All the Time We Need

Psalm 90
Series: Dwelling in the Psalms
October 25, 2026
William G. Carter

Psalm 90 is our reminder that, in the light of God’s eternity, human life is pretty short. How’s that working out for you. 

I sat down recently to watch a favorite movie. It’s an honest film called About Schmidt. Jack Nicholson plays Warren Schmidt, a man whose dreams for retirement are interrupted. Right after his retirement dinner, his wife Helen dies unexpectedly. She leaves him with a Winnebago that he thinks is too big, and there’s nobody to cook or clean for him. His daughter Jeannie is marrying an idiotic waterbed salesman with a bad mullet. Schmidt expected his autumn years would continue without any interruptions, but he has now awakened to a new reality.

And Warren Schmidt, of all people, knows that life is short. As he explains,

I was an actuary at Woodmen of the World Insurance Company. If I’m given a man’s age, race, profession, place of residence, marital status, and medical history, I can calculate with great probability how long that man will live. In my own case, now that my wife has died there is a 73% chance I will die within nine years, provided that I do not remarry. All I know is I’ve got to make the best of whatever time I have left. Life is short, and I can’t afford to waste another minute.

In the very next scene, he is taking a nap in his Lazy Boy recliner.

Sometimes the Bible is too honest for us to handle. Psalm 90 is one of those honest passages. It begins with a polite statement of God’s eternal presence. “Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God."

But pretty soon, the Psalmist admits that while God is eternal, we are not. “You turn us back to dust. You sweep us away. We are like a dream that fades by morning. We are a field of grass that withers by sunset.”

Is he shaking his fist at God? I don’t think so. He is simply admitting the way it is. Like it or not, admit it or not, all of us are running out of time. All of us know this, even if most of would rather avoid this. We would like to keep up the illusion that we will always be youthful and spry, that we will never wear out or break down, that the warranty on our parts will never be challenged.

But then, we have a truthful moment that brings us up short. We remember what we would rather forget.

In many homes, a silence settles in when the parents say, “You know, we need to put together a will.” It is quiet for the rest of the day. We don’t like to think about running out of time. We don’t want the dream to fade.

And then, for instance, a seventeen-year-old smashes up her parents’ car on a winter night. Nobody knows what to do. Nobody knows what to say. Everybody is in shock. They don’t want to hear it was a miscalculation in physics: that if you drive that fast on bad tires on an icy road and slam on your brakes to avoid that oak tree, you’re not going to be able to stop in time. They don’t want to hear that. All they know is that this isn’t right. She’s a teenager. She is supposed to live forever. She’s not supposed to run out of time. But she does.

Contrast that with a fourth-century saint of the church. He found a human skeleton and put it beside him on his bed. (He was a really strange saint!) But this was his constant reminder that death was his constant companion and could visit him at any time.

We don’t want to hear this kind of thing. That’s why the Psalmist gives us nine verses of warning, right in the middle of Psalm 90. In fact, when this psalm appears in the worship books of the church, usually these middle verses are left out.

For all our days pass away under your wrath; our years come to an end like a sigh. The days of our life are seventy years, or perhaps eighty if we are strong; even then their span is only toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away. 

With a message like that from Psalm 90, some request cheerful hymns to sing. This old text does not hand out any pink lollipops. “O Lord,” says the psalmist, “Your wrath is as great as the fear that you deserve.” 

The Bible scholars say this passage reminds us God is God. God is not mean, but God is not arbitrary. God does not dish out meaninglessness. But neither will anybody ever step on God’s holy feet. There are limits on what we can and cannot accomplish in this life. There is only so much that we can get done in one day. Even if the scriptures declare that God loves us, “Death is the final and ultimate ‘no’ that cancels any pretension to autonomy from the human side.”[1]

Now, I’m not bringing this up because my bones are creaking a little bit more than they did last year. But a text like Psalm 90 forces us to take stock of our lives: who we are, and what we’ve done, and what we haven’t done, and what we may not get to do.

Years ago, when one of my friends turned fifty, he found a website that he should have ignored. I wouldn’t recommend it. The address is www.deathclock.com. It’s billed as “the “Internet’s friendly reminder that life is slipping away,” and it is a strange site. You can type in your birth date, gender, health data, and it will predict the probable date of your death.

I wasn’t going to try it, but curiosity got the better of me. Depending on whether I can lower my body mass index or improve my mood, I’m going to last until somewhere between 2033 and 2052. It is rather ominous to see it in print; so much so, I’ve actually thought about taking up exercise and watching what I eat. When you know that time is short, you do what you can to make the most of what you have.

We cannot finish our own lives – much less finish all the projects around the house. That’s what the psalmist says in five or six different ways. He doesn’t intend this to be good news; it’s simply the news of how things are. There are limits to our ability. No matter how capable we are, we cannot do it all. No matter how good we try to be, there are limits which are established beyond our control.

We know this because we live in northeastern Pennsylvania and it is nearly time to put on snow tires. The best laid plans can be cancelled by an unexpected snow day.

