Praying for Payback (Psalm 137)

Scripture: The Cry of a Devastated People

1             By the rivers of Babylon—

                              there we sat down and there we wept

                              when we remembered Zion.

Our psalm today is the cry of a devastated people, survivors who are living in the shadow of unthinkable loss. They are living in a nightmare.

According to scripture, Israel’s neighboring empire Babylon lay siege to Jerusalem for two long years (cf. 2 Kings 25), resulting in a great famine. The author of Lamentations paints a dire picture. “The children beg for food,” he says, “but there is nothing for them” (Lam 4:4). The people starving, he says, suffer a worse fate than those who die fighting, for their “life drains away” slowly, agonizingly, not with the swift mercy of those who die on the battlefield (Lam 4:9). There are even cases of cannibalism (Lam 4:10).

The Babylonians were a brutal bunch. When they captured Israel’s king, Zedekiah, they killed his sons in front of him and then put out his eyes, so that his abiding memory would be his family’s death. They looted and destroyed the temple. They razed the city to the ground. The survivors were deported and resettled in Babylon.

Which brings us back to our psalm, where the Judean survivors have gathered together by the river to grieve their great loss.

2             On the willows there

                              we hung up our harps.

3             For there our captors

                              asked us for songs,

               and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying,

                              “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”

Little commentary is needed here. The Judean survivors endure insult upon their injury, as the people who destroyed their lives taunt them and mock them with requests for a happy song about their lost land.

4             How could we sing the LORD’S song

                              in a foreign land?

5             If I forget you, O Jerusalem,

                              let my right hand wither!

6             Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth,

                              if I do not remember you,

               if I do not set Jerusalem

                              above my highest joy.

Here, the psalmist broaches a tragic paradox. He utters an oath, saying effectively that if he forgets Jerusalem, let his mouth be unable to speak and his right hand (his working hand) be unable to work. In other words, the psalmist identifies his life with something that no longer exists. Without the memory of Jerusalem, he will have no words left to say, no deeds left to do. His life is based on something he has lost forever.

7             Remember, O LORD, against the Edomites— 

The Edomites were ancient Israel’s neighbors, the descendants of Esau; their relationship with Israel mirrors Jacob’s with Esau, marked with frequent hostility and conflict.

Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites

                              the day of Jerusalem’s fall,

               how they said, “Tear it down! Tear it down!

                              Down to its foundations!”

In other words, the Edomites cheered as their neighbor Israel was conquered and demolished by Babylon.

As sometimes happens with grief, the Judeans’ tears begin to burn with anger. Their sadness searches for some solution that could make things better. Revenge.

8             O daughter Babylon, you devastator!

                              Happy shall they be who pay you back

                              what you have done to us!

9             Happy shall they be who take your little ones

                              and dash them against the rock!

The psalm concludes with arguably the darkest, ugliest lines of all scripture.

It is a prayer for payback. It imagines all the horrible things that the Judeans have suffered at the hands of Babylon, and then it wishes those very same things upon Babylon. And it wishes them in excruciatingly graphic detail. “Happy shall they be who take your little ones and….”

What Is Psalm 137 Doing in the Bible?

Let’s start with the elephant in the room. Why is this psalm even a part of scripture? Was the editor asleep on the job as the psalms were compiled into a scroll? Did they not notice the violent rage frothing in this psalm?

Later readers of the Bible certainly picked up on the fury and hate encased in Psalm 137. The famous 17^th-century English minister and hymn writer, Isaac Watts, composed a hymn for nearly every psalm in the psalter. But he omitted Psalm 137. In his opinion, it was opposed to “the spirit of the gospel.” It’s not hard to see how he came to this conclusion. The final verses employ the same Jewish formula that Jesus used in his beatitudes: “Ashrei [happy or blessed] are the ones who…” But whereas Jesus blesses the merciful and the peacemakers, the psalmist blesses the exact opposite: the violent and the vengeance-takers. On the face of it, this psalm is anti-gospel. Whatever gains the gospel makes in the person of Jesus, seem to be lost in the reading of this psalm.

Sad, Mad, Bad

But as it happens, actually, Psalm 137 is not quite the exception that it seems to be. It is not alone. There are several other psalms that biblical scholars have labeled “imprecatory psalms,” or more conversationally, “curse psalms.” Consider this line from Psalm 12: “May the Lord cut off all flattering lips, the tongue that makes great boasts” (12:3). Psalm 137 takes things to the extreme, for sure, but it is cut from the same cloth of these other psalms that pray for God to avenge the people of God and ensure that justice is done.

The common thread among these curse psalms is an inconspicuous detail that makes all the difference in the world. They all have the same audience. Namely, God. The curse psalms are prayers. They may be violent prayers, ugly prayers, abominable prayers, but insomuch as they are actually prayer—insomuch as the person praying them takes on an honest, open, and willing posture—they leave themselves vulnerable to the will of God. The person praying them exposes himself or herself to God, relinquishing the final word and allowing God to respond.

I’ve read that therapists who work with feelings sometimes employ a simple schematic: “Sad. Mad. Bad.” The idea is that there is an expected progression from one word to the next. But “while the movement from ‘sad’ to ‘mad’ in our experiences of profound pain is a natural one, the movement from ‘mad’ to ‘bad,’ where we [harm others or ourselves], is always a choice.”[1] For this reason, Paul can say, “Be angry, but do not sin” (Eph 4:26). Do not make that choice to move from mad to bad.

If we look at today’s psalm, we can clearly discern the movement from sad to mad. The first six verses are soaked in tears, as the Judeans gathered by the rivers of Babylon to weep and remember all that they have lost. But things turn sharply in verse seven, where they implore God to remember the malevolence of their neighbors, the Edomites, and they anticipate with relish the future destruction of their captors and tormentors.

The psalm ends disturbingly with an image of a bloodied rock.

