Category: Lenten Sermons

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Lent

Texts: Psalm 23 and John 9:1-7

Introduction

There is a man sitting by the roadside. He has never seen a sunrise. He has never looked into his mother’s face. He has been blind from birth, and now he sits in the dust, begging, while the world passes by in a blur of voices and footsteps.

The disciples see him and immediately ask the question that haunts every human heart when confronted with suffering: “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

It’s a theologian’s question. A philosopher’s question. The kind of question we ask when we’re trying to make sense of a world that doesn’t make sense. When we’re trying to maintain our illusion of control – if we can just figure out why suffering happens, maybe we can avoid it ourselves.

But Jesus doesn’t answer their question. Instead, he does something remarkable. He makes mud, anoints the man’s eyes, and sends him to wash. And when the man returns, he can see.

This morning, as we journey through Lent toward the cross, we’re holding two texts together: this story of a blind man regaining his sight and Psalm 23, that pearl of the Psalter, that song of unshakable trust. And at first glance, they seem to inhabit different worlds. Psalm 23 breathes peace, confidence, rest: “The LORD is my shepherd, I shall lack nothing.” John 9 opens with a man who lacks much sight, dignity, hope, and a place in the community.

But these texts are speaking to each other. They’re both asking the same question: What does it mean to truly see? And they’re both offering the same answer: True sight comes not from understanding everything, but from trusting the One who leads us through the darkness.

Now, I must confess something to you as we begin. The testimony of Psalm 23 is so direct and conveyed with such deep simplicity that commentary can almost seem intrusive or premature. Its piety and poetry are so equal, its sweetness and spirituality so unsurpassed, that one might wonder whether preaching on it does more harm than good. And yet – and this is crucial – it is precisely these unique qualities that inspire hungry sheep and weary pilgrims to ask about the secret of such rest and peace. So we preach, not because the psalm needs our explanation, but because our hearts need its truth. We preach because we, like that blind man by the roadside, are desperate to see.

I. The Blindness of Certainty

Let’s begin with the disciples’ question, because it’s our question too: “Who sinned?”

Notice what they’re doing. They’re standing before a man who has suffered his entire life, and their first instinct is not compassion but calculation. They want to solve the equation. They want suffering to make sense. Because if suffering makes sense, if it follows rules, if it’s punishment for sin, then we can protect ourselves. We can be good enough, careful enough, righteous enough to avoid it.

This is the blindness of certainty – the assumption that we understand how God works, that we can fit the world into our theological boxes, that suffering must always mean punishment, and blessing must always mean approval.

But Jesus interrupts this logic. He doesn’t answer the disciples’ question directly. Instead, he says: “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him.”

And then he acts. He spits on the ground, makes mud, and anoints the blind man’s eyes. He tells him to go wash in the pool of Siloam. And the man goes there, washes, and comes back seeing.

He (the blind man) doesn’t understand what’s happening. He doesn’t have all the answers. He doesn’t even know who Jesus is yet. But he obeys. He trusts. And in that trust, he receives sight.

The disciples wanted to understand suffering, and Jesus wanted to heal it. The disciples wanted certainty so desperately. Jesus offered transformation.

This is the deepest blindness of all – not the blindness that knows it cannot see, but the blindness that insists it must understand everything before it can trust.

II. The Shepherd in the Valley of Shadows

Now turn with me to Psalm 23. Listen again to these familiar words, but hear them with fresh ears:

“The LORD is my shepherd, I shall lack nothing.”

This is not the voice of someone who has figured everything out. This is not the voice of someone whose life makes perfect sense. It is rather the voice of someone who has learned to trust.

In my research on the psalm, I learned that it is a “song of trust” – a genre that emerges from the lament psalms, in which the worshiper moves from deep distress to renewed confidence in the Lord. True trust, as the exegesis reminds us, takes account of the “dark valleys,” but also of the wonder inspired by the good Shepherd.

Remarkably, the psalmist doesn’t say, “I understand why the valley is dark.” He doesn’t say, “I know the reason for every shadow.” He says something far more profound: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.”

This is the heart of the psalm. This is where everything changes. Did you notice the shift? In verses 1-3, the psalmist speaks about God in the third person: “He makes me lie down… he leads me… he restores my soul.” But in verse 4, suddenly it becomes personal, intimate, direct: “You are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

From “He” to “You.” From talking about God to talking to God. From theology to an intimate relationship. Moving from certainty to trust.

This is the secret of living faith. Not that we understand everything, but that we know the One who walks with us through everything.

