Psalm 33 is like turning your eyes to look at the sun. There is just so much radiance that it overwhelms us. The psalmist reflects on the power and majesty of God:

By the word of the Lord the heavens were made,
and all their host by the breath of his mouth.
He gathered the waters of the sea as in a bottle;
he put the deep in storehouses.

This same word that brought the world to life continues as his relation to the world. He did not just speak forth creation, he communicates his presence and his word is true and powerful to accomplish his will as he “works in faithfulness” (v. 4). As the voice of God comes into focus we hear his character communicated, the Lord “loves righteousness and justice” (v. 5a). And he pours himself into the world, filling the earth to the brim with “steadfast love” (v. 5b).

Two responses are enjoined to the faithful congregation. The first is participation—pick up an instrument, lift your voices, make a joyful noise (v.1, 3). The native tongue of the Kingdom of God is praise and thanksgiving (v. 2). The second response, is not contradictory but is like a rest placed into the clef of music. The psalmist tells us to “stand in awe” (v. 8) and to feel the otherworldly magnitude of his presence. This God spoke the world into existence so all of our words should start with a mouth agape, in awesome wonder of his beauty.

He is the Lord’s true king, all the governments and the nations make their plans, they draw their battle lines, but they are puppet states (vv.10-11). They act as if they will remain forever, that they are the architects of the future with their political slogans and their empty promises of greatness but they cannot deliver (v 11b). The only nation that remains forever is the eternal kingdom of God, the people called out by him (v. 12).

The psalmist then paints the Lord, seated on the vast heights, overlooking the world. The author writes that he sees all mankind (vv. 13-14) and it can feel like his vision is like our own when we look at a large crowd. Yes, we can “see” the people in totality but we cannot possibly know the stories of each individual person. And again, considering the scale of this majestic God, it almost makes sense. How could a God so endowed with power, majesty, and so responsible for the managing of the world get caught up in the minutiae of mundane human existence?

But this psalm will not leave us to our illusions of an aloof sovereign, distant and seated on high, removed from the pain and moments of our everyday lives. The psalmist tells us that God knows every human heart because he has made each one of them (v. 15) and he sees each individual (v. 18). Apparently, part of the greatness of this God is the ability to concern himself with the smallness of our world. Psalm 33 tosses us into the current of God’s raging strength and then shows us the deep spring that feeds this river: the steadfast love of God that delivers our souls from death and provides for our daily needs (vv.18-19).

The last stanza of the prayer paints our current reality:

Our soul waits for the Lord;
he is our help and shield.
Our heart is glad in him,
because we trust in his holy name.
Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us,
even as we hope in you. (vv. 20-22)

We cannot long stare at greatness of this magnitude without being blinded. But what we find is that the glory of this God is not just great, not just awesome, or strong; it is good, kind, compassionate. Our world is awash in the warm sunlight of God’s love and—to channel Lewis—by its light we see everything else.

Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment depicts the descent into madness of a murderer who thinks he has committed the perfect crime. Eventually, he’s found out by his own conscience, overwhelmed with hysterical agony and the paranoia of guilt. Sentenced to life in the work camps in Siberia, the main character, Raskolinov has become a hollow man, broken by the weight of his own decisions and the ensuing spiral of darkness. But, Sonya, a prostitute, who is Raskolinov’s only meaningful human interaction, keeps showing up in his life. Even after he is convicted, she brings him a New Testament, she visits him in prison, she hears his confession. Through his relationship with Sonya, through the power of confession, Raskolinov is healed, he is brought back from the dead. The consequences of his actions remain, but his soul is redeemed.

Psalm 32 describes the torture of unconfessed sin and the joy of bringing our brokenness into the light. David writes,

When I kept silence, my body wasted away
through my groaning all day long.
For day and night your hand was heavy upon me;
my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer. Selah

We are not disembodied souls. The guilt from our hearts is circulated into our bones. We feel the weight of our sin not just psychologically but physiologically. David vividly portrays this wasting sickness, like a cancer slowly spreading. Our natural reaction when we know that we have done wrong, is to try to hide in our shame. This truly is the most insidious thing about sin, it doesn’t just break us once, it fractures our hearts and then shackles us to that moment, convincing us that we are forever defined by this one act. Paul will later describe sin as a slave master (Romans 6), a power that uses fear and propaganda to keep us in bondage.

