Hope (Psalm 130)
Summary
Closing out the summer series in the Psalms, Pastor Dominic Jackson turns to Psalm 130, a Song of Ascents sung by pilgrims on the way to Jerusalem. He explores what the Bible means by hope. Too often we treat hope as little more than a wish, which offers little strength when life becomes genuinely hard. Scripture offers a fuller picture: a hope rooted in God's faithfulness in the past, sustained by his presence now, and anchored in the promise of what is to come. Dominic also considers why we hesitate to bring our needs to God, especially when our troubles are of our own making, and how Psalm 130 models honest prayer from "the depths." The psalm points us beyond the gifts we want to the Giver himself, the God with whom there is forgiveness, unfailing love, and full redemption.
Questions for reflection
When you pray, do you tend to ask God for too much or too little? What does the size of your prayers reveal about how you picture God?
How would you describe the difference between hope and wishful thinking? Where in your life has "hope" really just meant "wish"?
The sermon describes hope as moving through time: remembering God's faithfulness in the past, finding renewal in the present, and anticipating what is to come. Which of these do you most need right now, and why?
Is it harder for you to turn to God when your struggle is the result of your own choices? What does Psalm 130's "with you there is forgiveness" say to that hesitation?
Biblical hope is active, like a watchman waiting for the morning. What would it look like for you to wait on God actively rather than passively in this season?
The psalmist puts his hope in the Lord himself, not first in what the Lord can do. How might shifting your focus from the gift to the Giver change the way you pray?
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Dominic Jackson:
We wrap up our series in the Psalms today, where we've spent pretty much the whole summer, and it's been great. I've really enjoyed it. I hope you have as well. And where we land today is Psalm 130.When I first came to faith, God was the most important aspect of my life. God was a big part of my life, as you could imagine. But yet, I still had a very small picture of God. One of the areas where I think this was the most clear, looking back, was in my prayer life—specifically my prayers of petition, my prayers of need.
Anne Lamott humorously says that every single prayer ever prayed can be summed up in just three words. Three prayers, pretty much: thanks, wow, and help. Which I think is pretty great. Well, as a pious new believer—a very zealous believer—I was really good at the first two. I mean, thanks and wow—I spent all day just constantly thanking the Lord for every little blessing. A good parking spot, a good grade on a test that I did not deserve, that I did not study for, right? And wow—coming to faith changed my entire life and how I saw everything. And so I was just looking for the Lord in every little place, and I would see these little snapshots, and it was beautiful. And so I prayed a whole lot of thanks and a whole lot of wow.
However, when it came to that third prayer, help, I had convinced myself that there was something noble about keeping these prayers to myself. I thought it was sinful to ask God for anything more than just more of his presence, more of his will. Anything other than that was sinful. Not to mention, how could I ask God for more of whatever it is in my life when so many people were going without? How could I ask for healing when I had a cold, or a sprained ankle from skateboarding, or whatever? How could I ask God for healing when there were people dying in the hospital? Not only would this make me look selfish and sinful—my fear was that God—this was my view of God—God might say yes to my little prayer, which meant he would have to say no to somebody's big one.
I don't think I realized it at the time, but the issue I had was I had created a list of spiritually approved petitions and non-spiritually-approved requests. And worst of all, I had convinced myself—really, what was underneath this—that there was a limit to God's power. And so when I was depressed or angry or scared or just desiring something, these were things I handled on my own. Because why would I bother a big God with my little problems?
This reminds me of the story of Bontshe the Silent, in I. L. Peretz's tale by the same name. Bontshe had lived a sad life, where he was overlooked, unnoticed, oppressed, and eventually forgotten. He gave everything he had—every one of his possessions he gave away—living quietly in the shadows and eventually coming to expect or want nothing in his life. And as the story goes, one day he even stops talking altogether. Hence the name, Bontshe the Silent. And yet he remained faithful. Silent. Completely miserable, but faithful. And a lot of this wasn't just his desire to serve the Lord, but how he viewed himself and what he deserved.