III. When the Shepherd Opens Our Eyes

Now watch what happens when we bring these two texts together.

The blind man in John 9 doesn’t understand what Jesus is doing. Jesus spits on the ground, makes mud, and anoints his eyes. The blind man has no theological explanation for this strange action. He doesn’t know who Jesus is. He has no framework that makes sense of what’s happening to him. But when Jesus tells him to go wash in the pool of Siloam, he goes in trust. He obeys.

And when he returns, he can see.

He didn’t need to understand the method. He didn’t need to comprehend the miracle. He just needed to trust the One who was healing him. He was blind, and now he sees. That’s all he knows. That’s all he needs to know.

This is the testimony of Psalm 23 as well. “The LORD is my shepherd” – not “I understand the Lord’s ways perfectly,” but “The LORD is my shepherd.” Personal. Close and Intimate. Trusting.

“I shall lack nothing” – not because I have everything I want, but because I have the One I need.

“I will fear no evil” – not because I understand why evil exists, but because “you are with me.”

Do you see it? Both texts are teaching us the same truth: True sight -spiritual sight, the sight that matters – comes not from having all the answers, but from trusting the Shepherd who leads us, even when we don’t understand the way.

IV. The Table in the Presence of Enemies

There’s one more movement in Psalm 23 that we need to see, especially in this season of Lent.

In verse 5, the metaphor shifts. The Shepherd becomes the Host: “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”

Think about this image. The psalmist is surrounded by enemies – by threats, by dangers, by those who wish him harm. And right there, in the middle of that hostile territory, God spreads a feast. Not after the enemies are defeated. Not when everything is safe and resolved. But in the presence of the enemies.

This is the gospel in miniature. This is what Jesus does for the blind man. The disciples stand there asking their theoretical question: “Who sinned?” They want an explanation. They want to understand the rules of suffering before they can move forward. But Jesus doesn’t wait for their understanding to be sorted out. He doesn’t answer their question with words. Instead, he acts. He spits on the ground, makes mud, and anoints the blind man’s eyes. He tells him to go wash in the pool of Siloam. Right there, in that moment, Jesus gives sight to the blind.

And this is what Jesus does for us. Right here, in the middle of our Lenten journey, as we walk toward the cross and face our own darkness, doubt, and fear, Jesus doesn’t wait for us to have all the answers. He acts. He offers himself. He says, “I am the bread of life. I am the light of the world. I am the good shepherd who lays down his life for the sheep.”

The questions remain. The suffering hasn’t been explained. But the Shepherd is with us, and that changes everything.

V. From Blindness to Sight, From Fear to Trust

So what does this mean for us, here, today?

It means that the question the disciples asked – “Who sinned?” – is the wrong question. It’s the question of people who want to understand, to control, to fit suffering into a neat theological box. But Jesus doesn’t answer that question. He acts. He makes mud. He anoints the blind man’s eyes. He tells him to go wash in the pool of Siloam.

And the blind man obeys. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. He doesn’t know who Jesus is. He has no theological framework that explains this strange action. But he trusts. He goes. He washes. And he comes back seeing.

That’s the journey. Not from blindness to having all the answers. Not from darkness to complete understanding. But from blindness to sight through trust and obedience. The blind man didn’t need to comprehend the miracle. He just needed to trust the One performing it.

This is the shift Psalm 23 calls us to make. From “He” to “You.” From talking about God to trusting God. From needing certainty to embracing the presence of the Shepherd who walks with us, even when we don’t understand the way.

The disciples wanted an explanation. Jesus instead offered transformation. The blind man wanted sight. He got Jesus, and that made all the difference.

Conclusion

“The LORD is my shepherd, I shall lack nothing.”

Can I say that? Not “I understand everything.” Not “My life makes perfect sense.” Not “I have no questions, no doubts, no fears.”

But simply: “The LORD is my shepherd.”

Can you make that shift from “He” to “You”? Can you move from talking about God to talking to God? Can you say, not just “God is good” in some abstract, theological sense, but “You are with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me”?

Because that’s where faith lives. Not in the certainty of our understanding, but in the intimacy of trust. Not in having all the answers, but in knowing the One who is the Answer.

The blind man didn’t understand why he was born blind. But he knew the One who gave him sight.

The psalmist didn’t understand why he had to walk through the valley of the shadow of death. But he knew the Shepherd who walked with him.

And we don’t understand everything either. We don’t know why suffering happens. We don’t know why the valleys are dark. We don’t know why the enemies surround us.

But we know the Shepherd. We know the Light of the World. We know the One who makes mud with his own spit and touches our eyes and says, “Go, wash.”