But this seed of anger is not sown in fertile ground where it will take root and grow and finally bear the fruit of a bad deed. This is a prayer, remember. The seed of anger is planted not in the heart but rather given to God.

The Audience of Our Anger

The Vietnamese novelist Ocean Vuong shares a story from his childhood. Ocean and his mother came to the United States in 1990 as refugees. He took on work as a teenager to help pay the bills. His mother was making around $13,000. He worked one year as a tobacco farmer on a farm five miles away. The deal was that if you showed up every single day, you’d get a $1,000 bonus at the end of the season, which was nearly a month of his mother’s own wages. Ocean remembers one hot evening in July, he looked out the window of his home and saw someone riding away on his bike—the bike he would ride to work. It was a local drug dealer who was known to steal bikes. Ocean ran outside to the confront the drug dealer, who basically told him to get lost.

The stakes were high, as this bike was Ocean’s ticket to the thousand-dollar bonus. Consumed with anger, nearly possessed by it, Ocean ran to his friend Big Joe’s house and knocked on the window. He remembers putting both hands on the windowsill, shirtless, sweating, filled with anger. He cried out to his friend, “Please let me borrow your gun.”

His friend Big Joe responded, “Ocean, I’m not going to do that. You need to go home.”

Reflecting on that pivotal, life-and-death moment now, Ocean concludes with wonder, “What was so touching to me is that I was not responsible for [that moment of grace]. Someone else’s better sense saved me.”[2]

Ocean moved very quickly from sad to mad, and he was moving just as quickly from mad to bad before his friend Big Joe intervened. In his case, it truly was a moment of grace that prevented him from making a bad situation even worse. But his story illustrates that the audience of our feelings—and especially of our anger—can make all the difference.

Many people hide their anger around others, having been taught that they should not show it. Then maybe they will let it out in quick bursts, like pent-up exhaust fumes, either in a private space where they might indulge the feeling or in a likeminded community where others might actually share their anger and encourage it. In other words, the seed of their anger gets planted in a place where it might grow, where it might indeed move from mad to bad.

A Prayer

Today’s psalm, which envisions a violent payback, might seem grossly out of place in scripture. But the fact that it is a prayer, that its audience is God, makes all the difference. Anger is not safe bottled up in the heart. It’s not safe when it’s vented with others who share the anger. If the psalmist had stuffed his anger down and let it out later in the company of likeminded Judeans, not committing his feelings to God, mad may have moved to bad.

An unacknowledged wound cannot be healed. Similarly, an anger that is not turned over to God will only move from mad to bad. Only by submitting their anger to God, do the people have any hope for a bad situation to be made better, for curse to turn into blessing.

While today’s psalm seethes with rage, because it is prayed to God, it is also a first step toward healing and reconciliation. The people who prayed this prayer, were a little bit like a child who cries out, “I hate this!”—or even “I hate you!”—in the presence of their father or mother. It is the ugly truth of the moment, but it also reveals a deep and tender trust that the parent can handle the feeling, can absorb the blow. God can take our feelings, even the ugliest. By entrusting their hearts to God, the people were exposing their hearts to God’s care…and God’s response.

God’s response may not be what we want to heart. But it will certainly be what we need. In Christ, God has responded with a Word that refuses the quest for power and insists on serving others. A Word that refuses violence and insists on peacemaking. A Word that refuses payback and insists instead on forgiveness.

In Christ, God welcomes our prayers, even our ugliest…and responds, “Come, follow me.”

Prayer

Merciful God,
Who welcomes our heart
Even at its ugliest—
Grant us courage
To expose our wounds and our difficulties
In your company
…
And courage to hear your response
And follow in your way.
In Christ, the Word of God: Amen.

---

[1] W. David O. Taylor, Open and Unafraid: The Psalms as a Guide to Life (Nashville: Nelson, 2020), 83.

[2] David Marchese, “The Interview: Ocean Vuong Was Ready to Kill. Then a Moment of Grace Changed His Life,” https://www.nytimes.com/2025/05/03/magazine/ocean-vuong-interview.html, accessed August 25, 2025. 

"Better Than Life" (Psalm 63)

Beggars Can’t Be Choosers

It was Christmas Eve. I was around ten or eleven years old. And my family and I were in Charleston, West Virginia for the night. We had decided to break up the long drive to Louisville, Kentucky, where my grandparents lived. Originally, the plan had been to grab an unceremonious bite from a local fast-food establishment. Christmas Eve dinner would be burgers and fries. When we arrived in Charleston, the sky was already dark, and night was setting in. I was hungry. A burger and fries sounded divine.

But on that night, in that town, all the fast-food joints we stopped at were closed. It was a tragedy—perhaps not quite of “no-room-at-the-inn” proportions. But our stomachs were rumbling. And our spirits were grumbling. The prospect of having to split a pack of Ritz crackers for Christmas Eve dinner did not lift anyone’s mood.

As we checked into our motel, my dad shared our story with the man behind the desk. He considered our situation for a moment and then shared that a hotel down the road was offering a complimentary wine and cheese spread for its guests that night. It might be worth poking our heads in and asking if we could partake. After checking in and unpacking, we wandered down the road to the hotel and cautiously entered the front doors, keenly aware that we were interlopers, not the guests for whom this spread had been laid. But when one of the hotel staff heard our story, he assured us we were welcome and invited us to eat whatever we’d like.

We were extremely grateful. But to call their offering a “spread” might have been generous. There really was little more than cheese cubes, grapes, and crackers. Even so, at that point, it made little difference. We would take whatever we could get. When you are hungry—not just peckish, but hungry—are you really all that concerned about the menu? Do you really still insist on the luxury of choice? There is a point on the continuum of hunger at which personal preference for this food or that food fades away, and all that remains is the hunger itself. I believe this is the point from which the old adage originates, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

Perhaps you’ve reached this point before, when after an unintentional delay in eating, you would consume just about anything. Or perhaps you’ve experienced the equivalent in the realm of thirst, such as on a hot day when you’ve worked hard and gone without a drink for hours. Suddenly, water itself tastes sweet, like the juice of some undiscovered fruit.