Well, in the story, when he eventually dies and finds himself standing face-to-face with the Almighty, God smiles tenderly at Bontshe and says, "My son, all your joyless life, you had nothing. You lived without hope. But now here—here is my presence. There is fullness of joy and eternal pleasures. Anything you shall ask, you shall receive. All that you want, you shall have." The little man then responds, speaking for the first time in years. After some thought, he says, "Anything?" "Yes," the Lord says, "anything you want." After a long pause, Bontshe shares his request. He says, "May I have a baked roll? A warm one?"
Then in the story, God reminds the man that he can have anything at all—anything he could dream of will be his. Bontshe apologizes, feeling embarrassed, and he comes back with another request, the biggest he could possibly imagine. He says, "Would you mind adding a little butter to that?" And Peretz writes in the story that heaven wept.
The grand tragedy of Bontshe the Silent was not all that he had been denied, but instead all that he had ceased to desire. God had been reduced to the size of a dinner roll and some butter. The point the author is making is that the greatest enemy of prayer is not asking too much of God, but asking too little. Not in a sort of genie or cosmic-vending-machine view of God. What I mean is what we believe God is actually capable of. The size of our prayers often reveals the size we imagine the God we are praying to to be.
Speaking of, before we hop into our psalm, let's pray together.
Lord, my prayer is simple. I simply pray for help. Help us when we are in trouble. Help us to see more clearly. Help us to trust you. Help us to want not just more of what you offer, but instead more of the one offering it. Help us. Lord, most of all, help us, Spirit of God, to be more like Christ Jesus, in whom we pray. Amen.
If you have a copy of the Scriptures, turn with me to Psalm 130. If not, the words will be on the screen. If I could sum up this psalm in one word, it would be a psalm of hope. But the problem, I think, with this description is that in the same way our prayers can often be too small—our understanding, our desires, our petitions, like the fictional story I shared of Bontshe the Silent, right?—in the same way that these can be inadequate, I think so too can our understanding of what hope is and what hope offers.
Often when I use the word hope—like nine times out of ten when I use that word—it is synonymous with wish, right? Something far off, something somewhere in the distance that I can't reach, that I want. I am hoping for good weather on my day off, right? I am hoping that my daughter, who starts school this week, likes her new teacher. I am hoping that the Lions win the Super Bowl this year, right? All of these are simply wishes, with varying degrees of probability.
But this isn't how the Jewish authors of the Scriptures understood hope. In fact, there are three different words for hope—and we're going to see them played out here in a moment. They have three different words, and we translate them all as "hope." And what I love about Hebrew is, sometimes in English we have, like, 25 different English words for an object or a place or a thing, and they have just one, which sometimes makes translation a little difficult. But other times, we have a single word that's supposed to cover a whole magnitude of different feelings and things, and they have, like, 14 different words for that exact same word. And it's often when it comes to emotions or connections, feelings of the human heart.
The most obvious example, of course, is the word love, right? We use the word love all the time. I love my wife. I love the Bible. I love cheeseburgers. And I love when the radio plays my favorite song, right? All the same word, which is pretty limiting. The same can be said for the word hope, right? Which is probably why in Hebrew there are actually three different words. We're going to see them all here in the psalm.
The first, in Hebrew, is the word tikvah, and it is a hope that you have while looking at the past—looking at the Scriptures, or how God has moved before—and finding hope and bringing that into your present. It's tikvah. It reminds me of Hebrews 10, right? "Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised"—past tense—"is faithful."
The second word is the word qavah, and it's finding hope in our present, right? One pastor said it this way: God is God; he knows what he's doing. And when you can't trace his hand, trust his heart. Sometimes we find hope by looking for God not just in our lives, but in the very moment that we are in, as we are seeking him.
The third word for hope, which you'll find again all over the Psalms, is a word called yachal. And you could probably guess what this hope is for: it is reserved for the future. Looking ahead—a hope that is to come, an expectancy that you hold. Corrie ten Boom has this line. She says, "Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God." This is coming from a woman who spent much of her adult life in a concentration camp, watching as almost every single family member died in front of her. And she believed that the God she was praying to had never forgotten her, and she still held on to that hope. Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God.
