Psalms: God's Guidance in Ancient and Modern Days
Faith Matters resources to accompany your Come Follow Me study: August 17-23
“I have trusted … in the Lord.”
Reflecting theologically on the issue of migration is not only an outer journey, but also an inner journey into the human heart. If we allow it, the migrant experience can become a sacred text as we seek to understand the emotional and spiritual terrain of their inner landscape. The outer journey of a migrant—leaving behind the familiar, facing uncertainty, and seeking a place of safety, security, and rest—mirrors the inner journey of the soul in profound ways. Both journeys demand resilience, faith, and a willingness to embrace the unknown.
There is perhaps no better text through which to examine the complex inner terrain of migrants than that of the Psalms. Indeed, just as the “forced migrant-Psalmist” in biblical exile once lamented his plight beside the rivers of Babylon, so now do refugees weep in their own experience of exile, seeking relief from violence and oppression and yearning for freedom, self-expression, and a sense of community and belonging. Making up the “great hymnbook in the heart of the Bible,” the Psalms invite us to consider the full dimensions of the mortal experience. They invite us, as does Jesuit priest Walter Burghardt, into a “long, loving look at the really real,” offering a window into both the bright lights and the dark corners of the human soul.
As we consider the “graced-human interplay” between the lived expression of modern-day migrants and the Psalms, we must ask ourselves, “How do our migrant brothers and sisters find hope amid some of the most hopeless of situations? How do they find life in the midst of death? And how do they ‘trust in God within some of the most seemingly godless of experiences?’”
These are the borderlands—and places of revelation.
—Jenny Richards, “These Are the Borderlands”
We are mindful of the ways migrants and refugees have shaped the restored gospel of Jesus Christ; indeed, migrant stories are foundational to our faith. Scripture stories in our holy canon emphasize the plight of the migrant and refugee, and of God’s help in their lives. From Abraham and Sarah’s sojourns as a “stranger[s]” in foreign lands (Genesis 23:3-4), to the exodus of the children of Israel from the land of Egypt; to Ruth choosing to worship with her mother-in-law’s people, to Esther advocating for her endangered diaspora; to the escape of the holy family into Egypt, to the entire Lehite tradition of the Book of Mormon and their various migrations and challenges within the Americas, all serve as witnesses of the precarity and dignity of the human condition. They also bear witness of God’s abounding love in whatever circumstances His children find themselves in.
—Megan Armknecht, “Day of the Refugee”
Jesus Christ is the promised Messiah.
Neither we nor Jesus were born into a world of fairness, justice, or peace. Nevertheless, Jesus, the Prince of Peace, offers a way through the destructive conflicts that plagued his day and ours. Jesus responded to the conflict that engulfed his world in ways that would bring more than a temporary respite from the ravages of war and enmity. He taught that the root cause of conflict derived from the human heart. He was concerned that “because of the increase of wickedness, the love of most will grow cold” (Matt. 24:11–12 NIV). Jesus was interested in ushering in a new kingdom, the kingdom of heaven. Yes, he would be a Messiah. Yes, he would offer liberation and salvation, not in the way we want, but in the way we need.
—Chad Ford, “The Peace We Need”
It’s the early Christian disciples, who had anticipated a glorious, militaristic Davidic deliverer. But instead, they experienced a messiah who was a poor, itinerant preacher who was horrifically crucified by the very Romans He was supposed to overthrow. In the presence of that reality, they re-read and re-interpreted their cherished Hebrew scriptures in new light, discovering meaning more precious than they originally anticipated. In writing scripture about Jesus’s life and ministry, they were not merely recording history but redeeming it by building meaning from their shattered expectations. The process imbued their human reality with divine hope.
This type of remembering redeems Esther, Henry, Beulah, and Florence, my daughter and me, and creates something better from all of it. It recognizes that others in the body of Christ are also on our team, and across time and space they will accomplish the things we can’t.
—Hannah Packard Crowther, “Redeeming”
“The earth is full of the goodness of the Lord.”
The word of the Lord is powerful, “rejoicing the heart.”
The final phrase—“speaking unto the church collectively and not individually”—makes clearer sense if the divine voice is expressing pleasure in the Church, rather than declaring it to be the only one carrying legitimacy. The grammar itself seems to bear witness to the deeper truth.
So why does this matter?
Because words shape belief. And belief shapes behavior. Throughout history, countless souls have been hurt, marginalized, or dismissed in the name of religious exclusivity. Families have been torn apart. Relationships lost. Wounds inflicted.