We cannot do it all; knowing this is a gift of wisdom. And so, Walter Brueggemann notes in his commentary on the psalms, "A wise heart does not refer to knowledge, skill, technique, or the capacity to control. Instead, it seems to mean the capacity to submit, relinquish, and acknowledge the decisive impingement of Yahweh on one's life."[2]

One way to gain this wise heart is to lean back into God’s everlasting arms and try to get the biggest picture possible - - to see as God sees, over vast spans of time. To be patient, as God is eternally patient. To affirm that life happens to us, through us, and in spite of us. To say once again, there is nothing that can ever really separate us from the love of God. To hold fast to such truths is to prepare for a wise heart.

It is of great comfort to remember that God does not wear a wristwatch. God is eternal, standing outside of human time, while mysteriously entering it with the grace of Jesus Christ. From moment to moment, we catch glimpses of how God is inclined to help us when we can’t help ourselves, and that’s how God is our savior. We are always up against the wall, and our own failings are obvious. But God has the ability to finish what we cannot. God is eternal.

I like how theologian Reinhold Niebuhr once put it:

§  Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore we are saved by hope.

§  Nothing which is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore we must be saved by faith.

§  Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore we are saved by love.

§  No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore we must be saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.”[3]

Our time is short. But God’s time is eternal. And the best interpretation of Psalm 90 may come from the hymn we’re singing today:

                    Our God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come.

                    Be Thou our guide while life shall last, and our eternal home.[4]

Regarding short time, the best lesson may come from Morrie Schwartz. Do you know that great little book, Tuesdays With Morrie? A sportswriter named Mitch Albom reports on some lessons he learned from his college English professor, Morrie Schwartz. Morrie has a terminal disease, and it has focused his perspective on his remaining days: 

     “Let’s begin with this idea,” Morrie said. “Everyone knows they’re going to die, but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently.”

     So we kid ourselves about death, I said.

     “Yes. But there’s a better approach. To know you’re going to die, and to be prepared for it at any time. That’s better. That way you can actually be more involved in your life while you’re living…”

     How can you ever be prepared to die?

     “Every day, have a little bird on your shoulder that asks, ‘Is today the day? Am I ready? Am I doing all I need to do? Am I being the person I want to be?”

    Morrie continued, “Most of us all walk around as if we’re sleepwalking. We really don’t experience the world fully, because we’re half-asleep, doing things we automatically think we have to do.”

    And facing death changes all that?

    “Oh, yes. You strip away all that stuff and you focus on the essentials. When you realize you are going to die, you see everything much differently.”

     He sighed. “Learn how to die, and you learn how to live.”[5]

I hate to bring this up, but time is short. The Psalmist says, “Lord, teach us to number our days, that we may be full of wisdom.” The best way to number our days is to make them count. To do something important with whatever time we have left.

And so, I charge you to hug a child. Plant a tree. Enjoy a purple sunset. Write the next great American novel. Forgive the lingering grudge. Make a fabulous meal. Take a stand against wastefulness. Plan a legacy gift for your church. Tell a stranger that he or she is worthy of your respect. Above all, tell your loved ones that you love them.

The time is short. That’s OK, for God’s steadfast love endures forever.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] James L. Mays, Psalms, Interpretation (Louisville: John Knox, 1004) 292.

[2] Walter Brueggemann, The Message of the Psalms (Minneapolis: Augsburg) 111.

[3] Reinhold Niebuhr, The Irony of American History (New York: Charles Scribner’s sons, 1952) 63.

[4] Isaac Watts, The Presbyterian Hymnal, 210.

[5] Mitch Albom, Tuesdays with Morrie (New York: Doubleday, 1999) 80-83

The Things You Never Remember

Psalm 106 (106:1-6, 19-23)
Series: Dwelling in the Psalms
October 11, 2026
William G, Carter

That’s one way to end up with a short sermon: pick a long Bible passage! There are longer psalms to choose from. But there are few quite as exhausting. Psalm 106 is a history psalm. A long history psalm. A psalm recounting a long history. If it were left up to the Lectionary Keepers, whoever they are, we would hear six verses in the beginning and five verses in the middle. That’s all that was suggested for today. 

When a text gets trimmed, I’m always curious what gets left out.

The beginning is pleasant enough. The psalm starts by singing a hymn: Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good. His steadfast love endures forever! That is a familiar verse. It comes up regularly. It is followed by a declaration of right living, and that is always a good idea. Then comes a one-word prayer, “Remember!” Remember us, O Lord. We call on God to look back in the divine memory and recognize us.

Yet from that point on, it is the psalm that does all the remembering. What it remembers is a significant number of times we have goofed up. We have sinned. We have twisted ourselves out of shape (That’s the root meaning of “iniquity.” It signifies a twisting beyond original recognition.) And we have done evil.

Here’s my question for today. What kind of people remember all the ways that they have messed up? God isn’t calling them to account. They are calling themselves to account. What kind of people do that?

