In the lives of all spiritual aspirants there are periods when the light of God's presence is so dimmed that all tangible means of support seem to have been removed - if indeed they ever existed as more than a pathetic illusion, conjured up by the mind to evade the challenge of ultimate meaningless with annihilation as its centre. None can escape this experience, any more than Jesus could avoid the pain of his passion and the apparent ignominy of his death. One of the most attractive, indeed lovable, features of the psalms is their strong tendency to get to the heart of the matter, not flinching from even the most direct emotional response at what appears to be God's arbitrary dealings with his creatures, especially the chosen people of Israel. Despair, irritation, anger and growing impatience mark a number of the psalms; their general tenor may make us frown because of their pre-Christian attitudes, but then we have to sit down with our own emotional darkness, and not simply adopt exemplary spiritual poses that serve to separate us from our deeper feelings. These will erupt no matter how carefully they are lulled to sleep in an atmosphere of cosy piety or religious fervour on behalf of a particular cause.

A plea of great urgency is contained in Psalm 142. Here the situation is that of a hunted man who prays in desperation to God for help:

I cry aloud to the Lord;
to the Lord I plead aloud for mercy.

He is in a sad plight, for his enemies are all around him, seeking to destroy him by sedulously laying snares to trap him.

I look to my right hand,
I find no friend by my side;
no way of escape is in sight,
no one comes to rescue me.

He cries unrestrainedly to God, his refuge and portion in the land of the living, craving for relief from those who harass him, begging to be set free from prison, one of inner hell as much as outer incarceration. Then he can praise God's name, while the righteous crown him with honour as they witness his due reward.

There is a shade of difference between despair and desperation. While in both there is a loss, or else an utter want, of hope, the despairing person is filled with despair whereas the one who is desperate is moved by his despair. And so the individual may resort to reckless behaviour as a last response to the apparently hopeless situation around him. He moves to the periphery of the normal agencies of succour, whether medical, legal or spiritual. He will clutch at the least available straw in a last attempt to escape drowning. And so it is that quite a few psalms are dominated by feelings of desperation, since the writer is an active person and not merely a passive animal. Unrestrained anger at the inscrutable ways of the God who so often hides himself from the pain of human experience helps to assuage the intolerable emptiness of total despair.

Quite a number of the psalms contain passages of anger of such vehemence that they embarrass, and not occasionally shock, the reader who has known the Christian revelation of love as the supreme manifestation of God's dealings with his creatures here on earth. Nevertheless, before such a reader assumes the mantle of a superior spiritual guide, it will do him good to understand the historical perspective of the Psalmist and also, even more pertinently, the inner workings of his own psyche. How easy it is to judge and condemn when one can sit in peace and assurance! And Jesus sharply reminds us, we too have to bear the humiliation of being ushered away from the better seats of the banquet that we had chosen and brought to less impressive places, where we may eat with those whom we would previously have regarded with distaste, if not contempt. The end of Jesus' own life was spent in the close company of two such individuals, all bound for a common death, as are we also at the end of this life's journey. A question mark hangs over us all; we do not know from where we came or for what region we are bound. An inner spark within us tells us that there is some tremendous meaning behind the rational enigma, and the light of this spark has to be followed if we are not to go insane at the apparent futility, to say nothing of the manifest injustice, of life as we find it on a purely superficial level. It is not unreasonable, and certainly not unforgivable, that we from time to time explode emotionally under the strain. God forgives even when the human cannot do so spontaneously; indeed were it not for this love that is the nature of the Deity, none of us would be alive. The allegory of the Flood in Genesis 6-8 would have been repeated so often that eventually no person would have been found to assume the saving character of Noah.

It is in this frame of mind that the passages of anger, and especially those of fierce imprecation (cursing), are to be read with quiet sympathy and not supercilious judgement. It is right that they should be avoided in public worship, for they might possibly inflame the passions of an already emotionally unstable attender, and lead him to desperate action. Likewise we should come before God in chaste simplicity and quiet regard in order to be filled with the good things he has prepared for us. But before we can receive these gifts in perfect awareness and full dedication, we have to discharge our sinfulness to God, who alone can receive our foulness as a sacrifice and transmute it to health through his unspeakably great love. Thus a general confession is a vital part of communal no less than private worship, and the psalms of anger and imprecation help us to look into our own darkness and acknowledge it in the company of the ancient Psalmist. Times may change, but human nature remains distressingly selfish until the direct impress of God's presence had been registered on it.

