Wilderness Wanderings

I say to God my Rock, "Why have you forgotten me? Why must I go about mourning, oppressed by the enemy?" My bones suffer mortal agony as my foes taunt me, saying to me all day long, "Where is your God?" Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God. (Psalm 42:9-11)

Psalms 42 and 43 have long been two of my favourite psalms. They walk through a full progression of human experience, and also echo a little bit with the sermon from this past Sunday, I think.

Psalm 42 opens in a dry and barren place. God seems far away and the psalmist seems far away from God. "As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God." People are taunting: "where is your God?" And the psalmist can only just remember the times when they used to go to church. But now the psalmist is lost, adrift. Far from God.

Then comes the refrain: "Why, my soul are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God."

As the first scene passes to the second, the psalmist begins to remember. There's a memory of what it was like when the relationship with God was strong and life-giving—filled with music, prayer, and love. There's a memory of what it was like to stand in worship with the gathered congregation when things were good—when there was joy and praise and warm fellowship to be shared. The longing of the downcast soul causes one to think back, remember, and savour the goodness of what once was.

And that memory begins to spark some hard questions of lament, like why isn't it that way now? God is still my rock, so God: "why have you forgotten me? Why must I go about oppressed...?" Why is it that I have to suffer these constant questions from my foes that make me doubt your presence and love? Why does there have to be some feeling of truth and pain in their lie about you being far off?

Then comes the refrain. "Why, my soul are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God."

As Psalm 43 opens, the prayer turns from longing, remembering, and lament to petition. The fires of passion and the memory of a strong relationship the Psalmist still has with this God drives the Psalmist back to God to boldly ask for answers. "Vindicate me, my God, and plead my cause... rescue me... send me your light and faithful care... let them bring me to... the place where you dwell. Then I will go to the altar of God, to God, my joy and my delight. I will praise you with the lyre, O God, my God."

And then the refrain rings out once again. "Why, my soul are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God."

This whole journey the psalmist takes from longing to remembering, to lament, to petition, to a vision of hope and restoration is exactly the Christian response to the often apparent silence of God. It is a curious, counter-cultural way to live—a way of faith and hope, not of sight. CS Lewis says it well in his book, the Screwtape letters as the senior demon writes to his junior counterpart, saying:

"Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys."

With longing, memory, hope, and the support of one another, may this be our response as well.

As you journey on, go with the blessing of God:

May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you : wherever he may send you. May he guide you through the wilderness : protect you through the storm. May he bring you home rejoicing : at the wonders he has shown you. May he bring you home rejoicing : once again into our doors.

The fishermen will groan and lament, all who cast hooks into the Nile; those who throw nets on the water will pine away. Those who work with combed flax will despair, the weavers of fine linen will lose hope. The workers in cloth will be dejected, and all the wage earners will be sick at heart (Isaiah 19:8-10).

Rarely is Isaiah 19 used as a preaching text, let alone for devotionals. The NIV editors gave the title, "A Prophecy Against Egypt" to this chapter. It can be summarized simply as, "The God of Israel is coming, Egypt is in trouble." What does it say to us today?

Its important to pay attention to the opening words. The God of Israel is coming and the idols of Egypt tremble (1). In ancient culture, the gods were everything. The Pharaohs of Egypt considered themselves children of the gods. All power flowed through them and from them. Politics and religion were one and the same.

Also, everything in Egypt depended on the Nile and its yearly flood. Egyptians believed that their gods controlled the Nile. So, if the Nile dried up and commerce failed, it meant the gods were unhappy with their worshippers or had lost battle against other gods.

But this chapter offers a different perspective: Egypt's gods and politicians are out of sink with the purposes of God almighty, the God of Israel. Therefore, God is coming to judge them.

Such chapters remind us that when people neglect God, there will be trouble, judgement. Nations have always done this and will continue to so until Jesus returns. No nation or political leader can fully embody the kingdom of Jesus. Certain policies may align partially with God's shalom; but we are reminded that all human policies are flawed.

This should give us pause in our politics. As citizens of democratic nations, we are called upon to vote in elections. However, we should give limited and somewhat muted support to any political leaders, regardless of party affiliation. We must put our hope in God, not in the politics or politicians of this world. In the end, God will judge all nations, and all will be found wanting.

