Deep Waters

"The purposes of the heart are deep waters, but a person of understanding draws them out." -Proverbs 20:5 "So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom." -Psalm 90:12

This past summer, while driving across the country and putting almost 7000 miles on our car, I had lots of time to think about the truth of that little passage from the biblical book of Proverbs: "The purposes of the heart are deep waters, but a person of understanding draws them out." After spending much of the last twenty-five years trying to comprehend and understand and heal and avoid the complexities of the human heart, I have to admit that they are, indeed, "deep waters."

Perhaps it was the fact of where we were, in the American southwest in the high heat of summer, with nary a drop of water to be felt or seen, let alone to drink, that got me thinking about those deep waters of the heart. One thinks of deep waters in a dry place. One better. There is a reason why revelation so often happens in desert places.

Something in me has always thirsted to understand both the good and the evil that men (and women) do. I have longed to be that "person of understanding," who might "draw out" those often tangled purposes like waters from a deep well.

Perhaps it was the silence and mystery of the abandoned ancient Indian ruins at Betatakin or Canyon de Chelly that got me thinking about the deep waters of the human heart. Or was it the peace and quiet of the tall grass prairie, in an Oklahoma preserve large enough to remind us what it was like before we came with all our purposes and shattered that glorious and awesome calm?

I only know that I feel only a little closer to understanding those purposes now than I did twenty-five years ago. The well that holds those deep waters is, it seems, bottomless. In a world with so much beauty, why is there so much suffering and pain? Why is there so my hatred? Why do the good perish and the evil live and prosper? Why does beauty wither and fade away? I confess that sometimes I feel further from understanding these questions than ever.

I re-read Wordsworth’s great "Ode: Intimations of Immortality" and know whereof he speaks when he writes,

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
          To me did seem
     Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
     Turn wheresoe’er I may,
          By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

But as it was with Wordsworth, the beauty of nature ultimately has the power to restore my soul. Standing at the rim of the Grand Canyon, or in midst of the seemingly endless prairie, I know the truth of his recognition:

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live. . . .

My soul and my faith were rekindled this summer by the beauty and majesty of nature. In spite of all our best efforts to despoil it, something holy and sacred endures. It is something that will outlast all our purposes for good or ill.

And I was restored by spending time with someone I love--even after twenty-six days and 7000 miles together.

I was restored this summer by finding that after all these years I could still take joy in building new friendships and in cherishing old ones.

I believe that it is our calling as religious people to try those deep waters of the human heart. Like swimmers we often cannot know what lurks just below the surface of our purposes. We must seek our understandings in the knowledge that we may never probe those depths. Something of mystery will always remain. In spite of our best efforts, we will sometimes fail to heal the brokenness we see around us, and we will sometimes fail to understand even those we love. Like St. Paul, we will do the things we don’t wish to do; we will not be the people we wish to be.

The ancient Psalmist understood our human limitations very well. As you hear these words, I ask you not to think of theological concepts, but to think of a place on earth that restores your soul, or of the multitude of stars at night. Think of a place where you feel very, very small:

Lord, you have been our dwelling place
     in all generations
Before the mountains were brought forth,
     or ever you had formed the earth and the world,
from everlasting to everlasting you are God.

You turn us back to dust, and say, "Turn back, you mortals."
For a thousand years in your sight are like yesterday
     when it is past,
or like a watch in the night.

You sweep them away; they are like a dream,
     like grass that is renewed in the morning;
in the morning it flourishes and is renewed;
     in the evening it fades and withers.

For we are consumed by your anger,
     by your wrath we are overwhelmed.
You have set our iniquities before you,
     our secret sins in the light of your countenance.

For all our days pass away under your wrath;
     our years come to an end like a sigh.
The days of our life are seventy years,
     or perhaps eighty, if we are strong;
even then their span is only toil and trouble;
     they are soon gone, and we fly away.

Who considers the power of your anger?
     Your wrath is as great as the fear that is due you.
So teach us to count our days
     that we may gain a wise heart. [Psalm 90: 1-12]

Today we have re-gathered our worshipping community in this sacred and beloved place. It is good to be together, to feel the touch of our hands and to see the glow our faces. It is good to be back where people love us, or will at least try. May this new year bring us wisdom and understanding, that we might learn to swim in the deep waters of all our purposes, and reach the shore at last. Welcome back!

Amen.

The Rev. Harold E. Babcock