It is a passion for justice, at least as an individual sees and seeks it, that inspires the dark, inflammatory passages of the psalms. The human soul will, like the inexorably persistent widow described in Luke 18:1-5, demand justice. Even if the judge is hard and dishonest she will wear him down with her nagging; but, as the parable tells us; God is perpetually giving justice to his chosen, to whom he listens with patience as they cry without ceasing. Their relief is assured, but then comes the challenging question: when the Son of Man comes will he find faith on earth? He is in fact the justice we all seek, but in him a purely legalistic satisfaction is transcended in a love that is able to forgive spontaneously. This is the end of the process, but we cannot grasp at it until we have learnt to accept ourselves and the world and work for its healing. Justice is not supplanted until it has done it cleansing work, which is to expose evil and corruption and bring all culprits to the seat of judgement. It is only then that the higher law of love can assert itself, so that healing may end the process of humiliation and suffering of victim and offender alike.

A notorious call for vengeance ends the otherwise beautiful Psalm 137, which begins:

By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept
as we remembered Zion.
On the willow tree there
we hung up our lyres,
for those who had carried us captive
asked us to sing them a song,
our captors called on us to be joyful:
"Sing us one of the songs of Zion."

But how could they sing the Lord's song in a foreign land? The writer goes on to pledge a complete sacrifice of his body if he fails to remember and honour Jerusalem. And then follows a call for vengeance on the Edomites, who joined forces with the Babylonians, in the final sack of the city and called for its total destruction. The climax reaches its zenith in an imprecation against the Babylonians themselves for their destructiveness:

Babylon, Babylon the destroyer,
happy is he who repays you
for what you did to us!

Then comes the terrible sentiment, "Happy is he who seizes your babes and dashes them against a rock." Before we condemn this utterly, it must be recalled that the law of talio, as laid down in Exodus 21:23-25, required a stringently exact punishment for the offence committed against the person. Primitive as it sounds to us, it was in fact an advance on the savage vengeance visited on offenders previous to the Law as expounded by Moses. As the Jews grew in spiritual understanding after their return from Babylonian exile, so their interpretation of the Law became more humane, until the advent of Jesus who brought the concept of forgiveness to its highest point. It is nevertheless important to understand that Christ's work of love had been well prepared by the spiritual leaders who preceded him. He is to be seen as the final fulfilment of the Law and not its supplanter, let alone its destroyer (Matt. 5:17-19).

Psalm 58, directed at unjust rulers who abuse their power and judge their people unfairly, contains a long passage of imprecation: God is urged to destroy them utterly so that it may be as if they had never been born. The final exultation is sincere if vicious:

The righteous will rejoice at the sight of the vengeance done;
they will bathe their feet in the blood of the wicked.
It will be said,
"There is after all reward for the righteous;
there is after all a God who dispenses justice on earth."

Nothing is in fact more terrible than the apparent victory of the forces of evil over common decency in any generation. The virtually unopposed advance of Nazism in the thirties, the world at large blinding itself to the atrocities committed in Germany, is a case in point. Even more subtle was the era of Stalinism in Russia that was so easily cloaked under the impressive façade of social justice for the masses, while all sparks of individual protest were ruthlessly extinguished. When one remembers such events in our own century and the millions of innocent people who were savagely murdered, the strength of abhorrence registered in this psalm becomes less repulsive. But its impotence remains until justice is vindicated.

Psalm 55, a prayer to God in persecution, starts by arresting God's attention in urgent stress:

Listen, God, to my prayer:
do not hide yourself from my pleading.
Hear me and give me an answer,
for my cares leave me no peace.

The writer is panic-stricken by the clamour of his enemies, his heart is torn with anguish while his body trembles with fear:

I say: "Oh that I had the wings of a dove
to fly away and find rest!
I would escape far away
to a refuge in the wilderness.

The Psalmist's particular woe is that an intimate friend has betrayed him, so that the very meaning of his life has been torn asunder. One thinks of the betrayal of David by his trusted counsellor Ahithophel, who deserted to Absalom the royal mutineer. When his subversive advice was disregarded he committed suicide. In a somewhat different circumstance Christ's apostle Judas Iscariot was to betray his master to the hands of sinners, but here it was Jesus' innocence that was to cause Judas so intense a remorse that he summarily killed himself. The Psalmist contents himself with repeated imprecations against his persecutors while he prays earnestly for God to help in the morning, noonday and evening, which are the established hours of prayer. It is fascinating how entreaty to God alternates with imprecation against the adversary:

May death strike them,
may they go down alive to Sheol;
for their homes are haunts of evil!