Despite the effort to separate politics and religion, for decades North American Christians have attempted to use political machinations to enshrine their preferred policies into law. We sometimes use power moves to ensure our candidates are elected, believing that these good intentioned folk can set things right. The ends do not justify the means. The Bible warns us against this. And only God can save by the way of Jesus.

There is also this, God's judgement is never an end in itself. Our God doesn't judge just because. Rather, he comes in judgement in the hope that people will return to him. Towards the end of the chapter, we read, "in that day there will be an altar to the Lord in the heart of Egypt and a monument to the Lord at its border" (19). Egypt will become a major contributor to the things of God.

There is gospel in this chapter. After her exodus, Israel was banned from any dealing with Egypt. She was not to return there or look to her for aid. Yet, the final salvation of God is so thorough that it will be populated by people from all nations, including Egyptians. These prophecies give content to our prayers and spur us on to love the outsider.

As you journey on, go with the blessing of God:

May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you, wherever he may send you. May he guide you through the wilderness, protect you through the storm. May your day end with rejoicing at the wonders he has shown you. May you rest in his provision as he brings night, and then new dawn.

The Lord is a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. Those who know your name trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you. … Arise, Lord, do not let mortals triumph; let the nations be judged in your presence. Strike them with terror, Lord; let the nations know they are only mortal. (Psalm 9:9-10,19-20)

Most of this Psalm is a prayerful song of praise to God for who he is as Judge of the Nations and what he has done in showing himself to be a refuge for the oppressed against their oppressors. But near the end of the Psalm, the tune begins to turn from praise to plea: a plea for justice and judgement against the nations and the wicked.

Across the Psalm, the congregation who may have sung or recited it identify themselves with the oppressed and needy. "The Lord is a refuge for the oppressed" and a God who never forsakes those who seek him. On the other side, the enemy is identified with the nations, the mortals, the wicked ones.

I have often found it hard to draw such hard lines as the Psalms do. I am rarely as confident in my own righteousness as David is when he shouts out: "Vindicate me, Lord, according to my righteousness!" (Psalm 7:8). I likewise have a hard time slapping the label of wicked on anyone and asking for them to be destroyed.

But there's more to the prayers of the Psalms than just these hard lines and categories. Surely the wicked and the enemies were present within Israel too. Surely there were also wealthy and arrogant people among the Israelites that were not "oppressed."

And yet, when the Israelites came to worship before their God, they became "the needy." To ask for salvation and justice from God, to recognize that there are powers with which one cannot reckon on one's own is to admit of one's need. To recognize that we are "only mortal" is to knock our arrogance and pretentions down to a size that makes such an admission of need possible.

As they enter worship, the Israelites are humbled by remembering it is only by God's work—not their own—that they are saved and preserved, and this whether they find themselves in humble and oppressive circumstances, or not. From this worship perspective, a similar prayer emerges for the nations: may they be reminded that they are but mortal. May the nations also be humbled in the presence of God so to admit of their need.

This, I think, is a very good way to hear this Psalm spiritually for all those of us who might not find ourselves to be particularly "oppressed" at any given moment.

But of course, there is also a very real and hard thread that runs through this Psalm that we just can't ignore: the Judge will judge with justice. Those who really are oppressed or needy, those who are addicted, abused, homeless, hungry, or afflicted in whatever other way—they have a refuge in God when they seek him. Not just because he comforts them, but also because he brings justice.

This Psalm also serves as a call to all of us who may not be oppressed to keep a keen eye out: both for those who are, but also for the ways that we might be contributing to their oppression. This is where the spiritual meets the practical: as we are humbled to our own mortality and need in worship before God the Judge, we are called to gain the eyes to see others who were already there.

As you journey on, go with the blessing of God:

May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you : wherever he may send you. May he guide you through the wilderness : protect you through the storm. May he bring you home rejoicing : at the wonders he has shown you. May he bring you home rejoicing : once again into our doors.

"Blessed are those who care about weak people. When they are in trouble, the Lord saves them." (Psalm 41:1).

Jesus aptly sums up Psalm 41 when he says, "Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy" (Matthew 5:7). Some of us can learn mercy by reading about it in the Bible. Many more of us learn mercy by taking the plunge and practicing it.

Some years ago, the story of Sister Helen Prejean was portrayed in the movie Dead Man Walking. Joining a correspondence program for death row inmates, she begins exchanging letters with Gary. As his execution date approaches, he asks Helen to be his spiritual guide.