And yet, I believe—deeply—that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has a sacred calling, much like other true and living religions. They have the potential to be healing forces in the world. To be places where supreme love is made manifest. To be communities that rejoice in all truth, wherever it is found. To be assemblies of people known not only for doctrine and covenants, but also for humility, openness, and compassion.
—Michael Ferguson, PhD, “The Spirit of a Sentence”
The voice, of course, is the voice of Christ, and at first it can be hard to understand. Why? Is it because Christ mumbles? Or is it because his is “not a harsh voice, neither . . . a loud voice”—the only kind of voice we now have ears to hear? Perhaps his voice will remain unintelligible or even unheard until we finally settle down and listen with renewed humility—with hearts and ears and eyes pointed “steadfastly towards heaven, from whence the sound [comes]” rather than in whatever other direction our polarized environment has dragged the needle of our inner compass.
President Dallin H. Oaks, in his first extended remarks after becoming the president of the Church, focused on the pointed message of his predecessor, Russell M. Nelson, becoming a second prophetic witness that “in coming days, it will not be possible to survive spiritually without the guiding, directing, comforting, and constant influence of the Holy Ghost.” President Oaks added his own warning: “You live in a season in which the adversary has become so effective at disguising truth that if you don’t have the Holy Ghost, you will be deceived. Many obstacles lie ahead. The distractions will be many.”
If the still small voice—the quiet “voice of perfect mildness”—is a sound we can only hear when we are listening, are we listening?
—Morgan Davis, “Zeal and the Still Small Voice”
The Savior can help me be pure so I can enter God’s presence.
Find everything we’ve published in Wayfare on the temple experience here.
Unlike the inhospitable Simon, God greets us with open arms and an open heart. This seems to be David’s perspective in Psalms: “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever” (Psalm 23:5-6). In these oft-quoted words, David positions himself as a guest, whom the Lord protects, honors, and provides for in abundance. The concluding line reflects his assurance that he is welcome in the Lord’s house and may dwell there forever enjoying the blessings of the Lord’s hospitality.
—David Sabey, “The Lord’s Welcome”
The word repentance unfortunately carries with it a lot of baggage such as penance, shame, and the idea that heaven must be earned, so the word is a mixed bag. But the reality it points to is worth noticing.
Gracing, I believe, is this reality. Repentance is the journey of turning to God again and again. We forget to join with God, and then we remember. We think we are right, and then we realize we are wrong. We stop living a lie. We stop telling ourselves stories that keep us stuck. We live with ego-driven, narrow vision, and then, as with a camera lens, we zoom out and see that God was present all along. Our experience and story changes. God offers alternate views, relationships, healings, and ways of being and seeing—over and over.
But through a softer lens, we also heal from our accumulated wounds. With Jesus, people who are blind see. People who are deaf hear. People who are lost are found.
—Hannah Crowther, Gracing
What if I’m already worthy?
What if God’s love is so radical that I can’t earn it and I can’t comprehend it?
If I sit through that restlessness, rather than being driven by it, rather than constantly striving to avoid that sense of not being worthy, what if I sit so deeply in that sense of being unworthy that the bottom falls out, and I come into something even more true, which is, no, you don’t need to earn it. That’s not what this is about. That’s not the situation.
Then I found myself motivated from a new place. I was actually striving more than ever, if we want to use that word striving, but it was coming not from a place of lack, like I got to earn this or all is lost. It was like, Wow. Divine love is so radical and it’s inspiring me to live the best life I can. And that’s really my privilege to get to express that love in my own unique way as best as I can.
— Thomas McConkie
Grace lives in abundance. If we accepted grace, we would share with others. Accumulating money is the antithesis of grace. Buying large houses while others are homeless is a denial of grace. Wearing expensive clothing while others go hungry is dis-grace-full. Our modern society would have appeared deeply immoral to hunter-gatherers. The same would have been true from the perspective of those described as the happiest “people among all the people who had been created by the hand of God” (4 Nephi 1:16).
Happiness is morally fraught. Meritocratic happiness takes joy and pride in what it has “earned”. It atomizes or individualizes us, telling us that happiness is our own responsibility and that we shouldn’t be jealous of one another. Grace-full happiness, on the other hand, is comparative. It doesn’t mind its own business. It looks to the neighbor, the stranger, the migrant, and asks if they are happy. Since “it is not given that one man should possess that which is above another, wherefore the world lieth in sin” (D&C 49:20), happiness must be communal and we must be “equal in all things.”
—Justin Pack, “The Dis-grace-full Logic of Merit”