“My Flesh Faints for You”

When I read today’s psalm, what immediately captures my attention is the visceral need of the psalmist. He describes his need for God in terms of an aching thirst and hunger. His “flesh faints” for God (63:1). He is desperate.

Perhaps you’ve heard the saying, “There are no atheists in a foxhole.” The idea seems to be that, in especially desperate situations, we all recognize some foundational spiritual principles. We are not in control. We can’t do it on our own. We need help. We need a higher power.

But it’s important to observe that today’s psalm is not a foxhole prayer. Consider that striking line, “Your steadfast love is better than life.” Here the psalmist is not drawing a contrast between God’s salvation and a desperate, life-and-death situation, saying I’d prefer God to save me than to die. Rather, he is soberly comparing God’s love to life—that is, to the biological phenomenon of being alive, of eating and working and sleeping, of surviving and growing and enjoying the goodness of this world. This comparison indicates the point from which the psalmist is speaking. It is not from a foxhole. It is not from a pit of despair, not from the prospect of impending bodily demise. The psalmist speaks from a position of already enjoying life, or at least comfortably surviving. He’s not saying, “I’m about to physically die, God, where are you?” His desperation is not physical but spiritual. He’s saying something more like, “I’m living, but—strangely, it still feels like I’m going to die. Nothing means anything anymore. Life seems like little more than the tick-tock of my beating heart. My soul is thirsty to the point of collapse. Even a rich feast does not satisfy. If this is life, why do I live?”

A Hungry Soul

One of my favorite philosophers, Simone Weil—who grew up in a Jewish family and would later become a follower of Christ—insists that faith, at its heart, is less a matter of belief and more a matter of hunger and thirst. Faith does not originate with a rational analysis but with a visceral, prerational need. She writes, “The soul knows for certain only that it is hungry. The important thing is that it announces its hunger by crying.... The danger is not [that] the soul should doubt whether there is any bread”—that is, the danger is not that the soul might fall into disbelief. Rather, the real danger is that “by a lie, [the soul might] persuade itself that it is not hungry. It can only persuade itself of this by lying, for the reality of its hunger is not a belief, it is a certainty.”[1] 

When I read today’s psalm, I see a soul “that announces its hunger by crying.” Not only do I see the hunger in the language of famishment and thirst. But also in the psalmist’s pleas. As we noted earlier, beggars can’t be choosers. To be hungry for God is not to desire specific outcomes or to enlist God in personal schemes. Notice that the psalmist is not bombarding God with a wish list of requests. He is not fantasizing about a God who will do just what he wants. All he asks for is God Godself. He desires God’s presence, God’s companionship. “I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you” (63:1). “My soul clings to you” (63:8). (That word “cling,” by the way, is the same word used in Genesis to describe the union of marriage; “for this reason, a man leaves his father and mother and clings to his wife.”)

Chooser or Beggar?

I suppose where all this is leading me is to a simple question: “Am I a beggar? Or am I a chooser?” This question alone is probably enough to give me a pulse on my spiritual health any given day. Am I hungry and thirsty for God? Or is God just a part of the supporting cast in a drama centered on me and what I want?

Many things conspire to make me a chooser. The news cycle and our political drama conspire to convince me that the outcome of an election or some legislation is more important than living in God’s love amid the immediate, here-and-now fluctuations and interruptions and mundanities of my day-to-day. Advertising and the feeling that I’m not enough or do not have enough conspire to convince me that securing “this” or “that” will make me happier and healthier than I would be if I meditated on God and ordered my steps according to the way of love. Conflict and competition conspire to convince me that winning and proving myself and not being dismissed or disrespected are more important than receiving God’s embrace and knowing myself to be God’s child, blessed and beloved.

When I am a chooser, I am focused on outcomes. Which is to say, ultimately, I am focused on my own interests above all others. But when I am a beggar, I am focused only on my need, not on how my need will be met. I am hungry and thirsty for God’s steadfast love, and it tastes sweet wherever I find it. And here’s a surprise; I find God’s presence and love quite often in places where I’m not expecting it or looking for it. It’s certainly not in the acquisition of things or the small petty victories I secure over someone else. Rather, it’s at a hospital bedside with someone who is physically struggling. In the tears of another person who has opened their heart. In becoming vulnerable myself and discovering I am not alone. In the smiles and laughter of children (even when they’re not quite following the rules!).

In some communities of the early church, Psalm 63 was prescribed as daily reading, just like the Lord’s Prayer. It’s not too hard to see why. Like the Lord’s Prayer, Psalm 63 orients us properly toward life and the world, not as conqueror or competitor, but as beggar, not as someone who can secure life on their own, but as someone whose heart is open and desperate to receive the gift of love. Psalm 63 reminds us that what makes life is good is nothing we make—but only what we receive from God through one another. Power, possessions, and prestige will not fill our soul, no matter how much we attain. Only God’s steadfast love will satisfy.

Prayer

Faithful God,
Whose steadfast love satisfies our soul,
Attune us to the frequency of our heart,
That we might become more aware
Of what truly satisfies
…
Lead us not into the pursuit of outcomes,
But deliver us into the delight of your love,
Found in the here and now.
Open our eyes
To your presence with us,
That we might cling to you.
In Christ, our lord and savior: Amen.

 

---

[1] Simone Weil, Love in the Void: Where God Finds Us (ed. Laurie Gagne; Walden: Plough, 2018), 62.

"While I Kept Silence" (Ps 32)

How Do We Secure Forgiveness?

Of David. A Maskil—or “wisdom song.” “Maskil” originates from the Hebrew word for “instruct.”

1             Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven,

                              whose sin is covered.

2             Happy are those to whom the LORD imputes no iniquity,

                              and in whose spirit there is no deceit.