Helen recoils at the idea of visiting a convicted rapist and murderer, let alone ministering to him. But responding to the nudging within her soul, she overcomes her fear. Gary is cocky and arrogant, refusing to admit his guilt and insists that he is the innocent victim of a corrupt legal system.

She is despised and publicly vilified by the victims' parents for spending time with Gary. How could she, a deeply religious nun, befriend this cold-blooded murderer? They are horrified and let her know it frequently.

Despite these difficult barriers, Sister Helen risks her name, her reputation, her own safety, to reach across them and embrace Gary with the love of God. The more she perseveres in loving him, the more his defences begin to crumble. Finally on the night before his execution, Gary confesses to his crime and asks for God's forgiveness.

She decides to stay for the execution, explaining to Gary, "the last face I want you to see before you die is not one of hatred and vengeance, but one of love and mercy."

Some of us learn mercy by reading about it in our Bibles. But most of us, like Sister Helen Prejean, learn mercy by offering it to those who least deserve it, to those who are unclean, who are despised and rejected by society.

How have we learned to be merciful? Or should we back up a step and ask, have we learned to be merciful? Mercy is one of God's qualities and thus becomes a characteristic of his followers. Kindness, a similar virtue, makes it into the list of the Spirit's fruit (Galatians 5:22-23).

Like Helen Prejean, David experiences deep loneliness in this psalm. Everyone appears to have turned against him, even his close friend. People visit him in his sick bed, acting as companions, but when they leave, they spread slander about him among the neighbours.

David can endure the trials because he firmly believes that God will lift those who have "regard for the weak", those who are full of mercy. God stands opposed to the proud but lifts the weak. Peter offers this application, "All of you, clothe yourselves with humility toward one another, because 'God opposes the proud but shows favor to the humble'. Humble yourselves, therefore, under God's mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you" (1 Peter 5:5-7).

This is not a reward system, "do this and God will pay you back in kind". This is a deep reality of the universe. It is not the proud and self sufficient who win. Mercy and love are stronger and last longer than self aggrandizement.

In an age and culture that is deeply divided, in which verbal virtual bombs are launched in all directions, Christians are being called to reach across institutional, cultural, and social walls to have regard for the weak. Ask God to open your eyes that you may see the weak. And ask for a spirit of mercy.

As you journey on, go with the blessing of God:

May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you: wherever he may send you.May he guide you through the wilderness: protect you through the storm. May he bring you home rejoicing; at the wonders he has shown you. May he bring you home rejoicing once again into our doors.

In the Lord I take refuge. How then can you say to me: "Flee like a bird to your mountain. For look, the wicked bend their bows; they set their arrows against the strings to shoot from the shadows at the upright in heart. When the foundations are being destroyed, what can the righteous do?" The Lord is in his holy temple; the Lord is on his heavenly throne. He observes everyone on earth; his eyes examine them. The Lord examines the righteous, but the wicked, those who love violence, he hates with a passion. On the wicked he will rain fiery coals and burning sulfur; a scorching wind will be their lot. For the Lord is righteous, he loves justice; the upright will see his face. (Psalm 11)

What do you do when you're backed against a wall? Only hanging on by a thread? Threatened? Stuck?

That's the context of this psalm. When everything is hopeless and you feel helpless what do you do? Some might say: flee away! Run as far as you can! Escape your troubles! Elijah did just that. He ran for his life all the way to the mountain of God in the desert to try to find some steady and solid place in which he could reclaim his trust in God in a time when he felt all alone and abandoned. When he arrived though, God asked him: "what are you doing here, Elijah?" An arresting question.

Of course, maybe the writer of this psalm felt the sarcasm of those who were telling him to flee. They were taunting, shaming. Taking advantage of the fact that the psalmist was all alone. We do attempt to assume the best of others, that they are tolerant, nice, and whatnot—but there are bullies out there. There are people that cheer for our downfall, or who would love nothing more than to see us throw in the towel and walk away a failure.

Then again, not all those who root against Christians or the Church are bullies. Some have been deeply wounded by the Church and seek for justice or retribution or simply speak out of their hurt. There are a lot of them. Over the last few years we have heard many of those stories—from survivors of Residential Schools and victims of abuse in particular. These stories have become the epicentre at which many Christians have deconstructed their faith or walked away from it and the Church altogether. Such stories of abuse and the overreach of power continue, even as the Church continues to decline.

