Ps 42-43
sanctified discouragement
(Psalm 42-43)
Jason Procopio
Since the beginning of the church, we’ve taken a break from our regular series during the summer to spend time in the Psalms. We do this, in part, because people are gone at different times, and the psalms don’t necessary follow one another; you don’t need to read one psalm in order to understand another. But we do it, more fundamentally, because being disciples of Christ means being worshipers of God, and the psalms are songs which teach us to worship. So we’ll be in the psalms—particularly in Book 2 of the psalms, which run from Psalm 42 to Psalm 72—from now until September.
I’ll be honest with you; when I opened up the psalms to start preparing for this series, and saw that the first psalm in Book 2 of the psalter is Psalm 42, I felt an almost desperate relief: I am so happy to be able to preach this psalm because this is the psalm I have constantly returned to over the last six months. The first half of this year has been very difficult for me personally (for reasons totally unrelated to church; you guys have been a constant encouragement for me), and this psalm has been my lifeline. And I’ve spoken to enough of you to know that I’m not alone in this: many of you have been dealing with situations much more difficult than mine.
So what are we to do? That command to always be rejoicing is in the Bible—it is clear: Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice (Philippians 4.4). What does that look like for someone who is in pain?
The Bible’s answer is somewhat counterintuitive, but absolutely essential, and we see one of the best examples of this in Psalms 42-43. We’re looking at these psalms together because they clearly go together—they both share the same refrain, and they both express the same longing: to return to God’s presence in the sanctuary. Over the course of these two psalms, we see a progression in the psalmist’s thoughts, a kind of road map of Christian maturity—how the Christian navigates through times of suffering and discouragement. It is possible to be discouraged and sanctified—to be discouraged and Christlike—at the same time.
Discouragement (v. 1-6)
We might be surprised to see that this progression we see in the psalmist begins with discouragement—or as Martyn Lloyd-Jones described it, spiritual depression. It’s a feeling we’ve all felt, but are sometimes afraid to feel.
The psalmist begins to describe his situation like this (v. 1):
1 As a deer pants for flowing streams,
so pants my soul for you, O God.
2 My soul thirsts for God,
for the living God.
When shall I come and appear before God?
So the first thing the psalmist is feeling is discouragement, which he describes as a feeling of thirst. A pastor in our network, Dwayne Bond, noted helpfully that the psalmist likens himself to a deer—not a camel. Camels of course can drink massive amounts of water and retain that water for a very long time, so they don’t have to drink often. Deer have to drink small amounts, and frequently. But after a chase, when it can finally slow down, a deer begins to pant, and starts looking desperately for a water source because it needs to replenish its strength.
Far too often we try to act as if we’re camels, when in fact we’re deer. Life dehydrates us, and we need to replenish our forces often.
The psalmist says that what replenishes our forces is God himself. Often we can’t recognize this right away; we feel a vague sort of unease within us, the impression that something is off, but we can’t quite put our finger on it. Or often we’re just so exhausted that we can barely lift our heads. We pant. We’re thirsty, and we don’t know where to turn.
The psalmist knows where to turn; he knows what he is thirsty for. In reality, it’s the same thing all of us are thirsty for, whether we recognize it or not. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God, he says. He knows God well enough to recognize what will satisfy his thirst.
But he has a problem. At the end of v. 2, he says, When shall I come and appear before God? When will I be able to drink again?
He doesn’t know. Something is keeping him away.
In v. 3, he says,
3 My tears have been my food
day and night,
while they say to me all the day long,
“Where is your God?”
The psalmist is desperate, living off a diet of tears—and his enemies (who remain unnamed) see this, and they pounce. They taunt him: “Where is your God?” they say. He must not be here, because look at you—you’re starving, and you’re thirsty, and you’re miserable. God must have abandoned you.
And he can’t help but think there must be something to that, because he finds himself recalling a time when things weren’t like this. V. 4:
4 These things I remember,
as I pour out my soul:
how I would go with the throng
and lead them in procession to the house of God
with glad shouts and songs of praise,
a multitude keeping festival.