But the witness of Psalm 32 voices its testimony from the other side. There is a cure for sin, there is a healer, a great physician that will take away our ills. He runs to us, he is near, all we have to do is turn to him. Although, understanding this is like scaling the highest mountain of shame. Sin tries to convince us that the last thing we can ever do is confess. But the Scriptures tell a different story. Look how quickly things turn upon the hinge of confession:

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. Selah

David melting heart, heavy bones and all simply acknowledges his sin and he finds not a harsh “how dare you,” not abandonment, or disowning, but wholeness, restoration.

God is not a hoarder of grace, he doesn’t offer it like a trap to get us to come out into the light so he can snap it shut. He has made a way. Even in our rebellion against him he is our refuge (v. 6). Instead of hiding in our shame, we can make his light our hiding place (v. 7).

What is it that’s keeping you in the dark? What’s it that’s telling you there’s no way forward, that no one can know, and that God is done with you? He’s not. He’s faithful. Do you need mercy? We all do. Let steadfast love surround you. Let it go.

Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven,
whose sin is covered. (v. 1)

His love conquers all sin. Even yours. Even mine.

David, in Psalm 31, writes:
Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am in distress;
my eyes grow weak with sorrow,
my soul and body with grief.
My life is consumed by anguish
and my years by groaning;

The internet has accelerated the news cycle from a breakneck pace to a rate that crushes our spirits. I often wonder if the age of information is not just another way of saying we constantly eat of the fruit of the forbidden tree. Now, through our phones and computer screens we can see the world at a meta-level in all of its horror. And worse yet, the allure of being “like God” turns out to be an illusion all over again—we have this pseudo omniscience and omnipresence yet severely lack much in the way of omnipotence. News of genocide in the Sudan is followed by the grim reports on our climate. And, as if to hammer home the absurdity of our media-spun culture, these stories are set alongside “news” of a figurehead monarch’s china selections for their wedding or the anxieties of balancing “career” and motherhood for reality-TV celebrity X. The temptation for us, trying to withstand the relentless onslaught of notifications, is either to despair or to distraction—its the best our figs and leaves can do.

Psalm 31 illustrates a man trying to find refuge in God in the midst of the insanities of life. What’s remarkable is how agile David remains in the face of his circumstances. Here, David maintains an honesty free of Instagram filters or carefully crafted status updates. Life is hard; traps are set for him (v. 4), he is afflicted (v. 7), strength is failing (v. 10), friends and neighbors have all abandoned him as though they had already buried him in the grave (vv.11-12). David hears the growing chorus of whispers, the slogan of the news outlets with their wars and rumors of wars, “Terror on every side” (v. 13).

It would seem completely reasonable for David to feel completely paralyzed by his present condition. And yet, David is not given to the fearful murmurings of so many in our generation who spend too much time watching the news. David is focused on something much more radical, much more real than the prophecies of doom, gloom, and inanity. He clings to something much more solid, a rock (v. 3), a fortress—David clings to hope.

David defiantly pronounces:

My times are in your hands
How abundant are the good things
that you have stored up for those who fear you,
that you bestow in the sight of all,
on those who take refuge in you.
In the shelter of your presence you hide them
from all human intrigues;
you keep them safe in your dwelling
from accusing tongues.
-vv. 15; 19-20

Our times are in his hands. This is not the resignation of despair but a bold declaration of doxology. No matter the headlines, no matter our anguish, the Lord remains, he reigns and he saves. In a day such as our own, perhaps there is no more prescient reminder. We see our world at a macro-level and are overwhelmed, but our lives as small, insignificant, and vulnerable as we often feel are never “cut off from his sight” (v. 22).

We can cry out to him and he will hear (v.22b), we are free to love him with everything we have (v. 23). David’s closing exhortation is a rallying cry to the faithful, a word louder than the headlines:

Be strong and take heart,
all you who hope in the Lord (v. 24).