When we read a novel or watch a movie, we may wonder, “Does this story have a happy ending?” Unless we flip to the last page or fast-forward, we don’t know until we reach the end.

But today’s psalm begins at the end—and it is a “happy” ending, literally. “Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven.”

This beginning-at-the-end approach is a clever teaching device. It sparks curiosity and desire. It invites the question, “How did these happy people find forgiveness? What did they have to do to secure it?” Did it require a show of remorse? Or a series of good deeds? Maybe a sacrifice at the Temple?

3             While I kept silence, my body wasted away

                              through my groaning all day long.

4             For day and night your hand was heavy upon me;

                              my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer.

The psalmist expertly builds suspense of our foregoing question—“How do we secure forgiveness?”—by first illustrating the pangs that precede forgiveness. He describes his own experience, which is itself instructive. He does not outsource sin, talking about it as a problem other people have, referring to it in the third-person or in the abstract. He talks about it as his own problem. This psalm is itself a confession. The psalmist is modeling honesty and vulnerability.

He says his real misery began when he kept silent about his sin. He felt his sin in his body. It felt like weakness, like groaning, like a dry heat sapping him of his strength and vitality.

Today, we talk in similar terms about related experiences. How shame can feel like an oppressive heat. How a guilty conscience can weigh us down and weaken our will. How terror can make our mouth go dry.

And if these experiences are far and few between for a person, that does not necessarily mean that he is without sin. Our modern world is filled with distractions, screens everywhere (as near as pocket), buttons we can press to acquire new toys and conveniences, news from every angle to keep us wrapped up in events happening miles away from where we actually are. Denial and self-deception are easier than ever before, with all these distractions promising an escape from what is here, now, in our body.

But while these distractions may numb the pangs of sin and anesthetize a guilty conscience, they ultimately do us a disservice, holding us back from true and lasting relief. Which is where the psalmist goes next…. Finally our suspense will be resolved, and we will hear how forgiveness is received.

5             Then I acknowledged my sin to you,

                              and I did not hide my iniquity;

               I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the LORD,”

                              and you forgave the guilt of my sin.

Receiving forgiveness is astonishingly simple. Its prerequisite is not virtuous deeds that make up for the wrongdoing, or a show of remorse that convinces God you will do better next time, or a special sacrifice that balances the scales. It is honesty.

6             Therefore let all who are faithful

                              offer prayer to you;

               at a time of distress, the rush of mighty waters

                              shall not reach them.

7             You are a hiding place for me;

                              you preserve me from trouble;

                              you surround me with glad cries of deliverance.

Like Psalm 29, which we read last week, our psalm today symbolizes inner chaos through the image of stormy waters. Honesty with God protects us from the storm. God’s forgiveness guards us from the shame and bitterness that can so quickly build up and overwhelm us.

8             I—many commentators suggest that God is the speaker at this point in the psalm—

[I] will instruct you and teach you the way you should go;

                              I will counsel you with my eye upon you.

9             Do not be like a horse or a mule, without understanding,

                              whose temper must be curbed with bit and bridle,

                              else it will not stay near you.

If honesty is the first step toward forgiveness and reconnection with God and others, it is not the last step. Verses 8 and 9 point toward walking on a particular “way.”

The earliest Christian manual we have for the instruction of new Christ-followers—called the “Didache” or “The Teaching of the Twelve Apostles”—begins with these words: “There are two ways, one of life and one of death, and there is a great difference between these two ways.” While the psalmist doesn’t go into any details about the way of life, he makes clear a certain precondition, namely willingness, or what we might call “being teachable.” If there’s one thing we learn from Jesus, it is that God does not force us to do anything. It is up to us to follow God.

10           Many are the torments of the wicked,

                              but steadfast love surrounds those who trust in the LORD.

11            Be glad in the LORD and rejoice, O righteous,

                              and shout for joy, all you upright in heart.

The psalm concludes in a manner that mirrors how it began. “Many are the torments of the wicked.” As we have seen, these torments are not like-for-like punishments doled out by God on high but are rather the symptoms of a disease. Sin is a wound that festers in silence. It breeds shame, bitterness, and isolation. It gives rise to nightmares, endless rivalry, insatiable greed. It feels like a burning that will not cease, a grinding that continually wears away. No amount of achievement or wealth will bring relief.

By contrast, those who have been honest and entrusted themselves to God, they feel the cool embrace of God’s steadfast love. They are relieved, they are shouting for joy, they are happy.

We’re Only as Sick as Our Secrets

Earlier this year, I received what may be the strangest theological inquiry I have ever received. A woman had discovered that I was pastor, and she had a burning question to ask. “Can Satan hear our thoughts?” She unpacked her question a bit further, “Is it better for me to pray silently so that Satan won’t hear what’s in my heart?”

The question caught me off guard. I believe that the spirit of Satan is real, but I do not imagine Satan as an invisible figure loitering around, hoping to overhear our spiritual plans so that he may thwart them. To be more specific, I understand the character of Satan in the Bible to be not a one-for-one representation of a person who wanders our world, but rather a handle for understanding the diseased spirit that separates us from God and one another. Satan is the accusing voice, the voice of doubt, the voice of judgment.

But I didn’t feel that explaining this would help the woman where she was, so instead I replied, “I don’t know if Satan can hear our silent thoughts or prayers. But honestly, it doesn’t make a difference to me. Because my faith is that God definitely hears my thoughts and prayers. And my faith is that the power of God’s love is stronger than anything that Satan can throw in its way. If Satan can hear me, he’s no match for God, who definitely hears me.”

And then I thought of this psalm. And I shared it with the woman, telling her that, actually, keeping silent might be the worst of all options. Rather than being a protective measure against Satan’s wiles, it might play directly into Satan’s hand, giving him all the ammunition he needs to destroy a life. Because Psalm 32 suggests that our sin festers in silence. When we live in denial or self-deception—or equally in constant distraction—our secret sins sour into shame and bitterness. They isolate us and weigh us down.