So: "When the foundations are being destroyed, what can the righteous do?" When the church is shrinking, when its witness is broken, when our discipleship falters, and when even God seems distant: what can we who place our hope in Christ do? Should we give up and flee?

We can't. Somehow beyond all doubt and arrows shot from the shadows, we hold faith that the temple is not empty after all and that the King still sits on his throne. Somehow, someway, even when everything is hopeless and we feel helpless, we remain because of this curious confession the psalm begins with: "in the Lord I take refuge."

We do not stand as the church because of our own righteousness—indeed, left to ourselves the record doesn't look so good. No, we stand because Jesus stands. We stand because the one in whom we've taken refuge forgives and redeems us still. We stand because we trust that he will do right and that he finally will see us through until the day we see him.

As you journey on, go with the blessing of God:

May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you : wherever he may send you. May he guide you through the wilderness : protect you through the storm. May he bring you home rejoicing : at the wonders he has shown you. May he bring you home rejoicing : once again into our doors.

But who am I, and who are my people, that we should be able to give as generously as this? Everything comes from you, and we have given you only what comes from your hand. We are foreigners and strangers in your sight, as were all our ancestors. Our days on earth are like a shadow, without hope (1 Chronicles 29:14-15).

Sesame Street has the song, "One of these is not like the others". Our verses for today remind me of that song as they appear out of place in this chapter. It's a wonderful chapter in which David passes the baton of kingship to his son Solomon.

David's dream has been to build a temple for God, but God has not allowed it. His son will build it. Recognizing that Solomon is young and inexperienced David makes a sizable donation of resources for the temple. In response, the leaders of Israel follow his example by making their own donations. The people are filled with joy and give praise to God.

During this celebration, David prays. It's a prayer worth paying attention to. The conclusion we have given to the Lord's prayer, "for yours in the kingdom, and the power and the glory forever" appears to be a condensed version of this prayer.

Much of it is a celebration of God and of his kingdom and glory. After all of that, we find our text, "But who am I? Our days on earth are like a shadow, without hope." On its own, this seems rather odd and out of place. But in its context, it calls us to a similar spirituality.

The theme of the chapter is the temple as the place where God will dwell among his people. This temple theme is carried through the rest of the Old Testament into the New. As we know, the physical temple was not a permanent dwelling place for God, but David did not perceive that. God's desire to dwell among his people is fulfilled in Jesus and pictured in Revelation as God coming down to earth to dwell among his people forever.

In this passage, David articulates the human need for God. If he does not dwell among us, we are nothing, we have no hope. Everything we have is a gift from God. As David hands over the baton of kingship to Solomon he is deeply aware of how precarious a position Israel holds in the world. Without God, they are nothing.

As he sees the people giving for the temple, he sees a people who are committed to God. His prayer, as he passes the baton, is that God will keep those hearts committed to him. He recognizes just how easily people can turn away from God. He prays particularly for Solomon, that God will keep his heart loyal.

It seems to me that this is always a prayer that we need to be making. We need to pray for the leaders of the church, that God will keep their hearts and minds loyal to him. And that God will keep all our hearts committed to him. It's a prayer Christian parents pray for their children.

There is also this, its easy to look at all the things we have and say of them, "These are mine." David reminds us in this passage, in this prayer, that the things we have, truly belong to God. Without him, we have nothing. We can only use our possessions with joy when we recognize this. Otherwise, we hold on to them too tightly, afraid they will get away from us.

When we view them as gifts of God, we can use them for the blessing of others because we know that God has plenty more. We can joyfully share them because we know that God is with us always.

As you journey on, go with the blessing of God:

May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you, wherever he may send you. May he guide you through the wilderness, protect you through the storm. May your day end with rejoicing at the wonders he has shown you. May you rest in his provision as he brings night, and then new dawn.

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I bear pain in my soul and have sorrow in my heart all day long? How long shall my enemy be exalted over me? Consider and answer me, O Lord my God! Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep the sleep of death, and my enemy will say, "I have prevailed"; my foes will rejoice because I am shaken. But I trusted in your steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord because he has dealt bountifully with me. (Psalm 13)

There is a torrent of pain and suffering constantly battering our senses and burdening our hearts. It's in our lives, it's in our world. We can't engage meaningfully with every evil and ill we face though—it would flood over us, overwhelming us again and again. In fact, it often does.

