"Let the light of your face shine on us, O Lord." Psalm 4:6
Like all of us, Moses’s brother Aaron stumbled through a
life that was less than perfect. Because he conceded to the Israelite mob that
demanded an idol to worship, Aaron was almost single-handedly responsible for his
brother’s wrathful smashing of the God-inscribed stone tablets, not to mention
the display of God’s wrath on his own chosen people. No one ever mentions Aaron in a roll call of
the saints.
Yet, Aaron’s words ring throughout millions of church
fellowships around the world every week.
The Lord told Moses (see Numbers 6) to have Aaron bless the Israelites
with words that you can still hear almost any place two or three are gathered to
worship God: “The Lord bless you and
keep you; the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you. . .”
If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a million times. King
David likely did too.
And maybe that’s why the line itself has lost its visual
character; simply said, I’ve heard it so often. Just for a moment, it’s
helpful, I think, to create the picture this famous benediction offers. Penitents,
millions of them through the ages, are on their knees (it’s almost impossible
not to see them in some kind of supine position physically) and in some kind of
darkness, waiting for a brightening glance of Godliness, just a glance.
Now delete millions of those people from that image and
picture just one penitent. Put yourself there, on your knees, eyes slightly
arched but staring downward in helplessness, a nervous shakiness in hands and
arms and legs in anticipation of a passing glance, and repeat: “Let the light
of your face shine upon me, Lord.”
I dare say that the only people who can effortlessly create
that image of themselves are those who, for whatever horrifying reason, have
spent time themselves in that position.
Those who, like me, have never suffered significant bouts of abandonment
or grief or despair have trouble creating an image of so great a helplessness. After
all, I might say, I’ve got fairly substantial bootstraps to prove my internal
strength. What I’ve done, I’ve done on my own.
It seems so medieval almost, doesn’t it?—the image behind
the blessing; so, well, Islamic: hoards of people, face to the floor, hoping for
a fleeting glance from the King of Creation. Good capitalists create their own blessings,
after all; we seal our own successes with our dogged industry. We make our
fate.
But the line we repeat so often—and hear repeated as a blessing
to us—offers a wholly different portrait. There’s zero self-sufficiency in
David’s abject request here: “Just a glance, Lord.”
Shine on me. Please. Shine on me.
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