And then a little further down, in v. 6:
My soul is cast down within me;
therefore I remember you
from the land of Jordan and of Hermon,
from Mount Mizar.
For the people of Israel, the temple was in Jerusalem, in the south; the psalmist is now in the north, far from his home and his people. He doesn’t tell us why he is there, so far away from the temple, because that’s not the point. The point is that he isn’t where he should be. He isn’t at home, he isn’t with his family, worshiping in the house of God.
So already we have a little more information about what’s going on. There is often a vague kind of spiritual drought that just comes on us, for reasons we don’t quite understand. Sometimes we just don’t feel God like we used to. Sometimes we feel this drought because of sin in our own lives—we know we’ve sinned against God, and we want to hide from him, because we can’t stand to feel him looking at us. But far from God, we get thirsty—our hiding brings us no satisfaction, it only makes things worse.
The spiritual drought the psalmist describes is more specific than that: it’s circumstantial. He is feeling this way because his circumstances have put him in a place where he is far from home, mocked by his enemies, excluded from the house of God and the people of God, and he feels desperate to return.
And it is in this context that he lets go with his first refrain, which he’ll repeat twice more. V. 5:
5 Why are you cast down, O my soul,
and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
my salvation 6 and my God.
I’ll be honest in saying if I read this psalm naturally, v. 5 is the most jarring verse to me, because it seems to come out of nowhere: nothing has changed in the psalmist’s situation, and he gives no indication of what has pushed him to say this—not yet, anyway.
We shouldn’t forget that these are songs: initially not meant to be read, but to be sung. Many of our worship songs do just this. We have the first verse, which lays out the terrain, then the chorus, which at first might seem unrelated or out of place. But as we progress in the song—once we sing the second and third verses—the chorus takes on a deeper meaning. It’s the same thing here. So rather than dwelling on this refrain for now, let’s keep going: it will take on deeper meaning as we go along.
I said before that the psalmist gives us a road map for how to navigate these times—how a mature Christian can be discouraged, and sanctified (in the image of Christ), at the same time.
The first step on this road map: tell the truth to yourself, and to others (42.1-5). Our natural tendency, when we’re discouraged, is simply to remain in our discouragement. When we do this, we tend to stop making efforts: we stop reading our Bibles (because we feel nothing when we do), we stop praying (because we don’t know what to say) and we isolate ourselves from the community of believers (because being with people means they might see we’re not well, and we’ll have to talk about it, and we don’t want to talk about it because it’s too painful).
But we must do the hard thing the psalmist does, and be honest. He doesn’t hide what he’s going through, or how he’s feeling about it. He expresses it; he gets it out. He doesn’t try to pretend everything’s okay when it’s not.
And while we don’t see him saying these things to others (because it seems he’s literally, physically separated from his people), we at least see him suggesting that things would be better if he could be with them. We are not built to navigate these times alone. We need others to remind us of what is true, and they won’t know what truths to remind you of if they don’t know what you’re truly going through.
Of course, you shouldn’t tell everyone what you’re going through, but someone needs to know: a small handful of trusted brothers and sisters in Christ who can pray for you and encourage you. Be honest with yourself and others.
Lament (42.6-11)
Having seen the psalmist’s thirst for God in his discouragement—his desperation for any kind of relief—he changes his tone ever so slightly, and progresses to a different type of discourse: he goes from discouragement to lament. V. 6 again:
My soul is cast down within me;
therefore I remember you
from the land of Jordan and of Hermon,
from Mount Mizar.
7 Deep calls to deep
at the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your waves
have gone over me.
Have you noticed the subtle change? Up until now he has simply been complaining about his situation, expressing what’s going on. There’s definitely a place for that. We love the psalms for their honesty, if for nothing else. We see the psalmists often complain, ask questions, even pout. God isn’t put off by complaint, even complaint that is childish.