When city planners of the past decades would come across the not unrelated problem of unruly waters that would flow their banks every spring, they solved it by burying it.

That was the case for the Chedoke Creek that flows underground near our church's property. The landscape has been flattened and made useful, but no one sees or hears the waters of that creek anymore until they spill over the escarpment in the Chedoke waterfall. Then just as quickly as they appeared, much of them are swallowed up and buried again into another culvert.

Slowly we (and our city planners) come into awareness of the fact that we human folk are somehow healthier when graced by the sound, sight, and even touch of live, running water—no matter how unruly it may at times, be. Not only us, but the whole ecosystem is likewise healthier when creeks, streams, and swamps are left alone to clean the water and provide habitat for a myriad of creatures of God's Creation. When a creek is banished to a culvert though, and its once carved creek-bed flattened to pavement—nothing lives or is brought life.

So it is with our emotional world and our experience of grief and suffering. Like so many practical man versus nature solutions of the decades past, we've often buried this river of emotional pain—painting on smiles if necessary.

But when we don't face the suffering we experience, it doesn't get the chance to drive us to the ultimate questions of life, death, and God that are important to ask.

Questions like, "Is God really in control?" "Is He really present, or has He forgotten us?" To allow our suffering to run on the surface where we can look at it in the light of day is to grapple with the foundations of our faith and to cry out like David, "How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?"

So it's important to daylight the river of human suffering—our suffering—to look it in the face and turn it into prayer before God. That's what lament is: prayers, questions, and cries that arise when deep suffering and deep faith meet, offered to the God whose love never fails.

That is what David does in Psalm 13. Only in this honest place of wrestling with both our sufferings and our faith do we discover the deep places where the salvation we have in Jesus really meets the deep pain, suffering, sin, and evil of our lives. And that is the only thing that can truly make our hearts sing.

As you journey on, go with the blessing of God:

May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you : wherever he may send you. May he guide you through the wilderness : protect you through the storm. May he bring you home rejoicing : at the wonders he has shown you. May he bring you home rejoicing : once again into our doors.

A Sunday Sermon edition of Wilderness Wanderings! The text of Matthew 8:1-4. Dive In discussion questions are below for further reflection!

To see this sermon in the context of the worship service it comes from, find it here on YouTube. Or, head to our website to connect with the worshiping community of Immanuel CRC: immanuelministries.ca

1. How is your life an ongoing act of worship to Jesus?
2. How would you describe his glory? What five words would you choose?
3. Who would be considered the 'outsiders' in your community? How can you reach out to them as an individual? As a community?
4. Identify two ways that you can more intentionally worship Jesus with your everyday life.
5. Identify one person (or group) that needs to experience the love of Jesus. Follow the pattern of Jesus and reach beyond yourself to the outcasts in your community.

Show me, O Lord, my life's end, and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth; the span of my years is as nothing before you. Everyone is but a breath, even those who seem secure (Psalm 39:4,5).

Standing at a bassinet, delighting in new birth, we are often unnerved by how fragile life can be. Struck by the raw beauty of a small baby, we ponder the potential of life, wondering what joys and pains this child will both experience and give. At death, we also find ourselves faced with that frailness, but not with the promise of potential greatest or filled with the fullness of hope. At death, the frailness of life can leave us empty with despair.

We cannot be faulted for finding life rather brief, a vapour, a mist, a breath; over too soon; too easily ended. That is where death brings us. We ask deep questions. Who are we? What are we here for?

We may deceive ourselves with the busy-ness of life, thinking we are more important than we really are. Our great plans may cause us to think we are indestructible. We reach for the stars. Yet, in all our bustle and activity, we are still mere phantoms. Death makes us realize how little we are, how little control we have over the destiny of our hoarded wealth and ambition. It strips us of our illusions of self sufficiency and immortality.

That is David in Psalm 39. He has looked at life and found it wanting. What caused David to number his days? The answer: intense suffering. Extreme pain opened David to a deep work of God in his life. Dejected and depressed, David cried out to God, pouring out his soul about how brief and fragile life is.

David could not figure out rationally the circumstances of his life, except that he was not innocent. He admits that some of his pain was God's discipline. But that did not nearly account for all the trouble he saw and experienced.

