Thirsty for God

The ten-mile run was under the pummeling heat of the central Oregon desert sun, some of it slowing to a hands-and-knees scramble up 45-degree inclines. Interspersed throughout the race were numerous obstacles, several of which included electrical shocks. Some obstacles, however, included water — jumping in from 30 feet high, swimming under barrels, and wading through a massive container of ice — and these were surprisingly refreshing.

Whether wading though it or gulping it down at well-placed stations along the way, water was never far from my thoughts.

This is the image I have in my mind’s eye when I read the much-loved first two verses of Psalm 42 —

As the deer pants for streams of water,
    so my soul pants for you, my God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
    When can I go and meet with God? (Ps. 42:1-2)

I grew up singing a praise chorus based on the first verse. It’s yearning melody helped stir up a desire for God in me. But that desire didn’t come out of the emptiness expressed by the sons of Korah, the writers of Psalm 42. That desire came out of the fullness of worship among the people of God. It was more like the desire for oven-fresh apple pie for dessert after a nice meal than it was like a parched Tough Mudder participant.

As beautiful as these first two verses are, they’re absolutely brutal. The gas tank is empty. The battery has run out. Data is done. The bank account has been overdrawn. There is nothing left.

I’m empty. I’m weary. I’m depressed. I feel like God is a million miles away. I have no answers. All I have are tears. And there’s no end to them.

My tears have been my food
    day and night,
while people say to me all day long,
    “Where is your God?” (Ps. 42:3)

We’ll hear this question again in verse 10 — “Where is your God?”

Do people really ask that question all day long? Probably not. But it echoes all day long. And each echo reverberates with an answering echo: “He’s not here.” It’s one of those deafening silence experiences.

And so this yearning from emptiness brings up memories of yearning from fullness. This experience of distance from God is highlighted by memories of glorious closeness. It feels like being mocked.

These things I remember
    as I pour out my soul:
how I used to go to the house of God
    under the protection of the Mighty One
with shouts of joy and praise
    among the festive throng (Ps. 42:4).

One of my dearest memories of worship came at one of my lowest times spiritually. I was considering ditching my faith because of a relationship I longed for that God emphatically denied to me. I was living near Chicago at the time and the Chicago Gospel Music Festival was in full swing — and I mean in full swing! Next to me was another young man so caught up in the experience that his hands reached as high up as they could go — so much so that, as I watched him, it felt as if they were reaching into heaven itself. And his Air Jordan clad feet almost levitated.

I was caught up. Raptured. Wound up and enfolded in the love of God. Ecstatic.

So were the sons of Korah. But that was then and this is now.

The bands have played and gone home. The sanctuary is empty. And so am I. God is a million miles away.

Why, my soul, are you downcast?
    Why so disturbed within me? (Ps. 42:5a)

From the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. It’s so unsettling to have such extremes. The rollercoaster ride of faith upsets the stomach as the bottom drops out.

Like the sons of Korah, it’s so easy to point the finger at myself and accuse. “Why is your faith so weak? How did you get so whiny?” It feels like it’ll all fall apart like so many Jenga blocks.

I know better than this. My faith is built on a firm foundation, on Christ alone. I’m built on rock, not on sand. Buck up, little camper!

Put your hope in God,
    for I will yet praise him,
    my Savior and my God (Ps. 42:5b).

This is all true. God is my hope. I will yet praise him.

Acts of memory are absolutely essential for dealing with current funks and moods. Out there on the grass in Chicago with gospel music all around me, my mind went back to experience after experience of the undeniable presence of God.

I wasn’t just caught up in a moment, I was caught up in a lifetime.

The sons of Korah show us the wisdom of biblical prayer. It is honest about the present moment, but it is also honest about past experiences.

My soul is downcast within me;
    therefore I will remember you
from the land of the Jordan,
    the heights of Hermon — from Mount Mizar (Ps. 42:6).

Mount Mizar is a tiny peak near the taller peaks of Mount Hermon in the far northeast of the last of Israel, in what is the occupied territory of the Golan Heights today. The summit of Hermon (which means “sacred”) is the highest point in the land (9,232 feet above sea level) and the Jordan river valley descends to the lowest point where it enters the Dead Sea (1,412 feet below sea level on its surface) — the lowest land elevation on earth.

I may feel like I’m in the lowest place on earth and God is far away at the highest point, but still I will remember him. Still my memory will span the distance.

The Hebrews had little experience of snow, so the snows on Mount Hermon were a novelty to the people of Israel (just are its ski slopes today). Hermon’s snow melt feeds the local streams and funnels into the Jordan River whose waters foam as they descend at certain points.

Such uncontrolled waters, like the stormy seas, were images of chaos in the Hebrew imagination — destructive, life-consuming waters that were smaller versions of the Flood and of the dark deeps before the dawn of time (Gen. 1:2). While we may enjoy water sports now, to be caught up and tumbled by waves was nightmarish back them. And while I can’t get enough of waterfalls on the hikes my family and I go on, the Hebrews couldn’t get away from them fast enough.

And though so many quote “Deep calls to deep” as if it were my inner soul calling to God’s Spirit, it’s actually the tumultuous sound of water crashing against water that was so fearful in a Hebrew imagination.

Deep calls to deep
    in the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
    have swept over me (Ps. 42:7).

Or as The Message has it:

Chaos calls to chaos,
    to the tune of whitewater rapids.
Your breaking surf, your thundering breakers
    crash and crush me.

In other words, “God, you are unmaking me. You have so battered me that I’m falling to pieces in the most terrifying way possible.”

And yet, this is the same God who sustains me.

By day the LORD directs his love,
    at night his song is with me —
    a prayer to the God of my life (Ps. 42:8).

In one of the few uses of the divine name in Book Two of the Psalms (42-72), the sons of Korah look to the love of Yahweh and sing his songs in the night. Despite the fear of a falling apart life, Yahweh is still “the God of my life.”

But again, we face the conundrum. God is my Rock in the midst of the chaos, and yet he seems to have ditched me.