But if you’re not used to reading the psalms, here’s something to pay attention to: they don’t just give us an honest picture of what God’s people are like; they also model for us what God’s people should be like. Their goal isn’t just descriptive; it’s formative.
So here’s what the psalmist does, here’s how he teaches us: he doesn’t stay in complaint. He doesn’t model childishness for us; he models maturity in suffering. Sometimes we need to complain—we need to vent—but if we’re mature, we don’t stay there.
And here, in v. 6-7, we see the subtle shift from complaint to lament. Lament may sound like complaint, but it has a bigger goal. Lament is when you stand before God and you speak, laying out your desperate situation to him, in view of asking for his help. Lament is giving context to a prayer you haven’t quite formulated yet.
We can see this because the object—the person to whom the psalmist is speaking—changes. In v. 6, he no longer talks about “God”; he talks to God. He says, “I remember you.”
And in v. 7:
7 Deep calls to deep
at the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your waves
have gone over me.
8 By day the Lord commands his steadfast love,
and at night his song is with me,
a prayer to the God of my life.
In his discouragement, in his despair, the psalmist surprises us. He speaks to God, and the first surprising thing he tells God is this: that he recognizes that the waves crashing over him, making him feel like he’s drowning, are from God. They are his waves. They’re his waterfalls. The psalmist recognizes the hard truth that God is sovereign over the pain he is feeling—God is sovereign over the circumstances that have brought him far from home, that are crushing him—and even more surprising, they are no sign that God’s love for him has ceased.
That’s what’s true, but it’s still not how he feels. So he says how he feels, he says it to God:
9 I say to God, my rock:
“Why have you forgotten me?
Why do I go mourning
because of the oppression of the enemy?”
10 As with a deadly wound in my bones,
my adversaries taunt me,
while they say to me all the day long,
“Where is your God?”
The psalmist opens his mouth and he asks his questions to God. And all the while, he reminds himself of who God is. At the beginning of v. 9, he says, “I say to God, MY ROCK, ‘Why have you forgotten me?’”. He doesn’t leave the question in his mind; he comes to God and recognizes that God is his rock; God is his solid ground; God is the only firm foundation he has.
To whom should he ask why these things are happening, if not to the only One who knows why?
To whom should he address his despair over his situation, if not to the One who controls his situation?
This is why he started the psalm by saying he is thirsty for God, not just for relief. He’s discouraged, because he knows who his God is, and he wants to come back to him, he wants to worship him with his people, but his situation seems to be trying to stop him. Even so, he doesn’t sit and wallow in his discouragement. The psalmist turns his complaint to lament, addressing God with his pain, after which he repeats his refrain. V. 11:
11 Why are you cast down, O my soul,
and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
my salvation and my God.
It makes a little more sense now, because his lament has an object: God himself. He’s still desperate, but now his eyes are lifted upwards, to his rock: a song and a prayer to the God of his life.
So here we have the second step on our road map: tell the truth to God (v. 6-11). How easy is it, when we’re feeling discouraged, to always speak about God in the third person—to speak about God, rather than to God? It’s difficult to speak to God when we’re discouraged, because we know full well that he’s the one who could change it, and so far he hasn’t. Or maybe we find it hard to speak to God because we’re worried that this is some kind of punishment he’s putting us through, so we're afraid to look him in the eye (so to speak).
But the mature Christian will lift his eyes, no matter how hard it feels. The mature Christian will not only speak to himself and others about his situation; he’ll speak to God, and be honest with him, and tell him what’s going on. And he’ll be fully honest with God: he won’t just acknowledge how he himself feels, but he’ll also acknowledge God’s sovereignty over the situation. He’ll acknowledge that the waves crashing over him are God’s waves.
