As we enter this Lenten season together, 

we endeavor as always, to follow Jesus. 

into the wilderness, 

into reflection on our human frailty and sin,

and this year, through our sermon series, into the psalms. 

Using a book by author Barb Roose as our framework, we will journey into this 

ancient collection of Hebrew poetry, song, and prayer. 

We will ask the Holy Spirit to help us see how Christ is revealed 

in these artfully written lines 

and in the spaces between.  

Now, I’m not sure how it is that I ended up as tribute for this particular week. Couldn’t we give the seminary intern a nice little softball? Some Psalm 23, 85, 100… SO many good choices.  

Alas, we follow Jesus into the wilderness of Psalm 2, trusting that the one we seek will be revealed to us there.   

Let’s begin with a story… 

When my husband was a teenager, he worked on construction sites for his dad in the summers. The crew he worked with was responsible for trucking in pieces of modular homes and setting them up on their foundations. 

On this particular day, weather conditions in the small Iowa town where they worked were not ideal. A heavy morning rain had made a mess of things. They also discovered that in order to position the house correctly on its lot, they had to turn their rather massive truck around in a field and drive it back through the town’s pristine mainstreet block.

Now, the muddy tracks left behind on the street were substantial, and as the mother of three boys I can empathize a bit with the man who served as the town’s dedicated street cleaner, who came upon the scene just a few minutes later. As the crew were unloading tools from their trailer, they were confronted by his dismay. 

He charged onto the worksite, hands flying into the air, as he shouted at them: “Who’s in charge of this fiasco?!” My husband and his co-workers had just enough youthful wisdom to stifle their laughter, look at one another, and point over their shoulders in unison — at his dad. 

//

I share this story because I believe the question on the lips of that small town street sweeper is the central question in both of our readings this morning. 

Who’s in charge here? 

Both the psalmist and the gospel writer are asking it. 

And it’s a question I think we have all wanted to ask at one time or another…

perhaps playfully… perhaps with heavy lament…

because it doesn’t take much imaginative effort, does it—

to look around in this world and see a fiasco. 

I won’t ask for a show of hands, but how many of us, this very week—

turned off the news, 

or set down our phones, 

or finished watching another documentary, 

and we felt our heads shaking in dismay 

at the messes that have been caused 

by so many corruptions and failures of human leadership? 

13 million people displaced by Russia’s continued assault upon the Ukraine 

community after community after community in the United States—reeling from acts of brutality and violence

the escalation of conflict in the Middle East

the escalation of our grocery prices

and a heap of environmental crises, some of which are fast approaching irreversible thresholds

Who’s in charge here?

Does the question sometimes bring a little heat to your neck?

Maybe an edge of rage to your voice? 

Perhaps that fury that we can feel 

when we examine the madness of this world 

is important.

And perhaps it can help us as we approach the

difficult text of Psalm 2 today. 

I don’t know about you, but those lines about God’s quickly kindled anger and derisive laughter—they aren’t often invited into the cozy space of my morning prayers. 

But here they are, 

carefully placed within the introduction of the whole book of Psalms carefully chosen to frame and stabilize our prayers 

in the immovable sovereignty of God. 

One interpreter, James Mays, offers that Psalm 2 speaks 

‘to readers who have to live in the midst of the perils and threats

of the powers that are at work in the world. 

We can be tempted to be afraid and discouraged, 

tempted to believe that those powers are the only reality. 

We can even be in danger of submitting and trusting our lives

to the purposes of those powers.’ 

The psalmist sees the madness.

“Blessed are those who take refuge in [God].”

Perhaps those who can find the comfort and presence of Christ in Psalm 2 

are those who have suffered the most from the abuse of power in this world. 

The ones who reported the harassment or the assault and lost everything. 

The ones who were forced from their land by the government’s guns.  

The ones who looked for safety in the church and found it wasn’t there for them. 

Perhaps these are the ones we must listen to most closely 

if we are to understand. 

Friends, you and I know there is no shortage of bad news in this world,

no deficit of tragic stories about those 

who have tried to shake off God’s authority, 

those who conspire to rule with no regard for 

their actual place in the cosmic scheme of things.  