And when we go – when we trust, when we obey, when we move from “He” to “You” – we discover what the blind man discovered: that Jesus doesn’t just give us answers. He gives us himself.

And that is more than enough.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the LORD forever.”

Not because I understand.

But because I trust.

Not because I can see everything.

But because I have seen Him.

And He is enough.

Amen.

Psalm 95 & Romans 5: 1 – 11

Beloved in Christ,

You are tired.

Not the kind of tired that a good night’s sleep can fix. The kind of tired that settles into your bones after months – perhaps years – of working hard, doing what needs to be done, trying to do right by your family, your work, your church, your God. You get up each morning, and you do it again. You are faithful. You are responsible. You are trying.

And still – still – it is so hard.

Perhaps you thought that following Jesus would make life easier. Not effortless, certainly, but… lighter somehow. You thought that if you worked hard and trusted God, things would fall into place. That obedience would yield peace. That faithfulness would bring rest.

Instead, you find yourself here: exhausted, faithful, and quietly wondering – Is this really how it’s supposed to be? Am I doing something wrong? Is faith even working?

Lent is a season when God gently but firmly takes us by the shoulders, turns us toward the truth, and says: “Today, if you hear my voice, do not harden your hearts.” Psalm 95 begins with joy and praise, but halfway through, it seems to tear apart as God’s word interrupts Israel’s worship, clashing with the worshippers’ words. It is a startling moment: the liturgy is beautiful, the words are correct, the posture is reverent – yet God breaks in with a word that disturbs.

Romans 5 speaks into a similar moment of disturbance. Paul writes to believers who had begun to wonder whether the gospel really works. They had stepped into the new life with expectation and a confident smile, but eventually had to admit that things were turning out differently than they expected – simply much harder.

Psalm 95 and Romans 5 meet each other here – in the place where faith meets reality, where worship meets life, where our expectations meet God’s deeper work. And they meet us here, in our weariness, with a word we desperately need to hear.

1. When Faith Meets Reality

Paul knows that believers sometimes grow disillusioned. He knows the quiet question that can rise in the heart: “Is the gospel really as powerful as I thought? Is Christ really as sufficient as I hoped?” Some in Rome were beginning to wonder whether it really works as powerfully as people claimed, whether perhaps they had overestimated Jesus Christ.

For you, the question may sound different, but feel the same: I’m doing everything I know to do. I’m working hard. I’m trying to be faithful. I’m showing up. So why am I so tired? Why is this so difficult? Why hasn’t following Jesus made my life… better?

This is not a failure of faith. A seminary professor once said, “What is the use of faith if you cannot doubt it?” Real faith – living faith – must be strong enough to hold our honest questions. Faith that cannot be questioned is not faith at all; it is only a fragile pretense we’re afraid to examine.

The disillusionment you feel is not a sign that you’ve failed. It may be a sign that you’re finally being honest. You thought that if you worked hard enough, prayed faithfully enough, served generously enough, that God would… what? Make things easier? Remove the obstacles? Reward your effort with rest?

Instead, you find yourself overwhelmed. Despondent, even. The realities you live in – the demands that never stop, the responsibilities that never lighten, the weariness that never fully lifts – these realities press in, and you wonder: Is faith even worthwhile?

Psalm 95 shows the same tension. Israel sings, “He is our God and we are his people,” but God interrupts to say that their worship is hollow because their hearts are hard. The first stanza is truly beautiful – and yet wrong and condemnable – because liturgy and life have drifted apart.

Both texts tell the truth: Faith does not shield us from suffering, and worship does not exempt us from the hard realities of life. But – and this is crucial – they also tell us that God meets us precisely here, in this place of exhaustion and honest doubt.

2. Why Suffering? Paul’s Three Movements

Paul does not dismiss the suffering of tired believers. He does not tell them to work harder or pray more fervently. Instead, he offers three movements of understanding that reframe everything.

a. Suffering is not punishment

First, and most importantly for those of you who wonder if you’re doing something wrong: your weariness is not God’s punishment.

Christians are justified; their sins are forgiven; when suffering comes, God’s heart toward you is not punitive—it is entirely gracious. You have not failed. God is not angry with you for being tired. Your exhaustion is not evidence of spiritual inadequacy.

This needs to be said clearly, because tired people often blame themselves. You think: If I were a better Christian, this wouldn’t be so hard. If I had more faith, I wouldn’t feel this way. But Paul says: You have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. That peace is not contingent on your performance. It is not something you earn by working harder or feeling less tired.

b. Suffering reveals truth

Second, Paul says that suffering produces genuineness of faith. It helps us be more honest with ourselves about what is real and what is false in our lives.