All three of these definitions move through time—the past, present, and future—but all are about finding hope there. I love how Gavin Bennett defines these. Instead of hope in the past, present, and future, he defines them as invitations: remember, renew, and rehearse. Remember how God has moved in the past. Renew, as we find God in the present moment and join him there. Or rehearse, as we anticipate the return of Christ and the reconciliation of all things.
And so, as we'll see, this psalm covers all three of these definitions of hope. The psalmist has a full picture of hope and of the one to hope in—the God of today, tomorrow, and yesterday. And the reason I'm sharing this, and we're not just hopping straight into the psalm, is that I think having a richer, fuller picture of hope, one that transcends time, is so important. Because the problem with a limited understanding of hope—one that I often have, of hope simply being a wish or an uncertainty looking toward the future—is that this is not sustaining, and it is not comforting when you find yourself in a difficult season, when you are going through a trial.
When we're going through something hard, if our best understanding of hope is on par with, like, a good day, a good parking spot, a good year for my favorite sports team—well, what happens when you're laid off from your job and the bills are piling up? What happens when you have a scary diagnosis? What happens when your marriage is going through something really, really hard? What happens when your kid is kicked out of the second school in the district this year? That was my mom's story, right? But what happens when we find ourselves in something really, really hard? If hope is simply a wish, that's not going to help us. And so today we look at a psalm from someone who has a very different picture of hope, a different understanding of the circumstance they find themselves in—or better yet, a clear picture of God.
Let's take a look. Psalm 130: "A song of ascents." I know we haven't even gotten to verse 1, but this is important to note. You will find 15—15—psalms called the Songs of Ascents. And these were psalms specifically for that long, arduous journey that the Jewish people would make returning to Jerusalem for the three annual festivals they were required to go to, right? And so they would ascend up a mountain. And these psalms were all chosen to represent 15 different parts of their faith journey. And so it was a physical journey as much as it was a spiritual one. And so there are songs of worship, songs of joy, songs of unity, songs of peace, songs of hope. And among those songs of hope is the hope in time of trouble.
And so again, as they were making this pilgrimage—preparing themselves to get right before they would be in God's presence, before they would be approaching the temple, the Holy of Holies—they would recite these psalms, these 15 psalms, over and over and over. And one of the legs of this trek is our psalm, Psalm 130.
Verse 1: "Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord; Lord, hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy." Now, we don't know what kind of trouble the author is in. But this theme you will find all over the Psalms, right? Half a dozen times I could think of off the top of my head where the prayer starts, specifically, "Out of the depths," right? And sometimes this is for a person facing injustice. Sometimes this is for a person who is, like, lost and desperate and doubting and just looking for God. Other times—as we'll see here in a moment in verse 3—whatever that calamity is, whatever those depths look like that this author is calling out from, it is one that the author praying put himself in. This is a song of hope and rescue, yes, but it is also a psalm of repentance.
And I will confess, I have been in a lot of pits in my life. But I think for me, the hardest ones that I've ever found myself in are ones where I am joined by a guilty conscience. And the reason I mention this is—back to my small understanding of God when I first came to faith—I think, and I don't think I'm alone in this, many of us struggle to turn to God when, yes, our requests seem too small or maybe too big. But at the top of my list was if the situation I was praying about was a result of my own sin.
Hypothetically: you get let go from your job for making a dumb mistake. You get fired. You deserved to be fired, right? And now you're worried about paying your bills. How could you go to God with that? It's your own fault, right? Or, I made poor decisions with my health and I didn't take care of my body, and now the doctor wants to do some tests, right? I can't go to God with that. This is the mindset that I had. God is going to say, "Well, you should have thought of that before"—fill in the blank, right? Because isn't this how God hears our prayers—as some being deserved and some being undeserved?
