Text: Psalm 121
“I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.”
The Question That Haunts Us
There’s something deeply human about the opening words of Psalm 121. “I lift up my eyes to the mountains.” It sounds almost peaceful, doesn’t it? Poetic. The kind of thing you’d find on an inspirational poster with a sunset backdrop.
But this is no peaceful contemplation. This is a cry born from trauma. This psalm emerged from the crucible of Israel’s exile – a people torn from their homeland, their temple destroyed, their identity shattered. They were a traveling people, displaced, uncertain, and afraid. And now, standing at the edge of another journey, the psalmist looks up at the mountains ahead and asks the question that haunts every human heart in crisis: “Where does my help come from?”
Those mountains weren’t just geographical features. They were symbols of everything that threatened to destroy them. The steep paths where your foot could slip. The hidden places where robbers waited to ambush travelers – remember, the Good Samaritan’s parable of the man beaten and left for half-dead plays out in these very mountains. The scorching sun by day could strike you down. The mysterious moon by night, which ancient peoples believed could cause epilepsy, leprosy, and even madness. And perhaps most terrifying of all: the pagan belief that gods dwelt in those mountains, gods who demanded tribute and offered no mercy.
The mountains represented separation, limitation, and danger. They were the obstacles still blocking the path forward. They were the “hurdles” that God’s people still had to cross on their way to the end. Before reaching their destination, the struggle still lay “like a mountain” before them.
Our Mountains in Lent
We know something about mountains, don’t we? As we journey through Lent toward Good Friday and Easter, we too are a traveling people. We, too, face mountains that loom before us, blocking our view and threatening our progress.
What are your mountains today? Perhaps it’s an illness that won’t relent – the diagnosis that changed everything, the chronic pain that grinds you down day after day. Perhaps it’s a relationship that’s crumbling despite your best efforts – the marriage that’s dying, the child who’s walked away, the friend who betrayed you.
Perhaps your mountain is economic. Perhaps you’ve received the pink slip, the layoff notice, the sudden termination. Perhaps you’re watching your industry collapse, your skills become obsolete, your decades of loyalty rewarded with a severance package and a locked-out email account. Perhaps you’re lying awake at night calculating how many months your savings will last, wondering how you’ll pay the mortgage, terrified of losing not just income but identity – because for so long, your work was who you were. “What do you do?” the stranger asks at a party, and suddenly you don’t know how to answer. The mountain of unemployment doesn’t just threaten your paycheck; it threatens your sense of purpose, your dignity, your place in the world. It whispers lies: “You’re not valuable anymore. You’re disposable. You’re failing your family. You’ll never recover from this.”
Perhaps it’s financial ruin staring you in the face – the debt that keeps growing, the bills that keep coming, the impossible choice between medicine and groceries. Perhaps it’s the crushing weight of depression that makes even getting out of bed feel like scaling Everest, made worse by the knowledge that you can’t afford therapy. Perhaps it’s simply the accumulated weariness of living in a world that feels increasingly hostile, chaotic, and unmoored – where the ground beneath your feet keeps shifting, where security is an illusion, where the future feels terrifyingly uncertain.
Or perhaps your mountain is more subtle but no less real: the gnawing fear that God has forgotten you. That He’s sleeping while you suffer. That you’re utterly alone on this treacherous path. That when you finally reach the bottom, there will be nothing but emptiness waiting.
The psalmist’s question echoes across the centuries into our Lenten journey: “I lift up my eyes to the mountains – where does my help come from?”
It’s a desperate question. An urgent question. A question asked on the boundary between worship and life, between the warm atmosphere of the sanctuary and the cold, naked reality of the road ahead.
The Answer That Defies Our Expectations
Listen carefully to the answer: “My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.”
This is not the answer we want to hear. We want God to say: “Don’t worry, I’ll remove the mountains. I’ll make the path smooth. You won’t suffer. You won’t struggle. Everything will work out just fine.”
But that’s not what God promises. Not here. Not anywhere in Scripture, if we’re honest.
