A Cry, A Call, A Challenge to Hope
Let’s talk about that feeling of being thrown away. Yes, thrown away. Like a plastic cup at a picnic, like that umbrella that turns inside out at the first gust of wind, once useful, once appreciated, now forgotten. Gone. No one notices. No one misses it. Have you ever felt like that?
Well then, meet the psalmist of Psalm 71. Once full of vigour, he sang with joy, felt invincible, and lifted his eyes to the heavens declaring, “The Lord is my fortress!”. But now, he is old. His hair has turned white, his strength is fading, and what used to be a vibrant conversation with Heaven has become a shaky monologue. The silence of G‑d is deafening. And so, he cries out, “Do not cast me off in the time of old age!”
That little word, cast off, in Hebrew is שָׁלַךְ (shalak), and it carries the weight of being thrown aside, torn down, discarded as useless. How often do we echo that without realising it? “I feel worthless,” “I’ve been left behind,” “I was tossed aside.” There is a shadow of shalak in those confessions, and if we’re honest, there is a shadow of us in them too.
Here’s the thing that intrigues me. The psalmist, even in his sorrow, doesn’t blame himself. He doesn’t say, “I made a mess of things and deserved this.” He doesn’t blame chance, the devil, or the universe. He says, “You have cast me off.” He sees G‑d as the central actor in the story. He is just the character who has woken up mid-drama, trying to make sense of the plot. And frankly, that feels uncomfortably familiar.
Who hasn’t looked up after life knocked them flat and asked, “Really, G‑d? Now?” It’s not that we doubt His power, in fact, that is the issue. We know He could have done things differently. He is sovereign. If the door slammed shut, if the pain arrived, if the dream died, He knew. He allowed it. He, perhaps, even authored it. And that leaves us with a dilemma, we either trust the Author or start questioning the story.
But wait. Before you conclude this is a hopeless lament, let me tell you another story, or rather, remind you of one. John chapter 9. Yeshua encounters a man born blind. His disciples, always quick with theological assumptions, ask, “Who sinned, this man or his parents?” In other words, “Who broke the script?” But Yeshua replies simply, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned. This happened so that the works of G‑d might be displayed in him.” What a twist. From condemned to chosen, from pitied to platform for divine glory.
The psalmist thought he had been rejected. The blind man was viewed as cursed. Both, in society’s eyes and perhaps in their own, seemed to be the result of failure. But both were at the centre of something much greater. Not punishment, but purpose.
Allow me a very British image. You know that moment when you’re standing on the train platform and your train pulls away without you? Life can feel exactly like that. We’re left watching as our plans roll out of reach, and we ask, “Was I forgotten?” But maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t your train. Or perhaps the Conductor of the universe is delaying your departure for a better destination.
G‑d doesn’t run by our clocks. He isn’t tied to Google Calendar. He works according to eternal purposes. The trouble is, we often prefer neat theology. Behave well, get blessed. Do wrong, get punished. But that isn’t faith, that’s transaction. Real faith is what the psalmist shows us, “You are my hope, even when everything in me feels abandoned.”
It’s easy to trust when things are going well. But true faith doesn’t grow in the garden of logic, it blooms in the desert of doubt. The psalmist’s old age is not just physical, it is symbolic. It is that moment when what once was solid now feels uncertain. Prayer no longer flows, answers no longer come quickly. And still, he prays. Still, he waits. Still, he refuses to let go.
He says, “In You, O Lord, I put my trust, let me never be put to shame.” That “put to shame” means something like, “Don’t let me lose my way, even when I don’t understand.” And that, really, is everything. Faith isn’t having all the answers, it is trusting the One who does. All of us will face a shalak moment, the day we feel tossed aside, dismissed, forgotten. It may follow a loss, a diagnosis, or a slammed door. In those days, we must remember, we are not rubbish. We are clay vessels, and clay in the Potter’s hands must endure pressure, heat, silence, and shaping. It is not punishment, it is process.
It’s easy to praise when the bread is warm on the table. Harder to sing when all we see are crumbs. Yet the psalmist says, “Let my mouth be filled with Your praise all day long.” All day long. Including the dark day. Including the confusing day. Including today. That is pure faith, worship that does not demand explanations.
So, if you feel cast aside today, take a deep breath and say, “G‑d, I don’t know why this is happening, but I trust You.” You are not being discarded. You are being refined. The psalmist thought he had been rejected, but look, he was still praying, still writing psalms, still reaching out. That is not a sign of rejection, it is proof that G‑d is still listening.
Are you listening? Because the real question is not “Whose fault is this?” but “What is the purpose in this?” Yeshua taught us that sometimes, suffering is not about what lies behind us, but about what lies ahead. And what lies ahead is this, that the glory of G‑d might be revealed in you. Today. Right now. Even in the silence.
Adivalter Sfalsin
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