One of my favorite cozy-mystery novelists, Louise Penny, puts her finger on this very phenomenon when she describes murder. The main protagonist of her stories, Chief Inspector Gamache, does not simply investigate for evidence of the crime. He “gather[s] feelings” and “collect[s] emotions.”[1] “Because,” Louise Penny writes, “murder was deeply human. It wasn’t [just] about what people did. No, it was about how they felt, because that’s where it all started. Some feeling that had once been human and natural had [been kept secret]….had turned sour and corrosive…. Armand Gamache found murderers by following the trail of rancid emotions.”[2]

There’s a slogan from the Twelve-Step Tradition that says, “We’re only as sick as our secrets.” Murder begins with a very deep and hidden secret; it is the culmination of a very advanced disease.

Dropping the Mask

Murder is taking things to the extreme, but we have all buried feelings before and hidden the truth from ourselves and others. Neuropsychologist Dr. Anna Lembke reports that the average adult lies at least once every day. Usually they are little lies, so little we might not even recognize them. We might give an excuse for why we’re late, or we might embellish an experience to make ourselves look a little better. “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she jokes, “[and] we’ve all got a little smoke coming off our shorts.”[3]

The danger is that these little lies actually work together to make up a mask that we never remove, a constructed false self that hides the real, true self beneath. (The word “hypocrite” that Jesus sometimes used to refer to the dishonest or insincere originally referred to actors or stage players, which is to say, to people who wore masks.) Our psalm today is a reminder that these masks can disconnect us from God and life.

The good news is that these masks can be removed. It is as simple as becoming honest with God.

But…our faith tradition reminds us that becoming honest with God usually takes more than just a silent prayer. We might think we can just keep something between God and ourselves, but we’re probably fooling ourselves. Confession before another human person is an ancient practice of our faith, because our forebears recognized that unless we can let down our mask in front of another person, we’re probably not getting completely honest. One of the desert fathers put it this way: “The more a person conceals his thoughts, the more they multiply and gain strength. But an evil thought, when revealed, is immediately destroyed. If you hide things, they have great power over you, but if you could only speak of them before God, in the presence of another, then they will often wither away, and lose their power.”

I used to think of honesty as something that gets expressed after the fact. After I’ve done the thing I’ve promised not to do. After I’ve slipped up and said something hurtful. After I’ve let my emotions get the better of me. But as I read Psalm 32 and ponder the practice of confession, it becomes clear to me that honesty is more healthily practiced before the fact. That is, by dropping the mask and sharing difficult feelings or experiences before they have time to fester, I am nipping a disease in the bud. Instead of becoming isolated, ashamed, and angry, I reconnect with God, others, and myself.

Sometimes I fear that opening up to another person, even a trusted friend, might entail rejection or at least judgment. “You did what? Said what? Thought what?” But psychological studies have shown that contrary to these fears, showing vulnerability has a tendency to soften the hearts of others and invite them to become more honest and vulnerable themselves. So not only does confession help to heal the wounds that fester in secrecy and silence, but it also strengthens and enlarges the circle of God’s love, making us all a little more authentic, all a little more who God created us to be. “Happy,” indeed, “are those…in whose spirit there is no deceit.”

Prayer

Tender God,
Whose forgiveness is freely offered
To any who would be honest
…
Deliver us from the urge
To cover up or to enhance.
Grant us healing through honesty
And happiness through vulnerability,
That we and others might share
The joy of your steadfast love.
In Christ, who welcomes us just as we are: Amen.

 

---

[1] Louise Penny, The Cruelest Month (New York City: St. Martin’s Press, 2008), 100.

[2] Louise Penny, A Fatal Grace (New York City: St. Martin’s, 2007), 164.

[3] Anna Lembke, “The Power of Radical Honesty,” narration for an animated video by After Skool, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tw0sskCqrpI, accessed August 12, 2025. 

"The Voice" (Ps 29)

The Text: A Storm God?

A Psalm of David.

¹              Ascribe to the LORD, O heavenly beings—

Literally, “sons of gods.” This quasi-polytheistic opening line immediately evokes the scene of a heavenly court, not unlike the pictures of Mount Olympus in Greek mythology. It suggests that the psalm we’re reading may have roots in the surrounding Canaanite culture, in which numerous gods populate the heavens. In other words, this ancient Israelite psalm, attributed to King David, may be drawing its style and content a little bit from neighboring cultures, not unlike how Christians appropriated the pagan symbol of the tree for their celebration of Christmas, or how some of our most famous hymns were paired with melodies that originated in popular culture. Perhaps King David was composing a song in the cultural language of the day.

                              ascribe to the LORD glory and strength.

²              Ascribe to the LORD the glory of his name;

                              worship the LORD in holy splendor.

If this psalm does have a Canaanite flavor to it, the psalmist has clearly repurposed it for the Israelite faith. If this psalm imagines a multiplicity of gods, as its opening line suggests, there is no question which god is supreme. It is the LORD, Yahweh. All the heavenly court are singing his praise, declaring his might and power.

3                The voice of the LORD is over the waters;

                              the God of glory thunders,

                              the LORD, over mighty waters.

⁴              The voice of the LORD is powerful;

                              the voice of the LORD is full of majesty.

Sometimes when we have a thunderstorm, we will jokingly imagine that God and the angels are bowling. I remember learning that expression as a child. It made thunderstorms a little less frightening. I could tell, of course, that my parents didn’t literally believe God and the angels were bowling, but just the figure of speech itself domesticated the thunderstorm, transforming it from a wild, untamed force of nature into a bit of divine recreation. In other words, God was up there. God was in control.

While God and the angels are not bowling in this psalm, there is a similar “domestication” going on. The psalm reimagines a thunderstorm as the voice of God. The emphasis is not on the content of God’s voice. Not once in this psalm do we hear what God actually says. The emphasis is on the impression of strength and power and glory of God. God is up there, the psalm assures us. God is in control.

