Salmos 74

Psalm 74 was written in the smoke. The temple, the place where heaven and earth met, has been hacked apart with axes and burned to the ground, and the singers of Asaph, whose whole lives were spent in it, are asking God the only question left: why? Why have you thrown us away for good? Why are you angry with your own sheep? Then the psalm does something remarkable. It invites God to come and see. Walk over to the ruins, it says. Look at what they did in your meeting place, how they set up their flags, how they smashed the carvings, how they set fire to your house and to every place in the land where you used to meet us. There are no signs anymore. There is no prophet. Nobody knows how long this will last. The psalm holds nothing back and asks nothing polite. But in the middle of it, the singer remembers. God is my King from ancient days. You split the sea. You crushed the heads of the sea monster and fed it to the desert. You broke open the springs and dried up the rivers. Day is yours and night is yours; you set the sun and the moon, the borders of the earth, summer and winter. Having said that, the psalm can pray again, and its last requests are the ones that matter most: remember how they mock you, do not hand your dove to the wild animals, remember your covenant, let the poor have a reason to praise you, rise up, God, and defend your own cause. The psalm ends without an answer, the noise of the enemies still rising. It is in the Bible so that people who have no answer yet will have words.