You have most likely noticed a new warning that is out there. On certain movies, video games, and shorts, there is a photosensitivity warning which alerts of flashing lights that might induce an epileptic seizure in some people. Now, Lord willing, this does not affect you, but this warning can be a metaphor for life at large. That is, we can get over-stimulated by stress, drama, pains, and busyness to the point of wigging out. You are trying to multitask amid noise, endless talking, constant notifications, and glitches that threaten your sanity. You need to turn it all off and escape to your quiet place. A dark room with no noise, a sunny park with only the breeze in the trees, a soft blanket on the couch—this is how you reorient yourself; you protect your lucidity, and you refresh to keep going. Our faith requires a similar sort of quiet oasis, which this psalm reveals to us.

There is no guesswork to this psalm, as it is plenty clear that the psalmist is not doing well. As a typical lament, trouble has pounced upon the author. David was plagued by some intense hardship, and then he penned this poem to share with us his story. The details of his ordeal are not specific enough to locate this prayer in the life of David; nonetheless, a major depressive episode fenced him in with the uncertainty of getting free. And his depression was hardly just in his head, for it had invaded him from external forces. In his retelling of the trial, he spares no detail, which he gets into in verse 9. Speaking to the Lord, he holds nothing back. “I am in distress, O Lord.”

Sometimes in prayer, we can whine too much, throwing ourselves a pity party. At other times, we are too shy and timid, thinking God does not want to be bothered with our little troubles. The psalmist, though, models for us the proper path, frank and honest, without spilling over into self-absorption. He does not fib, as if everything is okay when it is not. Rather, he nails his distress on the door of heaven and lists off his many theses of agony. He is in distress, and this distress is like a wasting disease; it affects every part of him. The grief dissolves his eyes; he cannot focus his vision, no matter how many times he blinks. Lifting his eyelids is heavier than deadlifting 400 lbs.

The sorrow drips into his throat; strep eats away at his vocal cords; his voice fails. No matter how much he drinks, his dry mouth will not go away. Next, the sadness upsets his stomach, sour and nauseous. He has not eaten in days; the very smell of food makes him dry heave. And with his bodily systems failing, his strength stumbles and he cannot get up. Even his bones feel like they are melting inside of him. Bone pain conquers all your other senses; it monopolizes your consciousness. Thus, his sorrow feels lifelong. Sighing has been his demon for years. This is not literally true, but it is emotionally accurate. When agony molests body and mind, seconds feel like days; weeks register as decades. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot remember a time when he was not tormented by distress.

Now, the origin of this wasting disease is not given; he does mention his iniquity in verse 10, so he clocks it as disciplinary. No matter, it hardly remains a personal matter. Either as a source or a result, his distress overflows into the social. Adversaries rise up and reproach him; haters shame him as disgusting. As you know, the course and mean judgments of others can cut deeper than any knife. People locate your insecurities, and they press and jab. And the torment of shame refuses to stay at a distance. It is one thing for your opponents to ridicule cruelly, but it is quite another when it comes close. The neighbors soon join in. The lady who once shared a hot pot of stew with you now spits in your face. You become the taboo of the neighborhood; no one says hello. Instead, they hide their kids and sling insults.

Then, if possible, it gets worse, as your friends despise and shame you without mercy. Family and friends abandon the psalmist. He is disowned, cut from the will, kicked out of his home. Mom will not look him in the eye; Dad forbids even the mentioning of his name. And becoming homeless, he finds himself on the street, where no one will even look at him. Strangers cross the street to avoid him. Friends step over him as if he does not exist. There is no clink in his can. He has been canceled, so that even alms are denied him. It gets so bad that he utters a harrowing line. “I am forgotten as a dead man” (v. 12). He yet breathes, but people talk about him as though he were buried long ago. His name pops up, David, and people scratch their heads; I do not know any David. Not even a headstone or a little cross on the side of the road marks his memory. What a debilitating blow, to be treated as a shameful corpse while still alive. As he lies there in the gutter, he feels like a broken vessel, a cigarette butt, a gum wrapper, so worthless, he does not even have recycle value.

And since he is practically a corpse, it might as well be literal. Those who still recognize him whisper and plot. Let us just put him out of his misery. Like a horse with a broken leg, put him down. Murder schemes echo through the streets. What is shameful should be treated as such, and the proper fate for shame is destruction. A broken beggar in the street, rejected by the community and family, body and brain wasting away. This is the psalmist and his fierce agony.

Yet even though his voice is hoarse, he still musters up to pray through the pain. Thus, surrounding his lament are a list of his petitions. His faith squeaks out requests to the Lord. He asks not to be put to shame, which is the big one. Shame has him in the gutter, and so the only way up is by a restored honor. In usual fashion, he pleads for the Lord to hear him. He submits petitions to be saved, delivered, and rescued, reaching out for grace as his only hope. God is his only Savior, and so his whole being screams for the mercy of salvation.

Furthermore, in his requests, he also includes judgment upon his cruel and hateful opponents. They shame him for no solid reason. The foes lied and plotted against him, and he calls for them to reap what they sowed. May they be shamed. “Let them go down to Sheol and let them be silent.” And this prayer is not just judicial but is restorative for him. Lying in the street, the murderous clamor filled his ears; the disgraceful insults ransacked his mind. He was over-stimulated with negatives. The constant noise of shame bruised his body and crushed his sanity; he was about to lose it, so he prays to God for silence. Just let the haters be quiet. He has to get away from the suffocating noise and find solace with the Lord.

Thus, he prays for the Lord to be his rock and refuge (v. 2). Within a fortress, behind the thick walls, protection and calm flourishes. It is like with weather: Outside it is frigid, torrential rains mixed with sizeable hail, cold and miserable, but you come inside where it is dry and warm, hot cocoa and fuzzy slippers. The psalmist begs the Lord to be his fortified oasis, his impenetrable castle to fend off the distress and to warm him around the fireplace of grace. This is an organic petition, since it is asking God to be what he already his. He confesses in the very next verse, “You are my rock and fortress. . . . You are my refuge.” The Lord is the stronghold for his people, and so the psalmist merely asks that He would open his gates to him. Let me inside to enjoy the greatness of your protective love.

Now that his faith has expressed itself, we are positioned to tease out the depths of his belief and how it leads us to our full salvation and comfort, for which we must wait until part two.

©Zach Keele. All Rights Reserved.

You can find the whole series here.

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Post authored by:

• Zach Keele

  

  Rev. Zachary Keele grew up on a ranch in a small town named Crawford, Colorado. He attended Geneva College in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania and received his Master of Divinity from Westminster Seminary California. He has served as the pastor of Escondido OPC since 2006.

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