When you are truly tired, you cannot maintain pretenses any longer. The masks slip. The carefully constructed image of having it all together crumbles. And in that crumbling, something true emerges.

Suffering strips away the illusions. It exposes what we’ve actually been trusting in – and that exposure is painful, unsettling. We see what we’ve been relying on: our own strength, our own competence, our own ability to keep all the plates spinning. And we see how fragile it is. How empty. How insufficient.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote: “There are many Christians who believe they bow the knee before the cross of Christ, but who resist every trial in their own lives. In truth they hate and despise the cross of Christ. Whoever knows of himself that he experiences suffering and trial only as something hostile and evil can know that he has not yet truly received the peace with God. He has likely only sought the peace of the world and judged that the cross of Christ is the best way to cope with oneself and one’s life questions and thus find peace of heart. Such a person has used the cross of Christ without loving it. He has sought peace for his own sake.”

This is a hard word, but it is also a liberating one. Suffering separates true hope from false hope. It shows us where we have been seeking peace for our own sake – peace as comfort, peace as the absence of difficulty – rather than the peace Christ actually offers.

c. Suffering reshapes us

Third, Paul uses the word “produce” repeatedly in verses 3 and 4. Suffering produces endurance. Endurance produces character. Character produces hope.

But let me be honest with you: many of you have not experienced this. You have suffered, and suffering has not produced endurance, character, or hope. It just broke you. You are tired. You are empty. You have nothing left.

Paul’s words describe what suffering can produce – but they do not describe the reality for many broken people. You didn’t emerge from your suffering more virtuous or more hopeful. You just got exhausted. You got brokenness. And now you sit here wondering if something is wrong with you, because Paul says suffering produces these good things, and all you have is weariness.

Here is the grace: God’s faithfulness is not dependent on your spiritual outcomes. God does not love you if you emerge from suffering as a better person. God does not require you to have endurance or character or hope before He meets you.

God is faithful to you in your brokenness itself.

When suffering has shattered you, and you have nothing left but exhaustion – no character formed, no hope intact, just broken – God meets you there. Not to remake you. Not to make it meaningful. Simply present in the brokenness. And that presence is enough.

C. S. Lewis describes this with painful accuracy: “I am progressing along the path of life in my ordinary contentedly fallen and godless condition, absorbed in a merry meeting with my friends for the morrow or a bit of work that tickles my vanity today, a holiday or a new book, when suddenly a stab of abdominal pain that threatens serious disease, or a headline in the newspapers that threatens us all with destruction, sends this whole pack of cards tumbling down. At first I am overwhelmed, and all my little happinesses look like broken toys… And perhaps, by God’s grace, I succeed, and for a day or two become a creature consciously dependent on God and drawing its strength from the right sources. But the moment the threat is withdrawn, my whole nature leaps back to the toys… Thus the terrible necessity of tribulations is only too clear. God has had me for but forty-eight hours and then only by dint of taking everything else away from me. Let Him but sheathe that sword for a moment and I behave like a puppy when the hated bath is over – I shake myself as dry as I can and race off to reacquire my comfortable dirtiness… That is why tribulations cannot cease until God either sees us remade or sees that our remaking is now hopeless.”

Even Lewis shows us how quickly we return to our illusions when the pain stops. How desperately we cling to our own efforts, our own control, our own comfortable patterns. This is the reality of broken people. We do not emerge transformed. We cycle back. We fail. We remain tired.

In that forced stopping – when you’re too exhausted to keep fighting – there is a brief moment when you’re not holding everything together by sheer will. In that moment, you experience what it actually feels like when you’re not performing, not striving, not white-knuckling. God is present in that fragile moment. But it won’t last. You will cycle back to your illusions. You will return to fighting. But God is faithful even in that temporary, exhausted stopping – faithful presence in the moment when you have nothing left.

3. Psalm 95: When Worship and Life Diverge

But here is where Psalm 95 becomes especially important for tired people like you.

Worship can become a cocoon – a place to hide from God rather than meet God. For those of you who work so hard all week, Sunday morning may be your only moment of peace. The liturgy is familiar. The songs are comforting. For one hour, you can stop striving and simply be.

This is beautiful. This is good. God wants to give you rest.

But there is a danger here, and Psalm 95 names it clearly: we can use worship as a hiding place. We can go through the motions – singing the right songs, saying the right words, maintaining the right posture – while our hearts remain hard and distant.

