write, I find myself reflecting this morning on Psalm 139, which will be prayed in congregations using Track 1 for the Old Testament today. (See the Revised Common Lectionary readings here.)

Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17 Domine, probasti

1 Lord, you have searched me out and known me; *
you know my sitting down and my rising up;
you discern my thoughts from afar.

2 You trace my journeys and my resting-places *
and are acquainted with all my ways.

3 Indeed, there is not a word on my lips, *
but you, O Lord, know it altogether.

4 You press upon me behind and before *
and lay your hand upon me.

5 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; *
it is so high that I cannot attain to it.

12 For you yourself created my inmost parts; *
you knit me together in my mother's womb.

13 I will thank you because I am marvelously made; *
your works are wonderful, and I know it well.

14 My body was not hidden from you, *
while I was being made in secret
and woven in the depths of the earth.

15 Your eyes beheld my limbs, yet unfinished in the womb;
all of them were written in your book; *
they were fashioned day by day,
when as yet there was none of them.

16 How deep I find your thoughts, O God! *
how great is the sum of them!

17 If I were to count them, they would be more in number than the sand; *
to count them all, my life span would need to be like yours.

Robert Alter calls this "one of the most remarkably introspective psalms in the canonical collection." He translates the opening words even more directly than the version above: "Lord, you searched me, and You know." 

I imagine that there are times in our lives, times perhaps when we feel ashamed of some choice or another, that the God-from-whom-no-secrets-are-hid scares us. But that is not where this poet is going. To be known, truly known, is to be loved. And to be loved is to be able to live more fully, and more gracefully.

In the decade or so that I served as an EfM mentor, I came across something called the The Johari Window, an image that has continued to intrigue me these many years later. It looks like this:

I think it's fairly self explanatory, but it's very been very helpful to me over the years. There are parts of us that we know and others know: who we are in the public arena.The kind of stuff that may make it into our obituaries or be shared at our funerals. It's important, yet maybe not the most interesting part of our personalities.

There is also the stuff we don't know about ourselves even though pretty much everyone else does: our blind spots. In my work I encounter this frequently with clergy and congregations,and it can cut in both directions. People can love us in spite of something we don't know about ourselves or because of something we don't know about ourselves. It can be sweet, like we don't have any idea how gifted we really are in some area. Or it can be maddening, like we have no idea how obnoxious we sound. Either way, there are things we don't know about ourselves that, if we asked, a friend would be more than happy to tell us!

Then there is that stuff that we know about ourselves, but keep hidden from others. Again, this can be good stuff - talents we don't want to share openly, perhaps. So we sing in the shower and we do it well, but only there. Or it can be things that we are afraid might make people think less of us; we tell ourselves that if they ever found out, then we'd be all alone. As Billy Joel once hauntingly asked, "did you ever let your lover see the stranger in yourself?" This part of the window is fittingly called facade, the stuff we know only too well about ourselves but either intentionally or unintentionally hide from others.

But to me the most interesting box is what is unknown. Unknown to us, no matter how well we think we know ourselves. Unknown to others, no matter how much of an open book we may be. Only God knows. Lord, you have searched me. And you know.

I fully realize the psalmist does not know about Johari's window. But I think the deep level of introspection of this psalm leads to that place. This pray-er fully understands that God knows us better than even those who love us deeply know us. And God knows us better than we know ourselves. That, I think, is what the poet is reflecting on in this prayer. God knows. And God loves. The One who knit us together in our mother's wombs did so with love. It is an amazing thing to be truly known even when we do not understand ourselves some days, or why we act as we do.

God knows us in ways that are too high for us to attain. We will never fully know ourselves, let alone another person. But we can strive to love others as we are already loved. I believe to my core, even now as a budding curmudgeon troubled by the state of the church, and our nation and the planet that when we take the time to get to know someone, it is easier to love them. Much of what we hate or fear (or judge) in another are really just projections of what we may hate or fear or judge in ourselves.

I read this week that the founder of so-called gay "conversion therapy" (that is, an attempt to make gay people straight) changed his mind. He admitted, at 51 years old, that he is himself gay and that he was wrong. If you haven't heard about this, you can read it here.

This story may be a longer conversation, but for this reflection I want to simply say this: for nearly five decades, this man literally did not know who he was. Perhaps it was in the blind spot area and if he'd asked, others would have told him. Or perhaps even they did not know. But the God who knit him in his mother's womb knew. Either way, his own not knowing was extremely harmful to many, many people. I don't know how he can ever fully repent for the pain he has caused. But I do recognize, when I see it, how that turning begins. It begins by accepting who he is, as known by God. It begins by admitting he was wrong.

God has searched us. And God knows. May that truth make us more and more aware that we are loved - not because God does not see, but because God knows us better than we know ourselves. And may that knowledge that we are loved, deeply loved, help us to respond in turn, by loving God, and by loving neighbor.