The psalm doesn’t promise that we’ll cross the mountains without wounds. It doesn’t promise survival – not political survival, not economic survival, not even physical survival. God doesn’t promise to protect us like porcelain dolls in a glass case, carefully preserved from every scratch and bruise.
What does God promise? He promises protection in distress. He promises His presence through the suffering. He promises resurrection to His church.
Martin Luther understood this deeply. He said that Psalm 121 promises “absurd, unbelievable, and impossible things.” The human heart responds to these words and says, “These are empty lies. Is this really ‘protection’ – when we’re thrown into prison, when the Son of God is crucified, when John is beheaded?”
According to the flesh, according to what we can see and measure and control, God appears to be One who neglects His people. But according to the Spirit and His promises, He is the Protector-in-need, the Deliverer-from-sin. This is precisely what Psalm 121 confesses.
The traveler stares fixedly at the mountains, but is invited to look beyond them, to look through them, to the Protector and Deliverer of Israel. The traveler’s eyes must not be cast downward, and especially not anxiously focused on oneself. He must not look around searching for help from people, powers, or gods. His eyes must be directed upward, to God.
The God Who Doesn’t Sleep
“He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.”
This is revolutionary. The pagan gods slept – remember Elijah mocking the prophets of Baal: “Perhaps your god is sleeping and must be awakened!” (1 Kings 18:27). Human beings sleep. We close our eyes. We lose consciousness. We become vulnerable. And in that vulnerability, we fear abandonment.
This is the terror that haunts us in the dark hours. When you lie awake at 3 a.m., unemployed and terrified about tomorrow, you feel the weight of your aloneness. When you sit in the hospital waiting room, when you receive the diagnosis, when you stand at the grave of someone you love – in those moments, the question becomes unbearable: Is anyone watching? Does anyone care? Am I utterly alone in this?
We fear falling into emptiness. We fear that at the moment of our greatest need, when we slip and stumble on the mountain, there will be no one there. We fear that we will die alone, forgotten, unseen – that we will gaze into nothingness and find nothing gazing back. We fear that God, like the pagan deities, has turned away, closed His eyes, and abandoned us to the void.
But listen: “He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.”
The God of Israel is not like the gods of the nations. He does not rest. He does not turn away. He does not forget. While you sleep, He watches. While you weep in the darkness, His eyes are open. While you face the mountains – the unemployment, the illness, the loss, the approach of death itself – He is awake. He is present. She is watching.
This is not a distant, impersonal surveillance. This is the vigilance of a Father who loves His children. This is the wakefulness of a Shepherd who knows Her sheep by name. This is the constant, redemptive attention of the God who will not let you fall into emptiness or abandonment.
Even in death – especially in death – you will not look into a void. You will not gaze into nothingness. You will look into the eyes of God. You will be known. You will be seen. You will be held.
The God of Israel is beyond our seasons, beyond our small existence. And yet – and this is the gospel of Psalm 121 – God is also there, in every part and detail of our lives, in our seasons, in our small existence. He is the Creator of heaven and earth. Every centimeter of the earth belongs to Him – and He is protectively and redemptively present in every aspect of our existence, even to the threshold of eternity itself.
Notice how the psalm moves. It starts with the individual’s anxious question (verse 1), but the answer comes through the covenant community—through the priest who represents the fellowship of faith. The individual is not separated from the covenant; he is being schooled in “liturgical discipline” with a view to the road that lies ahead. The individual is strengthened within the space of the covenant community to depart.
The psalm has a funnel structure. The question of verse 1 is answered by drawing the circle progressively tighter: God helps as Creator and Protector of Israel, as Protector of the individual, but always within the broader context of the covenant. The psalm “begins with despair and uncertainty and… ends as a triumph song of trust.”
Christ: Our High Priest on the Mountain Road
But we cannot stop with the Old Testament answer. We who live on this side of the cross must see how Psalm 121 finds its complete and final fulfillment in Jesus Christ.
Jesus is the ultimate traveler, the ultimate pilgrim. He too faced mountains – literal and figurative. He climbed the Mount of Transfiguration, where His glory was revealed. He prayed in agony on the Mount of Olives. And He was crucified on Golgotha, which means “the place of the skull,” a hill, a mountain outside Jerusalem.