We even see it in the gospel text that we hold next to Psalm 2 today—a plot by those in power to keep themselves out of trouble,

 a twist the story, alternative facts.  

The psalmist insists that all such plots are in vain. 

To paraphrase a beloved professor of mine, Dr. Carol Becthel— 

the good news of Psalm 2 is that no matter how convincing our experience 

is to the contrary, human authorities must finally answer to divine authority. 

Today, the psalmist and the gospel writer ask the same question:

Who’s in charge here? 

And they both point us to the same answer. 

The begotten one,

God’s anointed son, 

set on the holy mountain, 

the One to whom all authority on heaven and earth has been given

Jesus. 

Every other power in this world is derivative.’ 

(These are the words of Christian psychologist and teacher Diane Langberg.) 

All human power flows from and exists under the power of Christ.

Psalm 2 is a Royal Psalm, which means it was composed and used specifically for the coronation of Israel’s King. Can you imagine? 

“Be wise, be warned… Serve the Lord with fear…” 

Imagine if more of our world leaders sang those words with their communities as they entered their offices today! Or maybe they all just need to watch Spiderman…

“With great power comes… (great responsibility!)”

Of course, it’s easy for us peasants to point our fingers 

at elected officials and corporate leaders, 

to launch our critiques from the comfort of our social media pages. 

But the folly of the earth’s rulers in Psalm 2 can be any of ours, can’t it? 

As Barb Roose has said, we all have “little kingdoms” that we set up, where we can “perch ourselves on little demigod thrones.”

We all have ways in which we can misuse the power that we have.

And friends, we do all have power—in unique quantities and forms.

It can be financial or physical, emotional or intellectual. 

The power of knowledge and verbal skills—we can dominate a classroom or discussion group, we can injure or soothe with our words, or our lack of words.

We can use our power of position or reputation to influence policy.  

We can change the temperature in our relationships with our tone and posture. 

We do all have power… (with curiosity)

This is the wisdom of Psalm 2: 

It is just as foolish and destructive to think that we can have more power than God, as it is to live as if God has given us no power at all. (x2)

Here’s some more good news: Everything we need to know about the right posture and use of human power we have seen in Jesus Christ. 

Jesus knew his power came from God. 

Jesus used his power to heal and teach, 

to include and protect, 

to confront and to transform.  

And Jesus shared his power. 

‘Go. Make Disciples. Baptize. Teach.’

And as Jesus empowers those who have followed him, he assures them they will never be on their own in figuring out how to use what they have been given: “Surely, I am with you always.”

In the same way, the psalmist sets human power in its only sensible place: 

The refuge of our relationship with God. 

Friends, the begotten one has come to save us from ourselves—to set back in order the many fiascos we make in our own madness.

// 

So, as we follow God’s annointed into this Lenten season, 

many of us are picking up practices of prayer, fasting, creativity, generosity.  

But, If you were a thrown by Wednesday’s snowstorm or maybe are just generally a little slow on the game like me, 

I’d like to offer a last-minute idea for a practice. 

It comes from the teaching of the Fransican priest, Richard Rhor. 

He invites you and I to pray for one good humiliation a day.  

I know, it doesn’t sound like fun. 

It might even sound like a terrible idea, so let me clarify.

We’re not talking about a shame spiral here. 

Nothing that disrupts your shalom 

or causes you to question your identity as God’s beloved child. 

We’re just talking about a little flub. 

Just enough to remind you that you are an image-bearer of the almighty God, 

but you are not, in fact, God Almighty. 

We’re talking about things like pit stains. 

That gentle trip over your feet on the way back from the lectern. 

An apology to your children for a mistake in your parental judgment. 

​​Admitting a gap in your knowledge 

or a maybe (just maybe) a deficiency in your own driving. 

For me, this recently looked like realizing (after an hour of conversation) that I had been confidently calling one of my cousins by his brother’s name. And he had let it happen, just to mess with me.

One good humiliation a day.

It’s a practice which might help us 

as we examine our own place in the cosmic scheme of things 

and consider the use of our God given-power. 

However it happens this Lent, when we do find ourselves humbled, 

may we also find ourselves held. 

May we listen carefully 

to those who suffer where power dynamics are top-heavy. 

And may we find refuge in the One to whom all power has been given. 

Amen.