Psalm 12: Psalms Reflections

Welcome to Scattered Moments and Psalms Reflections. Today we meditate on Psalm 12. And after this brief meditation, I invite you to remain with me and listen to a musical interpretation of the psalm. It's not a word-for-word rendering of Psalm 12, but a song that's shaped by David's heart cry. So now set aside the noise of the day. Release what you cannot control. And let us rest in the one who hears the helpless. David begins with a cry. Help, Lord, for no one remains faithful. The loyal have disappeared from the human race. Help, Lord. One of the shortest prayers a grieving heart can pray. David looks around and something is missing. Faithfulness seems to have disappeared. Truth has become difficult to find. People speak with flattering lips and divided hearts. The world David once recognized seems to be slipping away. And perhaps you know something about that feeling. Grief is often the painful awareness of an absence. Someone who has occupied space in our world no longer occupies it in the same way. Sometimes it's death, sometimes distance, sometimes disappointment. Sometimes we grieve people who are still living but have wandered far from the places we once shared. And sometimes we grieve a world that no longer seems familiar. David looks around him and he sees people drifting away from the safe corridors of truth into the wild oceans of chaos. And he doesn't pretend that everything is fine. Uncomplicated. Brief. Something has changed. Help, Lord. I don't understand. Help, Lord. The world around me seems unsteady. There are moments when eloquent prayers are unnecessary. Two words are enough. Help, Lord. And then in the middle of Psalm twelve, something happens. God speaks. After all the lies, after all the flattering lips, after all the boastful voices, another voice is heard. It's the voice of God. Because of the devastation of the needy and the groaning of the poor, I will now rise up, says the Lord. That's the turning point in the Psalm. I will now rise up. Notice what God does not say. He does not say that David imagined the pain. He does not tell him to stop grieving. He does not promise that every troubling circumstance will immediately disappear. He says I will rise. For me and perhaps for you, we want to put God on the clock. His coming, his rising will be in his time. And perhaps that is the promise we need. Not always God make this grief disappear. But perhaps we must sit in it. And realize this. God will arise in the middle of it. Arise in this empty place. Arise in this quiet room. Arise in the memories. Arise in the questions. Arise in the space where someone used to be. And then David sings these words. Like silver refined in earthen furnaces. Purified seven times. Human words fail. Sometimes people mean well, but they simply do not know what to say. Sometimes there are no words capable of filling an empty chair, a lost dream, a discarded hope. But when words fail, God's word remains pure, tested, faithful. Sometimes faith does not arrive at a neat explanation. Sometimes says, Someone is gone. I hurt. I don't understand. Help, Lord. And into that empty place comes the promise. I will now rise up. Maybe there's an empty place in your life today. Someone has departed. Don't search for the perfect prayer. Borrow David's. Help, Lord. And then just be still. Listen. Wait. For the God who hears the groaning of the brokenhearted is not indifferent to the empty places of our lives. He rises. He comes near. He's still Emmanuel. And even when the absence remains, we discover that we are not alone. So take a slow breath. Rest your hands. Release the questions you cannot answer. And as we move from meditation into music, allow this song to carry David's ancient prayer into our own movement. Listen for his cry. Help, Lord. And listen for the answer of God. I will now rise up. Lord, arise in the empty place.

The poor plunder, the needy groan.