O God, you are my God; I seek you; my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water [Psalm 63:1].
Jane and I have a dear friend who has spent the better part of two years confined to his bed. His back pain, persistent and unyielding, has created boundaries around his life that few of us can truly comprehend. His world has narrowed to the dimensions of his bedroom and the adjoining den, the daily landscape unchanged except for the shifting of light across the ceiling. The slow rotation of an overhead fan marks time, whispering through the quiet air. Soon, he faces surgery that may—or may not—bring some measure of relief.
In many ways, our friend inhabits a wilderness. Not the wilderness of Judah where David composed the Psalter selection for this Sunday, the Third Sunday in Lent [Psalm 63:1-8, RCL, Year C], but a wilderness nonetheless—a dry and weary land where physical comfort is as scarce as water in a desert. And in this confined wilderness, Jane and I have witnessed within our friend—and his wife—a deep spiritual thirst.
“O God, you are my God, earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, in a dry and weary land where there is no water” [63:1].
These words, written centuries ago, speak with startling relevance to modern wilderness experiences. What does it mean to thirst for God when our physical circumstances leave us parched? How do we seek God earnestly when the landscape of our lives resembles a desert?
David’s psalm offers no simple answers, no three-step program for spiritual hydration. Instead, it gives us language for the journey—sparse, honest words that acknowledge both our desperate need and the possibility of satisfaction even in the driest places.
The wilderness where David composed this psalm was not merely a metaphor. It was likely a real place of physical danger and deprivation, perhaps during his flight from Saul or from Absalom’s rebellion. The rocky terrain of Judah’s wilderness offers little shade and less water. Even the wind carries a weight of emptiness, shifting the dust where nothing grows. In such a place, thirst becomes the body’s primary concern, pushing aside all other thoughts and considerations.
Yet David’s words reveal that his physical thirst awakened a deeper longing: “to see your power and your glory, as I have seen you in the sanctuary” [63:2]. I think that this suggests something essential about our own wilderness experiences—that they strip away pretense and expose our true needs.
What do we truly thirst for when all comforts are removed? When pain, limitation, loss, or uncertainty become our constant companions, what does our soul reach for?
David’s honesty invites our own. In naming his thirst, he does not begin with confident assertions or theological proclamations. He begins with need—raw and undisguised. Perhaps this is why this psalm speaks so powerfully across the centuries. Its opening lines grant us permission to acknowledge our own spiritual dehydration.
Many of us have been taught to maintain a facade of spiritual abundance. We’ve learned to speak confidently of faith even when doubts crowd our minds, to proclaim trust even when fear grips our hearts. But what if, like David, we allowed ourselves to name our thirst? What spiritual honesty might become possible then?
The psalm takes a surprising turn in verse 3: “Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you.” From confession of need, David moves to a bold assertion that seems almost impossible in his circumstances.
Better than life itself? These are not words spoken from comfort. They come from someone who has weighed divine love against everything else—including physical survival—and found it of greater worth. But how does one arrive at such a conclusion?
Perhaps it emerges precisely from the wilderness experience itself. When stripped of ordinary comforts and securities, we may discover what truly sustains us. Our bedridden friend once told me, “I’ve lost so much, but I’ve found what remains.” In his case, what remained included an awareness of God’s presence that somehow transcended his physical limitations.
“My soul will be satisfied as with the richest of foods; with singing lips my mouth will praise you” [63:5].
Notice the future tense here— “will be satisfied.” David writes not from the experience of current satisfaction but from confidence in coming fulfillment. Yet paradoxically, his praise occurs in the present moment, even before that satisfaction arrives. This suggests a deep spiritual practice: praising not after deliverance but during the waiting.
What might it mean for us to find satisfaction when our circumstances remain unchanged? How might we experience spiritual nourishment even when physical comfort eludes us? These are not questions with easy answers, but they invite us to consider the possibility that God’s presence might be experienced even in—perhaps especially in—our most parched places.
“On my bed I remember you; I think of you through the watches of the night” [63:6].
There is something particularly vulnerable about the nighttime hours. When pain or worry keep us awake, minutes stretch into hours, and the darkness seems endless. For our friend, these night watches have become all too familiar—times when medication wears off, when distractions fade away, when even well-meaning visitors have gone home.
What occupies our minds in those solitary hours? What thoughts circle as sleep eludes us? David chooses to fill these hours with deliberate remembrance. The Hebrew word translated “remember” here suggests more than casual recollection—it implies an active calling to mind, a purposeful dwelling on God’s character and past faithfulness.
In verse 7, we see what David specifically recalls: “Because you are my help, I sing in the shadow of your wings.” He remembers not just abstract theological truths but personal experiences of divine help. He recalls moments when God’s protective presence felt as tangible as a bird sheltering its young.
What if, in our own night watches, we practiced this kind of intentional remembering? What moments of God’s faithfulness might we recall? What experiences of divine help might sustain us when present circumstances offer little comfort?
Tomorrow, our friend will wake again to the familiar boundaries of his room. Perhaps he will pray, perhaps he will simply listen. The light will shift across the ceiling as the hours pass. The slow rotation of the fan will mark another day. And in that space, his thirst will remain—but so will something else.
In all their days, our friend and his wife have never lost sight of the love that holds them. Their thirst is real, but so is their knowledge that they are not forgotten.
Perhaps today, as you move through your own wilderness, you might pause long enough to notice what remains. And in your waiting, your longing, in your thirst—know that you are also upheld.
“My soul clings to you; your right hand upholds me” [63:8].
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