This isn’t the kind of thing we can usually hear when we’re in the midst of suffering—when I’m speaking to someone in pain I never lead off with this—but this is an instinct we absolutely have to develop in ourselves, for those times when we’re suffering. Because although it may sound brutal to suggest that we accept the truth, that God is allowing or even willing the thing that is tormenting us, the alternative is not helpful at all. As John Piper says, “It is no relief to say that God does not rule the wind and the waves.”
Be honest with God. Tell him what you’re going through, acknowledge his presence, acknowledge his wisdom in your pain, and acknowledge his sovereignty over it.
Hope (43.1-5)
If we do this, the next step is easier. The next step is to ask God for help. 43.1:
Vindicate me, O God, and defend my cause
against an ungodly people,
from the deceitful and unjust man
deliver me!
To put it simply: he asks God to deliver him from what is keeping him away from his people and his sanctuary. He’s asking God to prove his enemies wrong, and to defend him.
I know for a fact many of you feel this sentiment very acutely, so let me say it honestly: it is no problem to pray this kind of prayer. It is not unloving to pray that God would execute justice. It is not unloving to pray that God would punish wickedness.
When the psalmist prays this prayer, he hasn’t yet received that vindication. He hasn’t yet been delivered from his enemies. But here’s what we have to remember: he would not ask God for vindication if he had no hope. Anyone can cry out a vague, mindless “Please help me”. But there’s no point actually asking God for help if you don’t hope he can help. Praying for God to come to our rescue is active hope.
And it’s difficult to do this, because from everything he can see, God doesn’t seem to be listening. V. 2:
2 For you are the God in whom I take refuge…
This is kind of incredible: he calls God “the God in whom I take refuge”—at a time when God doesn’t feel like much of a refuge for him.
There’s a wonderful moment in John chapter 6, when Jesus’s teaching got just a bit too difficult for some of the people surrounding him, so they began to leave. Jesus turns to the twelve disciples he called to follow him and asks if they want to leave too. Peter’s answer is wonderful (John 6.68-69):
“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, 69 and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.”
It’s the same thing here. It’s not that the psalmist has nowhere else he can go. There are often plenty of options, plenty of ways to chase away our discouragement. We can drown it in entertainment, we can pour ourselves into work to just take our minds off it. Or we can literally run away—just pack up, go somewhere else.
But it’s not that the psalmist has nowhere to go; it’s that nowhere is better than God. If you’re in a storm, you can run in circles trying to not get struck by lightning, but the only truly safe place is indoors. The psalmist knows that God is his refuge; that’s why he’s asking him for help.
It’s difficult to ask—he’s not shy about that. V. 2 again, just after saying, you are the God in whom I take refuge, the psalmist says,
why have you rejected me?
Why do I go about mourning
because of the oppression of the enemy?
He admits there are still aspects of his situation he doesn’t understand; reasons why God has allowed this that still escape him.
Even so—he knows that if he is to find true relief, it won’t be found anywhere else but in God himself. True relief will be found in God’s presence, in God’s house. V. 3:
3 Send out your light and your truth;
let them lead me;
let them bring me to your holy hill
and to your dwelling!
4 Then I will go to the altar of God,
to God my exceeding joy,
and I will praise you with the lyre,
O God, my God.
I’ve so long felt far from you. Lord, please bring me back. I’m thirsty for you. Lord, please quench my thirst. What will quench his thirst? Being in God’s house, before God’s altar, in the presence of his joy, praising God with his people.
And how will he get there? He prays, Send out your light and your truth; let them lead me.
This is the key to make sense of everything he has said in these two psalms. Our feelings, whether they’re circumstantial or psychological or spiritual, are often misleading. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take them into account—the psalmist does, and it’s okay. But his feelings are not going to lead him well. The truth is what will lead him well.
Which is why the refrain of this song is what it is. V. 5:
5 Why are you cast down, O my soul,
and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
my salvation and my God.
Why is his soul cast down and in turmoil? Well that’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s because of what he’s going through. It’s because of his separation from his people, the taunting of his enemies.
But the child of God doesn’t get off so easily, because that’s not all there is.