Clearly, I had a warped view of God. And some of those things I needed to work through. But the reason I mention this is, I think what we see in this psalm is a beautiful model of what that prayer can look like when we are struggling. Even if we messed up—especially if we messed up—acknowledge our sin, but also still turn to God. Often, the times that I want to turn to God the least are the times that I need to do so the most. We're the ones who got ourselves into this situation. Why would we think we could get ourselves out?
This is why—I'll confess, hot take—this is why I hate self-help books, personally. Just me, at least for myself. Because self-help books are about you helping yourself, right? But when it comes to the help that I personally need, why would I be reading the book to begin with? The root of the issue underneath is my problem, right? "It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me," right? I don't also get to be the answer to that problem. I need some advice. I need a therapist. I need a mentor. Most of all, I need a loving, patient, but strong God. No offense if you read self-help. Maybe I'm reading the wrong ones. But I would just lovingly say, maybe approach them like shared help, by bringing Jesus into that equation. Because when I reflect on my own issues, I can't fix my problems. And I can't lift myself out of a pit, especially if I'm the one who dug it myself.
Verse 3: "If you, Lord, kept a record of sins, Lord, who could stand?" Now, this theme comes up in a lot of Scriptures—that the Lord keeps no record, right? We read that; we sing that in some of our hymns, our songs. No memory of all that we've committed. And throughout the Psalms, we'll see this. The authors keep referring to something—remember, this is the Old Testament—something or someone blotting out their sins, their transgressions. They have a picture or a vision of atonement, but they don't fully understand it yet. And they won't for a couple thousand years, until the cross.
But I want to acknowledge, a verse like this, I think, is really—when we read about the loving God keeping no record of sins, I think it's tricky. Because half of us need to remember this, that God keeps no record. And the other half of us maybe needs to remember that God still sees what we're doing. He might not keep a record, but that doesn't mean he has a bad memory.
And what I mean is—I'm speaking for myself—for half of my Christian walk, I felt like I wasn't good enough for God's grace. I was pitiful. I was a screwup. I was a disappointment. I wasn't good enough for God's love. The focus was on me and how small I was. The other half of my Christian walk, I convinced myself that I was too good for God's instruction, because the focus was, once again, on me and how great I was. Because look at all this discipline that I have. And look at all these verses I've memorized. And though I have sinned, yes, my sin isn't nearly as bad as that person's, right? And the truth is, both are wrong. And they're wrong because of where the focus is—or, more importantly, where it isn't.
It keeps going. Verse 4: "But with you there is forgiveness, so that we can, with reverence, serve you." I won't spend too much time on this. I preached a couple weeks ago on confession, and seeing that as a beautiful invitation—a picture of God's character, of his love. But I will point out: notice again that the forgiveness isn't based on the sinner here. Again, not on us. It says, "But with you there is forgiveness." Not, "I've done this many good deeds; now I am formally requesting forgiveness," right? Not, "I read the Bible this many hours this week; now you can forgive me." Or by tithing, or worshiping, or showing up to church this many weeks in a row, right? Whatever it is, the forgiveness is offered because of who God is. Not because of the extent of our sin, or because of our attempts at cleaning it up.
That's not to say that since I can't earn my forgiveness through works, I should just stop trying. And often I'll hear kind of this mindset. It's almost like a Protestant pridefulness, I think. I don't know what it is, but whenever we're talking about spiritual disciplines, or sanctification—trying to grow and become more like Christ—or serving, being the hands and feet of Jesus, right? Whatever it is, whenever we talk about these things, it's so easy for this to fall into what Bonhoeffer calls cheap grace, right? "I'm forgiven, so why does it even matter what I do?" The idea that since I can't do anything to pardon my sin, I might as well stop trying not to sin, right? And if that's true, then I might as well sin as much as I want, right? And again, I'm exaggerating here, but I think it's easy to have this mindset if we don't understand forgiveness, right? If no works are needed to be forgiven, then no works are needed at all.
