psalm 131

Psalm 131:1 – 3
Lord, my heart is not proud;
my eyes are not haughty.
I don’t concern myself with matters too great
or too awesome for me to grasp.
Instead, I have calmed and quieted myself,
like a weaned child who no longer cries for its mother’s milk.
Yes, like a weaned child is my soul within me.
O Israel, put your hope in the Lord—now and always.

This has to be one of the most simple, most profound Psalms I’ve read lately. I’m at that stage of “I haven’t spent enough time with you here” in my time with Jesus that totally betrays how much I’ve been starving myself. Guilty as charged—but also, not really, because I’m probably harder on myself than Jesus is. He’s just happy to see me at this point.

How can three verses be so convicting, so game changing?

I read the first few words with eyes burning and conscience seared. Am I really able to say this of myself? I don’t even feel like this is remotely true.

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Lord, my heart is not proud; my eyes are not haughty.

Oh, that it were true! Oh, that it were something I could say with confidence. What was David’s voice as he said it? Was it with questioning eyes turned heavenward, seeking an honest answer of correction if need be? Was it something he believed with a full an uninhibited trust?

My heart betrays me. My voice is thick with the pride and haughty sludge that churn in my core—how did I get here? I don’t feel anything spiritual, and maybe I don’t even feel any remorse yet. I still dully in my sin, only vaguely aware of it’s presence as I approach the throne, trepidation in my steps as I consider, Am I truly okay? Are we good here?

Oh, Lord Jesus. I don’t feel it, but I know it. I now my heart and my insides and I know how bitterly evil they have been. Every little photo I see, every comment, every situation I hear about; I hear the song of the Pharisee that you so quickly identified as “missing it” falling out of my mouth. “Thank goodness I am not these people”, I condescend casually as I lift eyes towards heaven, choking on my piety as I’m tripping over the man in the road; he’s too weak from the attack by the robbers to even call out to me.

I desire to be able to be still like a weaned child, but first comes the removal of pride and haughtiness. As frequent of visitors as they’ve become, they haven’t stayed so long that I cannot evict them without probable cause. But I fear I cannot even recognize them anymore—they blend into the surroundings of my soul with ease now.

Help me, help me, help me, Jesus.
I am lost without you.

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