“How long, O Lord?” I found myself saying those ancient words last Saturday in a contemporary setting that is defining our culture. The first was in Chicago traffic as I sped off to Midway Airport to catch my plane after being part of a memorial service for an old high school friend who died of cancer. Northminster Presbyterian Church in Evanston, the church of my middle school and high school years, was packed with people, many of whom were old friends, a sprinkling of soccer and baseball teammates, youth group buddies, and church members I used to call by their last names. “Speeding off” soon turned into bumper to bumper traffic from the northern suburbs to the south side.

When I finally reached Midway, returned my rental, and dashed into the terminal, I exclaimed my second “How long?” The length of the line before me seemed in the thousands and many people, like me, stood there helpless while our planes took off without us, missing Mother’s Day mornings and Sunday services.

(Many thanks to Linda Loving as she preached and led worship with only a few hours notice!)

I’m pretty sure the Psalmist did not have Chicago traffic nor TSA lines in mind when those famous “How longs” were uttered, but when I said them the experiences of that afternoon blended together to remind me that old friends die, we seldom have answers, traffic happens, planes are missed, and the important question becomes not so much what we ask but who we ask it to (and that we should try not to end a sentence with a preposition).