History, they say, is decided by the winners. We rarely listen for the losers. Can you imagine the history of North America told by the people who lived here first? And if it were spun in a positive direction? Let me imagine one of those scenarios.

We had resigned ourselves to living in North Dakota. The land was barren. The winters were cold. So, when the pale-skinned strangers from Scandinavia arrived, we were happy to hand over the land to them. Not much here for us anyway. So glad they came and planted their flags. We snickered the whole way to Nebraska.

Is that the way the story went? It depends on who tells the story. It’s not revisionist history, just the rest of the story, a more complete version.

Tomorrow is designated Columbus Day, a national holiday. It’s named for an Italian adventurer was financed by Spain to cross the sea, where he discovered Bermuda. Well, he didn’t discover it – other people were already living there. To the empire he represented, they did not count. Thinking he had found a new way to India, he planted a new flag, looked for hidden riches, and took what he could find. In subsequent returns, he and his crew brought smallpox and slavery to the islands. Thousands of natives died from the diseases brought by Europe.[1]

Isn’t that the way we were taught the story in school? No, not really. Back in second grade, the teacher passed out crayons for us to color the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. It was all about the European conquest of a New World. We were taught it was a story only about courage and adventure. Don’t get me wrong; I like it here. Yet there’s a whole lot more that has been cut off of the story. Just like the suggested verses of Psalm 106.

What would we have lost if we had trimmed out verses seven through eighteen and twenty-four through forty-eight? Rebellion against God, superficial faith, wanton craving, and wickedness. That’s just in verse seven through eighteen. In the latter half of the tale, there was dissatisfaction, grumbling, scattering, to say nothing of sacrificing their own children to the violence of their own making.

If that wasn’t enough, they said, “God is too quiet and too invisible for us. Let’s make a few smaller gods for us to worship. We will light up a bonfire and crank up a pep rally.” They wanted fire, excitement, exuberance, so God nodded and gave them over to the vain desires of their ravenous souls. And it did not go well. The shorthand account is in the psalm that we read together.

Once again, I ask: what kind of people tell the crystal-clear truth about themselves? They must not be running for office in Pennsylvania. They might not even be Presbyterians.

Do you remember that classic scene with Colonel Nathan Jessup, in the film A Few Good Men? In a critical moment, he bellows out, “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth.” And a few moments later we discover in the darkness of the theater, he can’t handle the truth either. He has acted despicably and done what he could to cover up what he has done.

And Israel goes into the Temple, opens the prayerbook to Psalm 106, and begins to tell the truth. God already knows what they’ve done – and what they have left undone. God is not surprised by anything we do or say. The surprise comes when we have the courage to say out loud when and where we have been wrong.

Years ago, I had a friend who wrote a lot of songs. Dave has been gone for many years, but I had the privilege of his company on many occasions. One day, Dave Brubeck gave me the handwritten manuscript for a fresh new song he had written. There were words attached. The first verse went like this:

            The things you never remember / are the things I’ll never forget.

            The vows we made to each other / the thrill we felt when we met.

            The life we started together / so full of promise and yet

            The dream was so quickly shattered / our hearts so full of regret.[2]

I said, “Dave, are you in trouble with your wife?” He laughed and said, “She wrote the words.” Then he quickly added, “It’s about a dear friend who went through a traumatic breakup.” And I thought, “It could have been anybody.”

Reflect on your own experience. We try to push painful memories out of our heads. We jump out of one broken relationship to create another broken relationship. Our friends, the therapists, tell us if we bury the pain or pretend “we don’t remember,” the pain is still there. Grief always waits for us to catch up. If you kick it down the road, it’s waiting for you. Unresolved pain waits to be named – and only then can it begin to be healed.

And Israel goes into the Temple, opens the prayerbook, and recites Psalm 106. “Lord, here is when we wandered off your path. When we broke your commandments. When we went our own way rather than your way. We are certain that we made you angry – yet you have never let us go. You are a god – The God – of steadfast love and mercy.”  

Suddenly, my friend’s song modulates to a new key. The things we never remember are the things God never forgets. Let’s hear it that way. Mercy comes only through honesty. We cannot be free from the mistakes we’ve never confessed. We cannot fully experience the power of forgiveness if we have never owned our own broken lives.

And here we are, in the Temple, in God’s local Presbyterian Temple. This is safe space for truth-telling. And it’s an old, old building – a hundred fourteen years old. I suspect it’s heard it all and seen it all. It’s OK if you drop your burden here. God can carry it.

At the same time, let’s remember there is more at stake than our personal issues. Our psalm is a national psalm. It is a national confession. And there is so much pain in our own nation that is shoved aside, denied, and dismissed. Every single day we see real truth covered by lies, smoothed over by selfishness, and postponed in the hope that our grandchildren might tackle the problems someday.