In Canaanite mythology, Ba’al is a storm god, pictured riding in the clouds with a thunderbolt in one hand and lightning in the other, doing battle against the sea, the waters, which represent chaos. Our psalm today envisions a similar sort of “storm god,” but with a twist. God is not riding in the clouds but speaking from above. Amid the chaos of the storm, the mess of the mighty waters, God’s voice booms and asserts his majesty.

5                The voice of the LORD breaks the cedars;

                              the LORD breaks the cedars of Lebanon.

⁶              He makes Lebanon skip like a calf,

                              and Sirion like a young wild ox.

In this scene, the voice of Yahweh produces winds strong enough to down trees, the mighty cedars of Lebanon, and thunder that explodes so mightily that the ground quakes and trembles.

7                The voice of the LORD flashes forth flames of fire—in other words, lightning.

⁸              The voice of the LORD shakes the wilderness;

                              the LORD shakes the wilderness of Kadesh.

9                The voice of the LORD causes the oaks to whirl,

                              and strips the forest bare;

                              and in his temple all say, “Glory!”

The psalm began in the heavenly court, where divine beings sang God’s praise, but now the scene has shifted to earth, and it is humans in God’s temple who are singing God’s praise.

10              The LORD sits enthroned over the flood;

                              the LORD sits enthroned as king forever.

Some biblical scholars suggest that this particular psalm would have been sung at the Feast of Tabernacles, which corresponded with the autumn harvest and may have included as part of its traditions a divine enthronement ceremony. We catch a glimpse of God’s enthronement in these verses. In particular, the psalmist envisions God as enthroned “over the flood,” meaning that God has triumphed over chaos.

¹¹             May the LORD give strength to his people!

                              May the LORD bless his people with peace!

The psalm opened with acknowledgment of God’s strength, and here it closes in similar fashion—but with a special plea. The psalmist turns his praise into a prayer, asking that God’s awe-inspiring power give strength and peace to God’s people.

Wrestling with Psalm 29 

I have to confess, Psalm 29 is not among my favorite psalms. The thunderstorm metaphor disturbs me. I think, for example, of the recent flooding in Texas. Was God enthroned over that flood? Was that God’s voice in the torrential downpour that swept away innocent lives?

I’ve chosen Psalm 29 for our scripture today in order to wrestle with it. The psalms have long represented the original prayer book of both Jewish and Christian followers of God, and I want to explore what it looks like to pray from a text that might disturb us or at least not make immediate sense to us.

To pray from Psalm 29, I decided to use an ancient Christian practice known as lectio divina. In a nutshell, lectio divina is listening for God in scripture. It is a slow, patient reading. Usually a word or a phrase from the scripture takes root in the reader’s heart, calling to mind thoughts and feelings in which the reader senses God’s presence and perhaps hears God’s call.

Hearing Voices

When I tried to pray from Psalm 29 using lectio divina, the phrase “the voice of the Lord” (which is repeated, significantly, seven times) caught my attention. So I sat with it.

I thought of Saul on the road to Damascus, who heard an unidentified voice that turned his life upside down (Acts 9:1-9). A little bit like a whirlwind, like a storm.

I thought of Jesus on the banks of the Jordan, who heard an unidentified “voice…from heaven,” blessing him and declaring God’s love and favor for him, a message that changed the course of his life, prompting him to begin his ministry (Luke 3:21-22). I thought of how immediately afterward, Jesus heard another voice in the wilderness, a voice that accused him, that disputed his identity and challenged him to prove himself, saying, “If you are the son of God…” (Luke 4:3, 9).

I wondered if Jesus’ experience in the wilderness is not a little bit like our own experience in the world. We certainly hear that voice that challenges us and accuses us, the voice that says we are not important enough, not accomplished enough, not strong enough or secure enough, a voice that belittles us and shames us. It’s a voice we hear everywhere. In our advertising, certainly, as it introduces seeds of doubt and insecurity, but also in the words of leaders and teachers who preach a false gospel of independence and self-sufficiency. Most of all, we hear this voice in our own hearts, whispering constantly that we are not enough, we don’t belong as we are, there is something more we must do. This voice leads to chaos, or to what the psalmist might call a “flood,” the mighty waters that overwhelm us and rob us of life.

But if we listen closely, there is another voice. A voice that has power over this flood, over this chaos. A voice of blessing, a voice that tells us we are God’s beloved children and that nothing can change that. We might hear this voice first from a parent or grandparent, a caregiver who makes sacrifices on our behalf and does everything to ensure we are nurtured and kept safe. (I still remember the tune of a lullaby that my mother hummed when I was an infant, in that immemorial time before words meant anything; sometimes I wonder if that lullaby communicated more to me than any words could communicate.) We might hear this voice of blessing and belonging in the beauty and wonder of creation, where the sacred circle of life welcomes all things into its dance, where sunshine and rain fall upon good and wicked alike, where green things poke insistently through concrete and all manner of debris. We certainly hear this voice of blessing and belonging in the good news of Jesus, as when he tenderly calls “Daughter” the woman who has suffered from a hemorrhage for twenty-nine years and has been excluded from society, or when he pronounces blessing and peace upon the shamed woman who sits at his feet, or when he eats with the tax collectors whom the respectable and upstanding abhor and exclude.

And when we really hear this voice of blessing and belonging, when it sinks to the ground of our soul, does it not turn our world upside down, as it did for Paul? What is this voice, that overturns everything we know (like a storm), even as it calms the storm and anchors us in God’s peace?

God’s Word as a Creative Force

When I sit with the phrase “the voice of the LORD,” I also find myself thinking about how God’s speech in scripture is often not represented as the definitive “voice of God” but only as “a voice.” Elijah hears a still, small voice (1 Kgs 19:12). Or as we noted before, Jesus and Paul both hear an unidentified voice that changes the course of their lives.