That's not what I'm saying here. And that's not what the psalmist is saying as he's talking about forgiveness. When it comes to works—the discipline, sanctification, becoming more like Jesus—remember, I've said it before, I'll say it again: we do these things not in order to receive forgiveness. We do them because we have experienced forgiveness. It's a response, not a means. And just because we do not earn our forgiveness doesn't mean we should stop desiring to live like forgiven people.
Let's keep going. Verse 5: "I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope. I wait for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning." They didn't have exclamation points, so if they really wanted to bring the point home, they would repeat it again and again, right? More than watchmen wait for the morning.
I think one of the problems with hope—this has been my struggle—is that many of us view it as wishful thinking. It's a wait-and-see mindset. We hope, we put it out there, and we just wait and see what happens. You might hear someone say, "One day I hope to get a better job." "One day I'm going to start that business." "One day I'm going to take that trip to wherever," right? "One day I'm going to go back to school and finally finish my degree." "One day I hope—I hope to do this. I hope to go there. I hope to accomplish this." But they aren't actually doing anything toward it.
But here's the thing: biblical hope isn't passive. It's active. The psalmist says he looks for God even more than the watchmen look to the morning, wait for the morning. And there are two kinds of watchmen. I don't know—scholars aren't sure which watchmen he's referring to. But there are the ones who were at war. And there are the ones who stayed alert in case somebody came to mess with their crops—farmers, right? And so, both of these: those at war stay alert because enemies might come, and watchmen keep an eye on their farm because prowlers or wicked competition might come and sow bad seeds. And so morning meant, "I can finally rest." But in the meantime, they marched, they watched, they observed, they moved, they waited. Yes—but waiting wasn't passive. It was active.
And here he's saying, I am waiting even more than the watchman. I'm on alert even more than that. And I'm not going to stop until I see God. Just like the watchman can finally rest when morning comes, I will rest when I experience God's presence. Biblical hope isn't just what we long for someday. It is what we live for today.
Let's finish it out. Verse 7: "Israel, put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption. He himself will redeem Israel from all their sins." Notice that he is looking toward the Lord, not what the Lord can do. That's not his focus. He's looking first toward the Lord. He says, I will look toward the Lord—not the Lord's power or gifts or anything else, but the Lord himself.
See, I think we must look at the giver, not the gift. Or as Spurgeon says, stop searching for water to find the well, but look for the well where you will find the everlasting water. And I think this is why my prayers were so small. I was afraid to ask God to rescue me from whatever it was I was going through. When in reality, I should have first desired God, who then might find me where I am and rescue me. My focus was in the wrong place. Because notice, the psalmist puts his hope in God, who then—next verse—offers unfailing love and redemption. He doesn't look for unfailing love and redemption. He looks for God. And this is what comes with that search, because this is who God is.
And so I'll ask: where do you need hope in your life? Is it in the past, the present, or the future? Is the invitation remembering? Is it renewal? Is it rehearsal?
When it comes to looking to the past, I can't help but think of this concept I learned in one of my early childhood education classes. It's a concept you're probably familiar with, called attachment theory, and it explores how children develop trust and security and emotional stability, especially in their early years, right? And here's what researchers have found: children who have consistent caregivers—those who show up time and time again, who respond to cries, who feed them regularly—those children learn something powerful: I can trust. Even when the caregiver steps out of the room, the child doesn't panic. Why? Because their experience has taught them: they always come back. They've never let me down before. That's how a child develops secure attachment, right?
Now think about your walk with God. When you've experienced his provision over and over again, when he's carried you through storms, when his promises have held true in the past, over time you begin to trust him, even in the silence. Hope isn't wishful thinking. Hope is the product of repetition—of a God who has shown up enough times that even when he's quiet, you know he's still faithful. It's like a spiritual memory. He's come through before; I know he will again. So if you're in a moment right now where you can't see him, my loving encouragement would be: don't panic. He's never left you before, and he's not going to start now. Hope is rooted in the consistency of God's character—a Father who shows up time and time again.