Jesus is the one who truly understands what it means to cry out, “Where does my help come from?” In the Garden of Gethsemane, He sweated drops of blood, pleading with the Father. On the cross, He cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
And here’s the stunning truth: God’s Son did not “survive.” He was so dead they had to bury Him. But He was resurrected! He stands as eternal High Priest, guaranteeing God’s protection. He vouches for it. What no angel or saint could do, He has done. He stands in for us. This is ultimately His blessing, His farewell conversation that Psalm 121 prophesies. His farewell word is: “I am with you always, to the very end of the age” (Matthew 28:20). His name is, after all, “Immanuel, God with us.” This is the gospel of Psalm 121!
God doesn’t handle the world at a distance, like a skilled surgeon with a scalpel. He doesn’t cut out the evil. He comes and takes it upon Himself, in Christ. Christ, too, did not “survive,” but He was resurrected. For us.
This is not the cheap “prosperity gospel” that promises health, wealth, and smooth sailing. This is the costly gospel that promises God’s presence in the valley of the shadow of death. This is the gospel that says: You may not survive, but you will be preserved. You may die, but you will be resurrected.
New Eyes for the Lenten Journey
To see this – to truly understand God’s promise – we need new eyes. Eyes that see the invisible God (Hebrews 11:27). Eyes that don’t fixate on mountains or people or powers or anxious hearts that tremble when the slightest leaf rustles. We need eyes that look upward to God, only to discover that He is closer to us than our own heartbeat.
Think about what we naturally see when we lift our eyes. We see the mountains – the unemployment that looms before us, the illness that won’t relent, the losses that keep accumulating. We see threats. We see our own smallness in the face of forces beyond our control. We see anxiety written across the faces of those we love. We see a world that seems indifferent to our suffering. We see emptiness waiting at the end of the road.
But faith gives us different eyes. When we lift our eyes in faith, we don’t see emptiness – we see a Face. We see God’s eyes already fixed upon us. We discover that while we were anxiously searching for help, God was already watching. While we were afraid of falling into the void, God’s gaze was holding us. The psalm invites us to stop looking at the mountains and look through them, to see that we are being seen. We are not alone on this road. We are not invisible. We are not forgotten.
This is what Christoph Blumhardt meant when, in the deepest misery of his life, he could still cry out: “Überall ist Licht!”—”Everywhere is light!” He didn’t mean that the darkness had disappeared. The suffering was real. The mountains were still there. But his eyes had been opened to see what was beyond the darkness: the presence of God, the light of God’s face shining upon him even in the depths. He saw light because he saw God – not as a distant power, but as a presence that penetrated every shadow, every valley, every moment of despair. The light he saw was God’s eyes, looking back at him with love.
We need eyes that don’t fixate on mountains or people or powers or anxious hearts that tremble when the slightest leaf rustles. We need eyes that look upward to God, only to discover that He is closer to us than our own heartbeat – and that His gaze has never left us.
This is what Lent is about. It’s not about giving up chocolate or social media – though those disciplines have their place. Lent is about receiving new eyes. Eyes that can see God’s presence precisely where we least expect it: in suffering, in weakness, in death itself.
The sun may still “strike” us by day. The moon may still “harm” us by night. We may still stumble on the steep paths. The robbers may still attack. But through it all – through it all, not around it – God is there. “The LORD watches over you – the LORD is your shade at your right hand.”
This is not a military term or a legal term. It’s a technical expression indicating God’s helping and protective presence. God is your shadow, your constant companion, so close that He moves when you move, present in every step of your journey.
The Church’s Song: From Fear to Faith
And here’s the beautiful thing: we don’t have to sing this song alone.
Psalm 121 was meant for liturgical antiphonal singing – a call-and-response, a dialogue between the anxious traveler and the covenant community. When the individual still doubts, the others join in. The entire priestly choir joins in. The church of all ages joins in. The “cloud of witnesses” joins in.