Now, we can’t fix all the messes we’ve made. Nor can we mend all the brokenness we have inherited. The psalmist knew that. But here is what we can do as the people of God: we can tell the truth, the whole truth, and our differing points of view of the one truth. We can look into our own past to admit, “Yes, that was us.” There’s no shame in confessing our shame. We can keep talking with one another and resist the tendency to shout past one another. And we can look to the Holy God who has not given up on us, who waits for us to get it right.

This is what true community looks like. It is faith embodied by honesty. It’s a community led by Jesus to remind us of what we don’t want to remember. It’s a community that invites those who have been silenced to speak up. It’s a community that stands up for others when those who are far too comfortable beg us to sit down. It is a community in Christ that serves a broken world with crucified hands, a truthful tongue, and an open heart.

Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel, from everlasting to everlasting. Let all the people say, “Amen.” Praise the Lord.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] See, for instance, https://www.history.com/articles/columbus-day.

[2] “The Things You Never Remember,” words by Iola Brubeck, music by Dave Brubeck. © Derry Music.

If You Know What's Good for You

Psalm 19 (click here to read)
Series: Dwelling the Psalms
October 4, 2026
William G. Carter

 

Whether people go to church regularly or not, most of us perk up at a psalm that begins, "The heavens are telling the glory of God." What a beautiful thing to say! Had any experiences of the sky lately?

Two weeks ago, I watched the sun sneak over the horizon on a farmer’s field. The grass sparkled with the dew. The cobwebs twinkled with drops of diamonds. The sky went from black to blue, to purple, to brilliant orange, to flaming red. I tried to capture the scene with the camera on my phone. Alas, the light kept changing, the technicolor brilliance was too bright for my gadget. Had to stand there, slack-jawed, and take it in.

The heavens are telling. No wonder C.S. Lewis said, "I take this to be the greatest poem in the Psalter and one of the greatest lyrics in the world."[1] For the poet points to say, "There really is a God out there." Anybody who looks around the natural order comes to that conclusion. As John Calvin put it, "There is nothing so obscure or contemptible, even in the smallest corners of the earth, in which some marks of the power and wisdom of God may not be seen."[2]

That's where Psalm 19 begins. The opening words celebrate a world that bears God's fingerprints. And before we jump down the throats of people who skip church to enjoy bicycle paths and putting greens, we remember an institutional church cannot contain the glory of God. "The heavens are telling the glory of God."

A lot of people will tell you that they have had religious experiences outside of church walls. Like the woman who confessed, "I often feel closer to God on the tennis court, or on the golf course, or taking a stroll in the park." We know what she's talking about. Ask someone, "When have you felt God was present?" A few might mention a sermon, a hymn, or a prayer, but others will say, "When my daughter was born." Or watching the sunset descend into the Gulf of Mexico. Or finding yourself at night in a dark sky ignited by stars. I understand what the woman said: God can be experienced out there.

It's striking that Psalm 19 begins out the heavens. Whoever wrote these words didn't compose them in a pulpit gown, but in a sweatshirt and jogging shorts. As the sun floated from one side of the dome of sky to the other, the poet’s heart swelled with wonder. His head swirled with mystery. Just like the sun-worshipers of every time and place, he threw back his head and broke out in song. "The heavens are telling the glory of God . . ."

But then, the scene changes. There is wonder and mystery, to be sure, but ambiguity and loneliness too. Did you hear that? Listen to the psalm: "Day to day pours forth speech" (That's a good thing!) "and night to night declares knowledge (also good); “but there is no speech. There are no words. We can't hear the voice." The Psalmist hears the melody reverberating through the skies, but he can't make out the lyrics. He knows God is out there, but he doesn't know what kind of God it is. In fact, the word he uses for God is Elohim. That's the Hebrew name for the God who is out there somewhere, the Great Spirit. 

But the heavens can't tell us what kind of God it is. They do not have the words.

This is true, isn't it? Nature can be so beautiful and so impersonal. Creation is both captivating and cruel. Out there you can taste maple syrup and step in poison ivy. You can enjoy purple mountains and be crushed in an avalanche. You can find a good housecat or be eaten by a wild beast. For all of the beauty of this world, there is danger and irrational violence. Catch the wrong germ, and the infection could do you in. Shoot the rapids in a canoe and you could be smashed on the rocks. One little bitty hurricane can cause immeasurable suffering.

Belden Lane, backpacker and theologian, tells of hiking a red rock canyon in northern New Mexico. A sudden storm became a flash flood, and Belden kept scrambling up the box canyon wall as the water kept climbing beneath him. He paused long enough to say it out loud: “I could die out here and this beautiful landscape would not care.”

So, the psalmist confesses, "The heavens are telling the glory of God, but I cannot make out the words." It’s natural to wonder, "What kind of God made all of this, anyway?"

That's why the psalmist comes in out of the cold. The rhythm of the psalm changes. The words take on the insistent beat of a drum: "The law of the Lord is perfect. The decrees of the Lord are sure. The precepts of the Lord are right. The commandment of the Lord is clear." The pulse changes.