I wonder if this apparent anonymity isn’t a gesture toward our own experience of God. In other words, we do not have the benefit of an omniscient narrator who pronounces, “And then God said…” Instead we must determine for ourselves the voices we hear and which ones we listen to. And that will make all the difference. That will indeed shape our world. Psalm 29 insists on the truth of creation, that God’s Word (“the voice of the Lord”) has the power to shape and reform all things.

I’m reminded of a story in which a black pastor was asked, “Why do black people stay in church so long?” This particular pastor explained, “Unemployment runs nearly 50 percent here [where I live]. For our youth, the unemployment rate is much higher. That means that, when our people go about during the week, everything they see, everything they hear tells them”—and I would add the commentary that this voice is the voice of Satan—“‘You are a failure. You are nobody. You are nothing because you do not have a good job, you do not have a fine car, you have no money.’ So I must gather them here, once a week, and get their heads straight. I get them together, here, in the church, and through the hymns, the prayers, the preaching say, ‘That is a lie. You are somebody. You are royalty! God has bought you with a price and loves you as his Chosen People.’ It takes me so long to get them straight because the world perverts them so terribly.”^[1]

The Power of God’s Voice

All of this to say, when I pray from Psalm 29, I end up in a very different place from the disturbing thought that storms are literal manifestations of God’s will and power. Christ leads me away from an interpretation that makes God into something of a negligent creator at best (allowing storms to wreak havoc), torturer at worst (causing them to wreak havoc). Instead I begin to see the storm as a metaphor for the chaos that erupts whenever I believe the lie that I am not enough, that I do not belong, the chaos that erupts when I try to do things on my own. And I begin to hear the voice of God, a voice powerful enough to create a new world…and a new heart. I begin to hear the Voice that echoed on the banks of the Jordan, declaring to Jesus and to all of us, “You are my beloved child, with whom I am well pleased.” The Voice that echoed in the words of Jesus himself, as he declared this good news to the people who had the least inkling of it.

Yes, it is true that sometimes God’s voice is experienced as an utter terror, as something that knocks us off our feet and destroys our life’s project, as when it did so to Saul. But it is equally true that the voice itself is not a terror but our salvation, that the real terror is being left alone on the waves of our own desires and insecurities, at the whims of a storm whipped up by Satan’s accusations. As I pray from Psalm 29, I find myself encouraged to listen more closely to the voices I hear every day, knowing that they have the power of life and death, the power to create and the power to destroy. I find myself inspired with the desire to speak God’s language, a language of blessing, as opposed to Satan’s language of accusation.  And I find myself feeling grateful for Jesus Christ, who helps me to hear more clearly “the voice of the Lord.”

Prayer

Creator God,
Whose word takes on flesh
And shows us what love looks like—
Help us to tune out the voice of Satan,
The accusations and grievances and insecurities
That keep us in a whirlwind of chaos,
So that we might hear
The same voice that Jesus heard
On the banks of the Jordan.
In Christ, the Word of God: Amen.

 

---

[1] Stanley Hauerwas and William H. Willimon, Resident Aliens: Life in the Christian Colony (25^th anniv. ed.; Nashville: Abingdon, 2014), 154-155.

"Be Examples" (1 Pet 5:1-11)

“Monkey See, Monkey Do”—Or, Monkey Learns Desire

A couple of weeks ago, I went to the beach with my brother’s family. We had a great time. My nephew Matthew tried his hand at building sandcastles. His constructions never lasted long, because his great joy was seeing them demolished by the waves; he built them as close as possible to the water. My nephew Nathan ventured a bit further in the water and became giddy with excitement as Uncle Jonny tried to bodysurf.

My nephew Nathan is an expressive individual and loves an audience, so a family vacation affords him the joy of having a larger stage than usual. He’ll tell jokes. He’ll flaunt some knowledge or skill he’s recently acquired. And on this particular trip, he would occasionally show off a peculiar-looking dance move. He would bend his knees a little, spread his arms and dangle his hands, and then shake or quiver. The whole trip, it was a mystery just what this move was.

But I think I have solved the case. Or at least I have one theory and two possible solutions. The theory, of which I’m nearly certain, is that Nathan was imitating a body movement he’d seen somewhere else. In the last few months, he has watched several soccer tournaments on television and seen several trophy celebrations, not least of which was a trophy celebration of his favorite team, Liverpool. And the traditional choreography of these trophy celebrations involves the whole team bending down and waving their hands, mimicking a volcano beginning to rumble; then the captain puts his hands on the trophy and waits, one, two, three, and then suddenly thrusts the trophy high, as the all the players around him erupt, jumping up and throwing their hands to the sky. Long story short, I think Nathan may have been mimicking this celebrated scene with his own dangly-hands dance move. Alternatively, I’ve considered the possibility that somewhere along the beach or perhaps on TV Nathan had seen the representation of someone surfing, bending their knees, holding out their hands to steady themselves, perhaps shaking a bit as they ride the wave.

Either way, Nathan’s mystery dance move illustrates that fundamental human truth commonly expressed as “monkey see, monkey do.” You can see it everywhere, if you look for it. In the elevator, where studies have shown that a newcomer will more often than not turn their body to face the same direction as others are facing. In infants, who will often mimic the facial expressions of the caregiver who is holding them.  In little children, who want to do what they see their parents doing. In advertising, where celebrities who use a product inspire viewers to want the same product.

Philosopher Rene Girard developed a theory for this “monkey see, monkey do” mechanism, called “mimetic theory.” He said that humans learn to desire by seeing what other people desire. We learn our desires, our values, our way of life, by watching to see what other people desire and value and how other people live.

All of which is to say, we learn first and foremost by example. It seems to be hardwired into us. At its root, education is less about imparting knowledge through words and concepts and more about modeling attitudes and behaviors through actions. Actions speak louder than word.