Think of a long-term relationship. In the beginning, you are fully present to one another. You see each other. You engage deeply. But over time, you can develop patterns – comfortable routines, familiar flows of interaction – that feel like connection but are actually just… habit. You’re together, but you’re not truly with each other anymore. You need time together to truly see one another again.

This can happen with God. Worship becomes routine. Prayer becomes a checklist. You show up, you go through the motions, but you’re not really meeting God. You’re just… coping. Getting through. Maintaining.

And God says: “Today, if you hear my voice, do not harden your hearts.”

Within its beautiful liturgy, Israel hides from that very God. Liturgy that does not land in life comes under God’s judgment. The people fall in reverence before God; they bow, they kneel before the Lord their Maker, and they run headlong into His word of disturbance.

Now, we must be careful here. The text says “God is the great Disturber of Rest,” but we need to understand what this means. I do not believe that God instigates suffering. God does not make you tired. God does not create the overwhelming demands of your life.

But God does disturb our false rest. God does interrupt our hiding. God does break through our comfortable cocoons and ask: Are you meeting me, or are you just going through the motions to survive the week? Do you trust me with your exhaustion, or are you just white-knuckling through?

The disturbance you feel – the sense that something is not quite right, that worship feels hollow, that you’re going through the motions – this may not be coming from God as punishment. It may be coming from your own heart, finally admitting the truth. And in that disturbance, God is present to you. Not to fix it. Not to make it meaningful. Not to transform you or teach you something. Simply to be with you in the truth of it. God does not abandon you in your exhaustion. God meets you there – as you are.

This is Lent’s gift to us: God disturbs our false rest to give us true rest.

4. The Peace Christ Gives

Romans 5 begins with a breathtaking declaration: “We have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Hear this carefully, beloved: This peace is not the absence of your hard work. It is not the removal of your responsibilities. It is not a promise that life will suddenly become easy.

This peace is the peace of reconciliation – peace rooted in the unshakeable love of God. It is the peace of knowing that you can bring your whole exhausted self to God and be received. Not judged. Not rejected. Not told to try harder. Received.

Paul grounds our certainty not in our feelings but in Christ’s action: while we were still weak, Christ died for the ungodly; while we were still sinners, Christ died for us; while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God.

Do you hear what this means? God’s love for you was love for enemies – not determined by your reciprocal love or good works. Not earned by your hard work. Not contingent on your performance. Not dependent on whether you have it all together.

Christ died for you while you were still weak. While you were still tired. While you were still struggling. While you were still wondering if faith even works.

The peace Christ gives is not peace as the world gives—not the peace of having everything under control, not the peace of finally getting enough rest, not the peace of life becoming easier.

The peace Christ gives is this: You can stop performing. You can stop proving. You can stop trying to earn God’s love through your exhaustion. You already have it. Christ has already secured it. It is finished.

This is the peace Psalm 95 longs for. This is the rest of the Hebrews’ promises. This is the hope that does not disappoint – because it is grounded not in our strength but in Christ’s finished work.

5. Today, If You Hear His Voice

Psalm 95 ends with a warning, but Hebrews hears in it a promise: “Today… a rest still remains for the people of God.”

Today – this moment – God speaks. Today God disturbs what is false. Today God invites us into the peace Christ has already secured.

“Do not harden your hearts.”

For tired people, this sounds like one more demand. One more thing you’re supposed to do. One more way you might fail.

But hear it differently: This is not a command that adds pressure. This is permission to be honest.

Do not harden your hearts – do not pretend you’re fine when you’re not. Do not maintain the facade. Do not hide behind the liturgy. Do not use worship as a cocoon to avoid meeting God with your real, exhausted, doubting, struggling self.

God is not asking you to work harder. God is asking you to stop hiding. To bring your weariness into His presence. To admit that you cannot do this on your own. To let Him give you the rest you cannot create for yourself.

The rest God offers is not the rest of the graveyard – the false peace of going through the motions, the comfortable numbness of routine. The rest God offers is the rest of reconciliation. The rest of being fully known and fully loved. The rest of finally, finally being able to stop performing and simply be held.

This rest is real. It is available today. It is rooted in Christ’s action, not your performance.

Lent is not a season of despair. It is a season of truth. A season of returning. A season of listening.

Do not harden your hearts. Open them. Let Christ speak. Let Christ disturb your false rest. Let Christ heal your weariness. Let Christ give you His peace – the peace that does not depend on your strength, the peace that holds you when you have nothing left to give, the peace that says: You are loved. You are forgiven. You are mine. And that is enough.

Amen.

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)