And the word for God changes. As the psalm begins, God’s name is "Elohim." That’s the God-who-is-out-there-somewhere-if-only-we had a clue. Then the name changes to Yahweh. That’s the Lord of the covenant, the Lord who brought us out of slavery, the Good Shepherd who pursues us even when all seems lost. This is temple-talk. It's church talk. Out there, the heavens are infused with the glory of God - but in here, we tell the story of what this formidable God has done among us and for us.

Out there, we fear God's power whenever creation shakes its fist in all of its fury. But in here, we tell the story of how the Lord’s power has saved us through humility, mercy, and self-sacrifice.

Out there, we know the rage of a hurricane and the roughness of disease. But in here, we are instructed that "nothing shall separate us from the love of God."

Out there, the only law is the law of the jungle, namely, "the survival of the fittest." But in here, we discover the only way to life is through the laws of mercy, justice, and sacrificial love. We tell the story of the Lord God who freed us from the domination of slavery and taught us another way to live. We tell of a Savior who forgives destructive behavior – then calls us to make things right, to walk humbly, to love kindness, to tell the truth.

We remember what the world out there can't tell us - - that the God of wind and wave is the Lord who loves us. This is the God who wants what is best for us, who desires that we flourish, the God who wants each one of us to know that we count and we are called to make a positive difference. The words of God break through creation’s silence and teach us that every last one of us is worthy of honesty and love.

A good friend told me about a professor that he had in graduate school. The teacher was a very imposing man. He was not a tall man physically, but his mind and his piety were powerful. You can even sense something of what he was like when you hear his name: Dr. James McDowell Richards. Well, the students adored Dr. Richards. They revered him and held him in great esteem. But they were scared of him too. He was not a very approachable man.

That was Bob’s read of his former professor. After school, he took a series of jobs. Then he landed as an administrator in a Presbyterian nursing home. Imagine his surprise when discovered the newest resident was Dr. James McDowell Richards, now retired and feeble. He felt more than surprise; Bob was intimidated by Dr. Richards in school and dreaded he would be seeing him regularly in the hallways. But he did the best that he could. He gathered up his courage and knocked on the old man’s door. He re-introduced himself as a former student, which prompted a single nod of the head. He sat with him at chapel services, greeted him regularly, tried to strike up conversation. He did the best he could.

One evening, Bob went into the dining room of the facility. There was Dr. Richards in his wheelchair, having his dinner. Bob pulled up a chair and struck up an informal conversation. Then suddenly, and he does not know to this day why he asked him this, Bob said, "Dr. Richards, I've always wanted to ask you something."  "Yes?" 

"You and your wife had sons."  "Yes."  "Did you ever tell your sons that you loved them?"  "No. I'm an old-fashioned father. I didn't need to tell them. They knew.”

The old man paused for a moment, then added, “Well, one time, I told one of them. I was in the hospital. I thought I was going to die, and one of my boys came to visit me. I told him I loved him. But it wasn't a regular thing." 

Bob said, "You know, Dr. Richards, my father never told me that, either. And you were like a father to us in school, and I just wondered if fathers ever did that sort of thing." Dr. Richards looked at him, silent, then pushed around some food on his plate.

The meal was now over, and an attendant began to wheel Dr. Richards toward the exit. Bob watched him go, then saw him signal to the attendant and say something to her. She turned the wheelchair around and brought him back. Dr. Richards reached up and touched his cheek and said, "Bob, I love you."

"I knew that all along," said Bob, "but to hear him say it sealed it in my soul."

If you go outside and look at the heavens, you get the clear impression there is a powerful and awesome God out there. But when we come in here, into the sanctuary, we hear the story of the Lord who loves us so much that he gave his own Son to the world. And when the world tried to get rid of the Son, God sent him back. And we come in here to meet him once more, as he keeps teaching, correcting, forgiving, and risking more love on the likes of us. That’s the good news. 

And it’s good for us to keep hearing it spoken in sacraments and words.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

Thanks to Dr. Tom Long, who told a version of the concluding story in a sermon on this text. 

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[1] C. S. Lewis, Reflections on the Psalms (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1958) 63.

[2] John Calvin, Commentary on the Psalms, 308.

Short and Sweet

Psalm 117
Series: Dwelling the Psalms
September 27, 2026
William G, Carter

Today is Worship Through Service day, a day when the congregation takes on tasks to improve the lives of those around us.

Praise the Lord, all you nations! Extol him, all you peoples!
For great is his steadfast love toward us, and the faithfulness of the Lord endures forever.
Praise the Lord!

That went by pretty quickly. Let me read it again:

Praise the Lord, all you nations! Extol him, all you peoples!
For great is his steadfast love toward us, and the faithfulness of the Lord endures forever.
Praise the Lord!

The psalm for today is short. It’s sweet. Not a lot of words to look up; maybe a couple. We don’t use the verb “extol” very much. One scholar translates the verb, “applaud,” as in “clap for God!” And the phrase “steadfast love” is a single Hebrew word, “hesed.” Someone told me that is the Jewish word for “grace.” As in, “great is God’s grace.”