With nothing left for him, he turned to God. In the Lord was a firm hope. Here was a rock. David's lifespan was nothing before God. Yet life itself was empty without God.

Life may be frail, but with God there is salvation. God sent his Son to take away the sting of death. Jesus chose to walk the road of suffering and the grave so that we might experience more than the frailty of life. Jesus said he came so that we might have life to the full (John 10:10). "Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them" (John 7:38).

Jesus Christ came to break the bitterness of death. As he said to Martha, "I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?" (John 11:25-26). God shattered the midnight darkness of death by the light of an empty tomb. If there is nothing beyond the sunset and the dark, if death is a sleep from which there is no awakening, if the grave is the end of existence than our pilgrimage here is rather purposeless, intolerably pathetic, with little incentive for goodness.

Gloriously, however, something has happened to give us hope. Something has happened. Christ has been raised from the death. Something tremendous has a foothold in this darkened scene that has changed the face of this world. Christ has turned all our sunsets into dawns.

When we face our own mortality, we do so with hope. We hope in the resurrection. Jesus was the first, all who believe in him will follow. And while we wait for our own resurrection, we look to Christ's blood for forgiveness for our sins and to his Spirit for the empowerment to keep doing what is right and good, "for our labour in the Lord is not in vain" (1 Corinthians 15:58). While we live on this earth our goal is treasures in heaven, not treasures on earth.

As you journey on, go with the blessing of God:

May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you, wherever he may send you. May he guide you through the wilderness, protect you through the storm. May your day end with rejoicing at the wonders he has shown you. May you rest in his provision as he brings night, and then new dawn.

LORD, who may dwell in your sacred tent? Who may live on your holy mountain? The one whose walk is blameless, who does what is righteous, who speaks the truth from their heart; whose tongue utters no slander, who does no wrong to a neighbor, and casts no slur on others; who despises a vile person but honors those who fear the LORD; who keeps an oath even when it hurts, and does not change their mind; who lends money to the poor without interest; who does not accept a bribe against the innocent. Whoever does these things will never be shaken. (Psalm 15)

Who may dwell in the presence of the Lord? The Psalmist gives a pretty high bar in response.

If we examine ourselves against this list, we might very well find that we've done a good job in some areas: we keep our promises perhaps, have never accepted a bribe. But even if we've not transgressed some of those narrow statements, who of us can really say that we're blameless? The Scriptures would tell us that none of us are. And if we think we are, then we've deceived ourselves.

But if that's the case, then who may dwell in the presence of the Lord at all? It seems a hopeless question.

And yet, the Psalms are not the law. The Psalms are prayers. They are worship. Liturgy. The Psalms are spoken at the sanctuary, in worship: in the presence of the Lord. And so this psalm cannot be a judicial decree that bars us all from entrance: somehow it must mean to tell us something different.

Perhaps flipping our understanding around a bit might help. What if instead of an entrance exam, this psalm is more like the guide for grateful living in a worship service, or the call to discipleship? As we gather in the presence of the Lord, we recognize that the only way we stand in his presence at all is because of what he has done in inviting us, saving us: calling us his own.

Far from the fear and death produced by the law we'll never measure up to, God's underserved gift of grace has the power to transform us. God's gracious invitation produces gratitude within us—a thankfulness for what he's done. The focus shifts from our own inadequacy, to his generosity. From ourselves as the centre of the story, to God at the centre.

Hearing these words today as Christians, we recognize in this invitation an invitation to respond to the gift of Jesus by being transformed into the likeness of Jesus. In the name of Jesus and because of his gift, we gather in the sanctuary of God. We may dwell with God now even as the Spirit dwells within us. All the actions this psalm speaks were carried out by Jesus perfectly: he was blameless. And his blamelessness is now our own.

We are those people who may dwell in the presence of God now. And we are now those people who will never be shaken. But we are also those people who are invited to work out the gift that Jesus has worked into us. We are invited to live like he did: to do what is righteous, speak the truth, love our neighbours, lend to the poor, and keep our promises even when it hurts.

We do these things as a grateful response to the gift of righteousness that we have received in Christ. And we can do them, because belonging to God, we know that we will never be shaken.

As you journey on, go with the blessing of God:

May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you : wherever he may send you. May he guide you through the wilderness : protect you through the storm. May he bring you home rejoicing : at the wonders he has shown you. May he bring you home rejoicing : once again into our doors.