Why Bother?

This will be written for the generation to come, that a people yet to be created may praise the Lord: Psalm 102:18 NASB

To come – The psalms were written thousands of years ago. They reflect a political kingdom culture, a Semitic people, a nomadic cult; in a word, a world totally unlike ours. Yet we read them today as if they were essential spiritual guidance, as if they were written almost yesterday by a giant of the faith. Why? We rarely read other ancient literature this way. The plays of Euripides, the fables of Aesop, the legends of Homer, the cultic material of Egypt and Assyria, the code of Hammurabi—all of these played a role in the development of our civilization, yet we don’t meditate over them, recite them, pray with them, weep or rejoice with them. Why are the psalms so different?

You might answer, “They’re God’s word. They’re special.” But, of course, there are other ancient poems that claim divine origin. Perhaps you’ll continue, “They contain the plan of salvation. Of course we cherish them.” Right again, but there were always other plans, other paths to salvation in the ancient world. Is our estimation merely an accident of birth, an unconscious drift into a religious paradigm? How does the psalmist answer?

“This is written for the generation to come,” that is, it is deliberately, intentionally teleological. The psalmist writes about the human condition, knowing that in the future others will identify with his words and learn the lessons of his experience. The reason we love the psalms is not because they are solely ancient words about God, but also because they are words about us. The psalms are emotional. We feel them. And as long as men and women are emotional creatures, we will discover ourselves in these words.

This is why the psalmist chooses a very odd word for the idea of the future. The word is aḥărôn. This word does not mean “the future” as we conceive of the idea today. Instead, it means something like “what comes after,” or “the latter part,” or “what is behind.” You will remember (I hope) that a form of this word (ʾaḥărît) paints the picture of a man in a rowboat, looking at where he has been in order to row where he is going. According to H. W. Wolff, he “backs into the future.” That’s why the word means “what is behind.” Where he is going is behind him, quite the opposite of the Greek idea of the future being ahead of us. Here the psalmist literally writes, “This is being written for the generation behind.” He has us in mind, not specifically, of course, but as representatives of humanity, those creatures in God’s creation who feel like God does. We connect to the psalmist because on the emotional level we are the psalmist. That’s why he writes. He knows that someday someone else will read these words and identify with his struggle, his anxiety, his remorse, his triumph, his joy—his God. He writes because at his very core he believes that God feels too. His deity is not the transcendent Holy Other, removed from suffering, disconnected from the creation by the unbridgeable gap of ontology. His God is not wood and stone, the human construction of answers to life’s angst. His God, the God of Israel, cares—and feels, and because He cares and feels, what the psalmist writes is what we need to hear. That’s why he bothers.

Topical Index: generation to come, aḥărôn, ʾaḥărît, future, behind, Psalm 102:18

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