If you like brief Bible passages, this one’s for you. It reminds me of the conversation from some time back. A group of teenagers are discussing their favorite Bible passages. One of them said, “John 3:16,” and then quoted it. Another said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, the first beatitude.” One more replied, “Psalm 23, the Lord is my shepherd.” Then they came to the minister’s son and asked, “Tommy, what’s your favorite Bible verse?” He said, “John, chapter eleven, verse thirty-five.” Everybody looked at him, curious. John 11:35 – what’s that?

Tommy said, “Should I recite it for you?” Yes, please. So, he cleared his throat and said, “John 11, verse thirty-five: ‘Jesus wept.’” Everybody laughed, and Tommy said, “It’s easy to remember.” Short and sweet.

Given that some of the Psalms go on for a while – just two Psalms later, Psalm 119 has one-hundred-seventy-six verses – it’s curious that this one is included. Why do you suppose it’s here?

Could it be that it’s part of a larger section of Psalms? And in fact, it is. Psalms 113 through 118 belong together. They are called the “Egyptian Hallel” psalms. “Egyptian” because they recall the exodus from Egypt when God brought the people of Israel out of slavery. They are called “hallel,” which is short for “hallelujah!” That’s what Israel shouted after the people escaped from Pharoah.

To this day, if we eat a Passover meal with our Jewish neighbors, they will recite all seven of these psalms during the meal. In one of the Last Supper stories, we read that Jesus lifted the cup of wine and said to his friends, “Drink the blood of the covenant, shed for the forgiveness of many.” Then it says, “They sang the hymn” before going to the Garden of Gethsemane. Psalm 117 is part of that hymn.

By now, you are starting to realize that a short Bible text does not guarantee a short sermon. Do you know why that is? It’s because of a scientific law called Kinetic Molecular Theory. This is a rule of physics that affects even sermons. Kinetic Molecular Theory states that every gas will expand to fill the available space. The hotter the gas, the more it expands. That’s the best definition of long sermons that I know: a lot of hot air, it fills the room.

But what can be said about this Psalm, Psalm 117? We have just two verses, hardly worth the effort - - until we read it, until we say the words. “Praise the Lord, all you nations! Applaud him, all you peoples!” Could it be there is something here for all nations, all people? Not just the Jews who wrote the text. Not restricted to the Christians who have adopted the text. The psalm is calling upon all the outsiders, too. The goyim – that’s Jewish word for “everybody else.”

What we have today is a universal invitation. It’s a call offered to everybody, without restrictions. It’s an invitation that pushes beyond the walls and steps over the boundaries. There is something about the love of God, something about the steadfast love of God, which reaches out to every single person. This short little psalm opens us up to see an expansive world. God created us all. God has grace for us all.

It happens locally. The other night, one of our church friends was talking about a person in this neighborhood. He is often here before the rest of us on Sunday mornings. He described her and I knew exactly who he was talking about. It’s a young lady. She has a beautiful dog. She walks up and down the sidewalk with her dog. That’s all I know about her. I don’t know her name. I’m not sure where she lives. I’ve waved to her a few times. She nods and keeps walking.

One day, Jim was here early. He saw her and said, “What a beautiful dog!” She paused long enough to say, “thank you” and “hello.” They chatted for a minute. Then she asked, “Do you think the priest at this church would ever bless my dog?”

Well, is she here today? I don’t see her, but if you should spot her, please tell her, “Yes, of course! Today he’s hard to pick out. He’s wearing a yellow T-shirt, but he would be happy to bless your dog. Or anybody else’s dog.” All our companions in life are worthy of - and welcome to - the blessing of their Creator. Great is God’s steadfast love for all of us. Dogs included. Maybe even the cats. Maybe even the people who belong to their animals. God’s blessing is for all God’s creatures. Our little bitty psalm opens up that far.

And it opens up a good bit further, too. Have you heard of a guy named Ron Garan? He’s an astronaut and he spent 178 days aboard the International Space Station. When he landed back on earth, he brought back something far heavier than space equipment or mission date. He returned with a transformed understanding of the blessing of God.

As he described it, “From orbit, Earth doesn’t look like a collection of countries, borders, or competing interests. It is a single, radiant blue sphere suspended in darkness.” Lines do not divide the continents. No flags mark territory. From 250 miles above the surface, every human conflict suddenly looks small – and every human connection is unavoidable.

Garan watched lightning storms crackle across entire continents, auroras rippled like rainbow curtains, and city lights glow slowly against the planet’s night side. “What struck me most,” he said, “was not earth’s power – but its fragility.” A paper-thin blue halo is the atmosphere. Barely visible, that thin halo is responsible for everything that breathes, grows, and survives. There is no backup, no second home, no escape.