Or maybe some of us could use some hope in the future—in what is to come, in rehearsal, right? In anticipation. I've been reflecting on little snapshots of heaven. I've been thinking about how, in many ways, God will give us these little hints of what is to come—of his promises, of his return, right? And I often see that in these little pictures of justice. I see that in beauty. I see that in creation, or in art—trying to see beauty in the brokenness.
And as I think about the future, as I look for hope in eternity—in a sermon, Kevin Bennett was talking about this sci-fi book. Apparently, he's also a nerd, which I love. But this fiction book—the story is about a guy who meets these aliens, apparently, right? And in what feels like a really monotonous, normal scene that doesn't really have any ramifications on the rest of the story, one of the humans and an alien are working together on something. Aliens land and they're joining the human species to do something—I don't remember. It doesn't matter. One of the humans and the aliens are working on something together. And in the story, the alien injures his wrist. No big deal. The guy—and everyone else reading the book—just completely moves on in the story.
But as the story continues, these alien creatures at one point start planning a funeral. And initially, the guy is really confused by this. And you find out that this alien species, with all of their technological advancements, all of their intellect, all of their knowledge—they can't heal themselves. They don't have this ability. And an injury, even a small one, often means the beginning of the end for these creatures.
And the main character realizes something—something I, too, have taken for granted: just how incredible it is that God designed our bodies to heal themselves. I never even think about this. Broken bones and awful sickness—even things like how your body will regulate your temperature with a fever, or whatever, right? And when I stopped to think about this, I realized that this is just a little tiny way that God is giving us a snapshot of heaven—of a place where there is no sickness, no injuries, no pain, no healing necessary. And so maybe today you need to be reminded of the hope we have in all that is to come.
I think it was John Bunyan who said, "Other men see only a hopeless end, but the Christian rejoices in an endless hope." God has not forgotten his promises. And one day there will be no sickness, no pain, no tears. That is the hope that I have in the future.
Or lastly, maybe you're in a difficult season, and you could use some hope in the present. You could use some renewal in your life. And I would simply point you to this psalm—not just as a model, but, I think, as an invitation to turn to God with honesty and candor, just as the psalmist models here. That's in the Bible, remember. And invite Jesus into that pain, regardless of whether the pain you are experiencing is a result of simply being in a fallen world, or a bad choice that you made, or spiritual attack from the enemy, or just bad luck. Whatever it is, whatever caused the situation that you are going through, invite him into that—to join you, to sit with you, and then to pull you out.
There's this old hymn about a Christian who finds himself in a war zone. It was the 1800s—it was a different time. But he's giving up hope in this old hymn. And he's in a really, really bleak place. And he's ready to give up, until in the distance he hears something. And the lyrics go, "And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long, steals on the ear the distant triumph song, and hearts are brave again, and arms are strong."
The hymn paints the picture of a losing soldier. He sees war and loss all around him, and he is ready to give up—when he hears a song, a trumpet of his own army just over the hill, right? And if he just holds on a little bit longer, if he can just cling to hope, then he will be okay. He will be rescued. Because what is to come is worthy of his trust, is powerful enough, is something that he can put his faith in.
I love how Charles Swindoll says it: hope is a voice crying in the wilderness. It reminds us that what you're going through isn't the end of the story. It's simply the tough journey that leads to the right destination. Solid, stable, sure hope. And so press on, stay focused, endure. But I would add: don't do it alone. Let's pray.
Lord, just echoing the words of this psalm—regardless of what situation we find ourselves in, whether we have climbed out of a pit with your help, or we find ourselves right in the middle of one, or we don't even know it but one is on the horizon—whether we need hope in the past, in the future, or in our present, here's our prayer: "Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord; Lord, hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy. If you, Lord, kept a record of sins, Lord, who could stand? But with you there is forgiveness, so that we can, with reverence, serve you." Lord, I wait for you, Lord. My whole being waits, and in your word I put my hope. I wait for you, Lord, more than watchmen wait for the morning. And so, God, help us to put our hope in you. For with you—to quote the psalm—is unfailing love, and with you is full redemption. We pray this in Jesus' name.