Then the fear-filled question of verse 1 becomes jubilation. Then the ecclesia pressa – the church under pressure – becomes again and again the ecclesia triumphans – the church in victory. This is the song that the church, as church, between farewell and second coming, must “betray” to the world. And this is the song that must form the fundamental tone of our Lenten journey.
We are not solo singers. We are a choir. When your voice falters, mine will carry the melody. When I forget the words, you will remind me. When we all feel like giving up, the saints who have gone before us – the great cloud of witnesses – will sing so loudly that we cannot help but join in.
This is why we gather for worship, especially during Lent. Not to escape the mountains, but to be strengthened for the journey through them. Not to pretend everything is fine, but to confess together that God is faithful even when everything is falling apart. Not to sing a shallow, happy song, but to sing the deep, costly song of resurrection faith.
Going Out: From Liturgy to Life
“The LORD will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”
The psalm ends with a sending. The traveler must leave the sanctuary’s warm atmosphere. The concrete mountains must be climbed. Covenant grace must now be concretely experienced. Life must be sanctified. Liturgical isolation must be broken through. Now life must become liturgy, and liturgy must become life.
“Your coming and going”—this refers to everyday. Your doing and leaving undone, your coming and going, your sitting and standing. God is there. Every day includes crisis moments: moments of damage, separation, and shame. But it also includes joy, prosperity, and vistas of hope.
Our whole life is indeed a “coming in” and “going out,” a movement, a process. And through it all – the births and the deaths, the weddings and the funerals, the celebrations and the catastrophes – God watches over us.
This is why Psalm 121 has been proclaimed at weddings and baptisms throughout church history. This is why it has been used as a word of comfort to the dying. God protects even our final departure, the decisive crisis and separation of our life, and our entrance into the holy city, the new Jerusalem (Revelation 21:2), of which it is reported that there is indeed an entrance, but no more exits are needed (Revelation 21:25). There “the sun will not beat down on them, nor any scorching heat,” but the people of God will be before the throne of God and serve Him day and night (see Revelation 7:15-16, which quotes Psalm 121). In this – in the praise (service) before the throne of God – Psalm 121 finds its complete and final fulfillment.
Conclusion: The Triumph Song of Trust
Brothers and sisters, we are in the season of Lent. We are on the road to the cross. The mountains loom before us – both the mountains in our personal lives and the mountain of Golgotha that stands at the center of our faith.
We will not cross these mountains without wounds. We may not “survive” in the way the world defines survival. But we will be preserved. We will be resurrected. Because our help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth, who sent His Son to walk this road before us, to die our death, and to rise in victory.
So lift up your eyes. Not to the mountains – they’re still there, still threatening, still real. Lift up your eyes beyond the mountains, through the mountains, to the God who made them and who is infinitely greater than them. Lift up your eyes to Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.
And then, with new eyes that see the invisible, join your voice with the church of all ages and sing the triumph song of trust: “My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth. He will not let your foot slip – He who watches over you will not slumber. The LORD watches over you – the LORD is your shade at your right hand. The LORD will keep you from all harm – He will watch over your life. The LORD will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”
It may sound like empty lies. It may sound like an idle song. But it is true: God is Immanuel, God with us… now, and forever.
Amen.
Benediction: Going Out Under God’s Gaze
(A brief silence)
In a moment, you will leave this place. You will walk back out into your mountains – the unemployment, the illness, the losses, the fears that wait for you. The sanctuary doors will close behind you, and the road will stretch ahead.
But you do not go alone. You do not go unwatched. You do not go unguarded.
For fifteen hundred years, the church has sent its people out with this ancient prayer of protection. Not protection from the mountains, but protection through them. Listen now to the words of St. Patrick, and let them become your armor for the journey.
(Music cue: Bill Evans’ instrumental “Blue in Green” begins softly)
I arise today,
through God’s strength to pilot me,
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s hand to guard me,
God’s shield to protect me,
God’s host to save me.
(Pause, letting the music hold the space)
Go now in peace. The Lord watches over your coming and going, both now and forevermore.
Amen.
(Music continues as the congregation departs)