If you are a child of God, that means that every circumstance you encounter—from the most mundane to the most horrific—passes through the hand of God before it gets to you, and arrives at your doorstep for your good and for his glory. They’re his breakers, they’re his waves. But waves aren’t just destructive; they also create shorelines. They can take a chunk of glass from a broken bottle, and through years of friction with the sand as the waves pound on it, can smooth out those jagged edges and polish the glass into something beautiful.
This is why the question Why are you cast down? makes sense. Because the truth is that although he is far from home, the psalmist was never separated from God. No matter how it felt, God had not forgotten him. God will come to his rescue; God will lead him back home, and the psalmist will praise him again. That is the truth, and the psalmist knows it. So he knows that, no matter what circumstances or his feelings may dictate, he is not thirsty for something that is out of reach. He is thirsty for God, and God is there.
So he tells himself, hope in God. Be patient. Wait for him. He will bring you home, and you will praise him again, for he is your salvation and your God.
And there we have the last step of our road map: tell the truth of your hope (43.1-5). Hoping in God is the ultimate act of honesty, because this hope is based on what is true. The psalmist asks God to deliver him from his situation—to vindicate him and defend him against those who are persecuting him—but that is not all he asks. He asks God to send his light and his truth, that they might lead him back to God.
The surprising thing is that this “light” and this “truth” were never absent from his life, and they are not absent from ours—ever. The “truth” the psalmist speaks of are found in the words of Scripture: they are found in the gospel. So concretely, what does it look like for the light and truth of God to lead us back to him? Much of the time, it looks like us preaching the good news of the gospel to ourselves.
No one speaks to us more than we do. A thousand times a day, we talk to ourselves. “No, don’t do that, that’s a bad idea.” “Get the salad instead of the cheeseburger, that’ll be better for you.” “Stop overthinking it and just talk to her, tell her you’re sorry.”
What do we say to ourselves on a daily basis? These psalms invite us to make the truth of the gospel an integral part of our self-speech. Why are you cast down? Why are you in turmoil? HOPE IN GOD. He is still your salvation, he is still the God of your life, YOU WILL PRAISE HIM AGAIN.
In other words: don’t let your feelings dictate your walk: let the truth, not your emotions, dictate how you live.
Lest we forget, this is exactly what Jesus did; this is how he lived. We know he felt the kind of discouragement the psalmist describes, and more keenly than any of us ever have. In the garden, knowing the pain that was waiting for him, he was “sorrowful, even to death” (Matthew 26.38). He was so intensely troubled that he sweat blood. He prayed, “Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me.”
But what came next? “Nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will” (Matthew 26.39). Why did he pray this? Why did he accept God’s sovereign will, despite how painful he knew it would be? The author of Hebrews tells us (Hebrews 12.2):
“[Let us look] to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross…”
Jesus persevered in his pain for the joy that was set before him—not because he thought God would make it not hurt, but because he knew that God was at work in the pain, and he knew that God’s will would bring him infinite and eternal joy.
Why are you cast down, O my soul,
and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
my salvation and my God.
We must be honest with ourselves and others, and we must be honest with God. But if we belong to Christ, full honesty—real honesty—requires us to be honest in hope. Because the hope that we have in him—the joy that is set before us—is true, no matter what we might feel.
So we repeat to ourselves what is true. We preach the gospel to ourselves, as often as we need to (sometimes multiple times every day). When we feel thirsty, when we feel desperate to return to him, we tell him the truth (with the help of our fellow believers), we ask him for help, and then we open our Bibles, and we ask ourselves:
“Why are you cast down? Why are you in turmoil? If God is for you, who can be against you? Do you really think that God, who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for you, will withhold from you what you need? No—in your pain, in your discouragement, in your fatigue…in all these things, you are more than a conqueror through him who loves you, because nothing can separate you from his love. Hope in God; for you will again praise him, your salvation and your God” (Psalm 42.5, 11; 43.5; Romans 8.31-39, paraphrased).