Psalm 30 comes from a life well-worn with God’s faithfulness. Here David is a luminary, speaking from the wealth of his own experiences and his deep life with God. This is part prayer, part call to worship, and part sapiential wisdom. The pain here, though extremely perilous, is relegated to the past. For David, dawn has come. “If you’re still in the throes of night,” David proclaims the gospel to you: “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with morning (v. 5).” Hold on, morning is coming,

It would seem from the text that David brought about this dark night all by himself. He knows that God was “angry” with him (v. 5) and that God hid his face (v. 7). Like the twilight descends upon the daylight, it grows dark slowly. Sin does this, it creeps slowly, incrementally and then suddenly—its pitch black outside. It was only when David found himself alone in the dark that he realized the trouble that he was in. In his despair, he cried out to the Lord (v. 8).

David doesn’t just call out for help, he bargains with God, reminding him. You see for David, there is no life beyond the grave, no future beyond his existence walking in the land of the living. And so in the midst of his dismay, he protests to the Lord: “What profit is there in my death, if I go down to the Pit? Will the dust praise you? Will it tell of your faithfulness?” David isn’t ready to be another member of the dust choir, the melodies of the shades don’t reach the throne of God.

When God removes himself, it feels like the worst kind of abandonment, like death, like eternal solitary confinement. But his momentary anger is nothing compared to his lifelong faithfulness (v. 5) and his judgment is only a beckoning back home. Whatever David did to find himself in the snares of death, it was only in his dismay at feeling alone that caused him to cry out to God. God, either due to our sin or because he is further refining us, will often remove his manifest presence. This can be a judgment for our disobedience or a “dark night of the soul” ^[1]see John of the Cross. But the specific reasons are secondary, the primary reason is God calling us to himself.

As David reflects upon the faithfulness of God, he testifies to this incredible reversal that has taken place. God has replaced his mourning not just with a calm disposition but with dancing, he is literally wearing joy as a garment. And even more, it’s possible that David’s whole framework has been transfigured. Whereas in the midst of his pain, David lamented that he would be consigned to the chorus of the dead, who sing no songs and whose voices make no sound. But now he declares, “My soul will not not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever.”

Forever. David despaired of his earthly life because there was nothing beyond. But now, there’s this defiant forever, this hope that dances upon the grave of death. Forever. Only dark nights can drape the dawn in the most splendid hope.

In the beginning the spirit of God is hovering over the waters (Genesis 1vv1-2). Out of that primordial darkness, the voice of the Lord breaks forth, “Let there be light” and a mighty symphony of creation begins to resound. On the seventh day, like a God taking residence in his temple, the Lord rests, makes his dwelling within the sanctuary of the world, not confined but graciously drawing near in every corner.

This same voice that spoke creation into its form, as the psalmist notes, is still present and is still powerful, still reigning over the waters of chaos, still breaking the cedars of Lebanon and Syria— the trees that the woodworkers of Canaan craft their “god” Baal out of. The same voice that was so powerful that it formed a world with the shape of its words sits enthroned still.

This tells us two things. 1) God is still so big and reigns in so much majesty that he doesn’t even have to get up from his throne to keep order in the universe. His very word manifests his will, he speaks and it happens. This is a vast departure from other theological myths of the Ancient Near East, who envisioned their gods as warriors subduing rival forces through bloody combat. The God of Israel wars with his words, and his word is enough. 2). God is still creating. The voice of God which brings light out of nothingness, is endowed with such generative power that it is always dynamic, always creating new possibility. Words create worlds, and God’s ongoing word to his creation, even in the face of forces that would seek to unravel the shalom that God intends for the world, still carves out a path of hope when all seems lost.

Psalm 29 brings us back to this creative sovereignty of God. Likely this psalm was a prayer offered in the temple-worship of Israel with a corporate refrain in v. 9. Like a Southern Baptist preacher leading his congregation in the rote, “and all God’s people said…Amen;” the psalmist as he walks through the mighty acts of God cannot help but turn to the congregation and invite participation. He beckons the gathered faithful to respond and they sing their “amen” as they shout with one voice “glory!”

The final stanza summarizes this poetic prayer. It serves as a powerful reminder that no matter where we find ourselves, God is still king, still present, still creating. The Lord is enthroned over the chaos, he is king now and forever. He is still speaking relationally to his creation, and the word that he speaks is strength and peace. And all God’s people say, “glory.”