Even at the end the two recurring themes show themselves in strength:

Commit your fortunes to the Lord,
and he will sustain you;
he will never let the righteous be shaken.
But you will cast them down, God,
into the pit of destruction;
bloodthirsty and treacherous,
they will not live out half their days.
For my part, Lord, I shall put my trust in you.

It would seem that the desperation that followed the onslaught of immense powers of darkness was assuaged by a full acknowledgement of the situation in the presence of God. It is only in the divine presence that we can be fully ourselves; what would seem revolting to our fellows is acceptable to our Father, no doubt with the best of humour. We remember the unjudging reception of the publican in the famous parable (Luke 18:9-14) and also the welcome home given to the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32).

The Psalmist's anxiety of God's delay in coming to his help in a time of trial is another form of darkness. Psalm 44 is a classical development of this theme that has national rather than merely personal implications. The first eight verses commemorate God's saving work in the past that culminated in the settlement in Canaan, but then follows a long complaint about the present distress. The nation is subjugated under foreign domination, for God no longer leads the Israelite army. It is as if God sold his people for next to nothing and yet made no profit from the transaction. All that remains is mockery and abuse. But the nub of the matter follows in verse 17: "Though all this has befallen us, we do not forget you and have not been false to your covenant." There has been no apostasy, and yet the punishment of God's indifference is as if he had crushed the nation personally.

Had we forgotten the name of our God
and spread out our hands in prayer to alien gods,
would not God have found out,
for he knows the secrets of the heart.
For your sake we are being done to death all day long,
treated like sheep for slaughter.

One wonders when the people had been as innocent as this; the pre-exilic community had continued to sin despite the warnings of various prophets. The exiles who were allowed to return by Cyrus the Persian king formed a chastened group, and perhaps their affliction under the hellenizing king Antiochus Epiphanes during the Maccabaean period formed the historical background for at least this portion of the psalm.

A similar type of situation is contained in Psalm 89. The first thirty-eight verses celebrate God's love and faithfulness to his chosen people, which culminated in the promise made to the greatest Israelite king through the prophet Nathan:

I have found David my servant
and anointed him with my sacred oil.
My hand will be ready to help him,
my arm to give him strength.

There is the warning, after Nathan's prophecy, of punishment for disobedience, but an overall assurance of the continuing divine love and faithfulness. Then follows in verse 39 a recital of a complete reversal of fortune, and the psalm ends:

Remember, Lord, the taunts hurled at your servant,
how I have borne in my heart the calumnies of the nations;
for your enemies have taunted us,
Lord, taunted your anointed king at every step.

The writer asks God how long he will hide himself, how long will his wrath blaze like a fire. He reminds God of the fleeting nature of human life, and asks whether he has created all humanity to no purpose.

The dark dread of misfortune cuts us also down to size. In the gloom we seem to be completely isolated, for few friends can stand this strain for long. Even Jesus' three companions could not stay fully awake for one hour as their Master strove with the accumulated sin of the world. In Gethsemane he knew the feeling of total dereliction as he had to struggle on alone. His assumption of this desolation has made it easier for us to bear, because he is with us in our travail, and alongside us as he brings our misery to the Father. By this I mean that we, in our distress, can call upon God in a very personal way. Like the Suffering Servant of Isaiah 53:

He was despised, shunned by all,
pain-racked and afflicted by disease;
we despised him, we held him of no account,
an object from which people turn away their eyes.
Yet it was our afflictions he was bearing,
our pain he endured;
while we thought of him as smitten by God,
struck down by disease and misery.

We may trust that Christ assumes our anger, irritation, anxiety and frustration and brings them to the Father. Even the imprecations which we may from time to time mutter under our breath are taken up with good humour by the Son, who then presents them, on our behalf, as a sacrifice fit for God in his glory and love. Only so are they healed and given back to us for further use.

We may end this chapter on a somewhat lighter note. In Psalm 139, noted in detail on page 11, the writer is so jealous for God's reputation that he allies himself in his enthusiasm to the Almighty to the extent of supporting, if not protecting, him.

How I hate those that hate you, Lord!
I loath those who defy you;
I hate them with undying hatred;
I reckon them my own enemies.

This pledge of absolute loyalty is as touching as it is commendable. Our problem lies in being able to discern the Holy Spirit's work in our individual lives. The history of religion contains far too many examples of irrational fervour that culminated in persecutions and murders. A theocracy may in theory have God in charge. In practice, his creatures take control in his name. The harm done to God's name is frequently irremediable, at least in the short term. It seems that the Almighty is well able to get about his own business; what he wants of us is a reflection of his own love and faithfulness.