Up in orbit, he says, pollution has no nationality. Climate systems ignore borders. Environmental damage in one region ripples across the entire globe. All those divisions we defend so fiercely on the ground simply don’t exist from above. The notion that life is “us versus them” disappears, replaced by a single, unavoidable truth: there is only us.[1]

All of us. All of us subject to the steadfast love of the God who makes us all. All of us, called by God to show that steadfast love to all the nations. All of us, with no “them.” Just us, God’s children. Praise the Lord!

Well, that’s all I have for you today. I apologize that the sermon is so brief, but the scripture text was short and sweet. Not only that, but we also have work to do. So, let’s get on with it.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Quoted on Facebook, 26 September 2026: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1673600016825249/posts/2240600823458496/

 

Known By Their Limp

Psalm 129 (click here to read it)
Series: Dwelling in the Psalms
September 13, 2026

William G. Carter  

            As we dwell in the Psalms, we must take the time to consider our enemies. Enemies. It is not only that there are natural difficulties in the journey and physical challenges. There are people out there who wish us ill. So, the psalmist takes time to begin working this through.

            One way to do it is through revenge. Maybe you have heard the old Irish prayer, which I first heard it from a priest named McGowan. He was called upon to offer a blessing, and this is what he said: 

May those who love us love us,
and those who do not love us, may God turn their hearts,
and if God cannot turn their hearts, may He turn their ankles
that we may know them by their limping.

We laughed when he told it at the Rubber Chicken banquet. It seemed so Irish: the joyfulness, the turn of the phrase, the little twist of judgment that would seem so delightful (“that we may know them by their limping”). We laughed because it seemed so funny. Vindictive, but funny.

In the Bible’s prayer book, we have a psalm that sounds like this. Psalm 129 is a prayer for the downfall of Israel’s enemies. The Psalmist stops in his tracks, shakes his fist in the air, and hurls a curse: “May all who hate Zion be put to shame and turned backward!” Or to put it another way, “Lord, give them a little limp!”

            Notice, if you will, that the Psalmist does not use ink in scripture to call down judgment on his personal enemies – say, on the butcher who cheats him or the neighbor who dumps dirty dishwater on the lawn. Rather, this is righteous anger. He is angry with God’s enemies, the ones who “hate Zion,” the ones who disrespect the ways and the worship of God. He prays that their hatred will cause public shame to heap on their heads. He wants those who despise God’s presence on the earth to be exposed and embarrassed.

            But he cannot keep it there, so he offers another little curse. Apparently, the Psalmist looks around the countryside, and his imagination begins to flutter. He sees the peasant housing with rooftops made from sod. What’s more, it must have been another sweltering day in Palestine, for he says,

• Let them be like the grass on the housetops that withers before it grows up,
• Let them be like the grass which reapers can’t use or share with the farm animal.
• Let them be like the ones who will not hear the blessing of the Lord.

            In other words, “So there, you dried-up rooftops!” That doesn’t translate really well, but we hear the gist of it. We have all heard, or uttered, more afflictive curses. For instance, there is the curse uttered by a Jewish comic: “May all of your teeth fall out, except for the one tooth that gives you a toothache.” Or there is the response of the Palestinian shepherd: “May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits!” Somehow when the Psalmist curses, “May you become like dried grass on a rooftop,” it does not quite cut it. But we understand the sentiment.

At a high school reunion a few years ago, I caught up with a classmate who hasn’t seen his daughter in many years. His ex-wife has primary custody of the girl and moved away without saying a word. That was not their agreement. He hired a private detective and tracked them down. Then he appeared on the doorstep. The mother called the police, accusing him of stalking. It descended from there.

We know these stories. Some among us know them painfully well. Wishing for fleas or turned ankles are mild punishments compared to some of the dark curses that can invade the heart. People are capable of doing horrendous things to one another. Then they perpetuate the warfare. I hear weariness when the Psalmist says, “Often they have attacked me from my youth . . . they have taken a farm plow and run it across my back so that the furrows are deep.”

We have known people who love to pick a fight, just because they are not comfortable living in peace. When things go too quietly, they share a gossiping word, speak the innuendo, or play people off one another like pawns in a chess game. Sometimes they do it because they are bored. Or because they are cruel. Once in a while, the motivation is that they cannot live with peace and quiet.

In other situations, it can be a sense of justice that stirs the pot. For some people, it is the feeling that fairness would not be fair. A woman was recently arrested for setting her own home on fire. She explained by saying, “The judge told me that I had to sell the house and share the profits with my estranged husband, but I could not bear to have him end up with so much.” Well, guess what - she received her wish. Now she has a lot of time to think about what she did.

In spite of each situation and its bag of tangled truths, the one thing we can say about our enemies is that they can be enormous distractions from the pilgrim road. Enemies tie up our courtrooms and tangle up our hearts. They provoke us, sometimes without our conscious awareness. They prompt us to consider violence. And it is not only our enemies who consume us – some time the very ways we respond to them will consume us.