“Be Their Example, Not Their Legislator”

Today’s scripture begins with Peter addressing the “elders,” by which he means not “older” people but more experienced followers of Christ who bear more influence in their community. He encourages them to “tend the flock of God,” that is, other Christ-followers in their community, but he makes crystal clear what their leadership should look like. Echoing Jesus himself, Peter says, “Do not lord it over those in your charge, but be examples to the flock” (1 Pet 5:3).

Leading by example is not just a good principle that Peter recommends. Maybe he knows about mimetic theory, about “monkey see, monkey do,” but the real reason that he instructs the elders to lead by example is Jesus, who leads in precisely the same way. You may recall that earlier in the letter, Peter encourages those who are suffering by pointing them to Christ, who he says “suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you should follow in his steps” (1 Pet 2:21). The particular example that Christ left was that of not returning abuse with abuse, not returning persecution with threats, but instead entrusting oneself to God “who judges justly” (1 Pet 2:23).

There is a tale from the Desert Fathers and Mothers, that group of Christ-followers in the fourth century who saw the domestication of Christianity by the Roman Empire and decided to leave society and live in the desert where they might “stay wild,” so to speak. In this anecdote, a man approaches his own elder, Abba Poemen, with a dilemma. The man reports that two brothers—that is, two fellow Christ-followers—have moved into his dwelling space and expressed their desire that he be their leader and their teacher. He seems to feel inadequate and doesn’t know what to do. Abba Poemen instructs him, saying, “[J]ust work first and foremost, and if they want to live like you, they will see to it themselves. … [B]e their example, not their legislator.”^[1]

I cannot think of a better or more succinct expression of the way Jesus lived or the way that we as his followers are called to live. If the way of Jesus, the kingdom of God, is to come on earth, it will come by neither sword nor sermon. It will come only by the living example of Christ.

Thinking of Ourselves Less

To be an example is simple…but it is not easy. Because at the heart of being an example is letting go. It is no coincidence that Peter prefaces his call to “be examples” with the instruction, “Do not lord it over others in your charge” (1 Pet 5:3). To be an example means that we are not telling others what to do or think. We are not in control of others.

Peter unfolds this need to let go by explaining, “All of you must clothe yourselves with humility in your dealings with one another” (1 Pet 5:5). Humility has an unavoidable connotation of lowliness. The Greek word for “humble” (tapeinos) is used elsewhere to describe valleys and rivers as opposed to mountains. It is used to refer to people who are not powerful, not famous, not intelligent, not important.

Our world looks on humility with a suspicious eye, and perhaps with good reason. Some people have misconstrued the lowliness of humility with having a poor sense of self-worth, a diminished self-image. Some people think to be humble means to acknowledge, “I am worthless, a worm, a nobody.” But that is clearly not what humility means in the gospel of Jesus Christ. When Jesus began his ministry, he had just heard as clear as day the voice of God, declaring, “You are my beloved child, with whom I am well pleased,” and that is the same message he proclaims to us. We are not worthless worms.

I have found this modern slogan to be helpful in understanding humility. “Humility does not mean thinking less of yourself. It means thinking of yourself less.” Peter’s next instructions unfold what thinking of yourself less might look like. “Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you”  (1 Pet 5:7). In other words, do not obsess about your worries and how you’re going to fix them all on your own. Rather remember that the Lord is with you and cares about you (cf. Phil 4:4-7); entrust God with your concerns. I have noticed myself that when I can entrust God with my worries, I am liberated to look outside myself, to become a little less self-focused. Perhaps to become a bit more humble.

Peter next exhorts us to be alert for the devil, who is prowling around like a lion. I am reminded of how Jesus himself encountered the devil, how the temptations with which he was faced were prestige (make a spectacle of yourself!), power (have authority over all the nations of the world!), and possessions (turn this stone into the thing you need!)--the three things we commonly seek to make ourselves feel better, to solve our worries or anxieties on our own. In essence, these were temptations to obsess about himself, to forget God’s care and try to do it on his own. But each time, Jesus resists the temptation and redirects his attention to God’s presence and care.

The Confessing Church

To be examples for others means we are called not to change others, but to be changed ourselves.

The theologian John Howard Yoder identified three basic Christian approaches to our modern world. The first he called “the activist church.” Typically associated with liberal politics, activist Christians seek to change the world through the means of the world, through politics and laws and even war if necessary. The second approach he called “the conversionist church.” Typically associated with conservative politics, conversionist Christians seek to change the beliefs of others. They focus on winning souls for the afterlife and accept that worldly politics will rule the day until the day we all arrive in heaven. Even though the activist and conversionist approaches often find themselves at odds, they share a couple common feature. They both endeavor to change other people, and they both participate heartily in the world’s politics, seeing laws and presidents and battles as just the way the world works.

But there is a third approach that Yoder called “the confessing church.” The confessing church differs radically from the activist and the conversionist in that it does not seek to change other people. Rather, it seeks to be changed itself, to model for the world a different way, the way of Christ. While it acknowledges the seeming dominance of worldly politics, of voting and laws and lawsuits and guns, it seeks to live out a different politics, the politics of God’s kingdom, where enemies are loved and persecutors are blessed, where people live simply and share what they have, where compassion rules over merit, where the sick and shamed are healed through embrace and belonging.

The good news that I hear for us today, is that to be examples, we don’t need anything other than Christ and one another. Together in Christ, we can live a different way. We can be a part of the Christly contagion that is the kingdom of God.

Prayer

Loving God,
Who in Christ
Leads us by example—
Deliver us from worries
That turn us inward and isolate us.
Grant us the freedom to be humble,
To think of ourselves a little less
Because we know we are cared for.
And in this freedom,
Inspire us to live like Christ,
Not as legislators
But as examples.
In Christ, who is spreading your kingdom: Amen.

---

[1] The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection (trans. and ed. Benedicta Ward; Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian, 1975), 191.