As Frederick Buechner once described the unsavory truth,

Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back -- in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.[1]

            We laughed when the Irish priest prayed for God to twist the ankles of our enemies. But some of that laughter was nervous. It is simply not healthy to live by revenge. Revenge has uncertain benefits. As Mahatma Gandhi is reported to have said, “If you live by the rule of an eye for an eye, pretty soon the whole world is blind.” Somehow the animosity must cease. We have to let it go.

            In the center of the psalm is the important affirmation: “The Lord is righteous.” God sees things without the scalding tears of hostility. God is the judge who can make things right. God is the One who stands outside the circle of our disputes. God is concerned but immovable, loving, but unable to be bribed.

God’s righteousness is clearly revealed when the world crucifies his own Son, and neither one of them retaliates in revenge. Instead, we hear our Jesus say, “Father, forgive them, they don’t know what they are doing.” Our hope is always that God has answered that prayer, that God continues to answer that prayer, for the Lord alone is righteous. Forgiveness is the way of God with infinite mercy. Frustrating as it might possibly be, God inevitably sets everything right.

There is a sadly comic scene in the biblical short story of Jonah. As you may remember, Jonah was a reluctant prophet. When sent to preach doom and gloom to the nasty people of Nineveh, he hopped on a ship to go in the opposite direction. God used a storm and a gigantic fish to return Jonah to shore and redirects him to his commission. Bleached white by the gastric juices of the fish’s stomach, the prophet hobbles his way to Nineveh, preaches his fiery sermon, and waits for God to blast away his enemies.

However, the people of Nineveh change their minds, and that changes God’s mind. The moment of judgment never comes. Jonah is furious. As the poet Thomas John Carlisle voices the prophet’s fury, “I hate God’s enemies with a perfect hatred; why can’t God do likewise?”[2]

The best answer: because this is not the kind of God that we have. God did not condemn the world for killing Jesus, deciding instead to transform the world through the power of forgiveness.

Ever so quietly, the psalmist remembers that we are not defined by our enemies, but by the covenant love of God. We have felt the plow cutting on our backs, but our enemies have not had the last word. “God has cut the bonds of the wicked,” so we are no longer tied down, tied up, or twisted into knots. It is possible to be cut free. Let the angry burden go. You have carried it long enough. Let it go. Let God set you free.

Many years ago, our church had a congregational memorial service on a Sunday afternoon. It was the season of Lent; first time we ever tried such a service. After a brief sermon and a hymn, we invited people forward to light a candle on the communion table and speak the name of somebody who has passed away, somebody for whom they still mourn. It was a powerful moment.

A young woman named Helen attended with her husband and three children. They came forward and lit a candle as a family. Her husband had recently lost his mother, so he spoke her name, paused for a moment of silence, wiped away a few tears, and they returned to their seats.

            A few minutes later, Helen came back, this time by herself. She lit another candle and said another name. It was a name I had never heard, loud and clear, and I wouldn’t have thought anything of it except for the strange look that was on her face.

            The memorial service ended, and everybody scattered. A few hours later, I received an e-mail from Helen. “I surprised myself,” she said. “I never thought I could say that name. I don’t know where this is going. Could we get together and talk?”

            We sat in my study the next morning and the story came tumbling out. It was her brother’s name, and he had been dead for sixteen years. This was the first time she allowed herself to speak his name. The two of them were the children of a minister and her brother Eric had a full-blown rebellion as a teenager. “To say that he and my father didn’t get along would be a gross understatement,” she said. Their relationship grew violent. They threatened to actively do harm to one another.

            The situation became so bad that Eric sat down and wrote a letter. He renounced his father and everything he stood for, cursed him for this reason and that, and then went to his bedroom and took his own life. The final insult is that he did it on Good Friday, while his father was leading a worship service at a nearby church.

            The father was not to be outdone. He refused to print an obituary. He refused to allow a funeral for his son. He arranged for a quick cremation and told mother and sister they would scatter the ashes later at their summer home in the mountains. Then the father decreed the name of his son would never again be spoken in his home.

            Sixteen years later, Helen came down the aisle in our church. For the first time in years, she spoke her brother’s name. “I don’t know where this is going,” she said, “but I need to put it to rest.”

She said the one continuing reminder of her brother was his duffel bag. After he died, the parents cleaned out his room. They gave Helen his duffel bag. Not knowing what else to do with it, unable to throw it away, she carried that baggage with her for the next sixteen years.

            Now it was time to let go of the burden. About a week later Helen, her husband, and I gathered at a country cemetery up in hills near Uniondale. Helen had a shoebox with a scoop or two of soil from the backyard where her brother’s ashes had been scattered, the charred remains of that duffel bag which she decided to carry no longer, and a letter of reconciliation that she wrote to her brother. We laid those relics in the ground and gave her brother a proper funeral.

Sooner or later, we must put things to rest. We have the power to lay our burdens down. We leave them in the hands of the God who alone is righteous, a God in whose justice the whole world has its hope.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1973) 2.

[2] Thomas John Carlisle, You! Jonah! (Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co. 1968) 43.