Strength as Steadiness

Before the choir sang Psalm 40 this evening, I invited you to notice not just the words, but the emotion - and how the choir carried it.

Did you notice how it moved? The urgency of the cry. The turbulence of the horrible pit. The insistence of “make haste to help me.” And then - almost unexpectedly - it steadies:

He brought me also out of the horrible pit, out of the mire and clay; and set my feet upon the rock, and ordered my goings.

It feels as though the psalm itself has movements - like movements in a symphony. And that casts me back to my first encounter with musical movements at university.

While some of my more fashionable friends were promoting club nights down near Elephant and Castle, I found myself promoting five-pound tickets to the London Symphony Orchestra at the Barbican. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I fear I was just trying to appear highbrow and cultured.

I didn’t grow up with classical music. I remember sitting there thinking: am I meant to clap now? Do I stand? What exactly am I supposed to understand? I didn’t know the structure. But I could feel the general movement.

Years later - on meeting Joel, and joining the Minster choir - I realised I ought to understand this music stuff a bit better. So I did what I do: went to Waterstones, bought a GCSE music revision guide, and tried to learn the basics.

And one of the things it explained was sonata form. It’s not complicated. A piece begins with a theme - are we happy or sad, what is the character? It moves away from that theme, through tension and contrast and development. And then it returns. The same theme. But deepened by what has happened in the middle.

Once I understood that, my perception shifted. The music hadn’t changed. But I knew what to listen for.

Psalm 40 moves like that.

Much of Scripture comes to us as address or narrative from God. The Psalms do something different - they give us words to speak back to him. They give us words for praise, for help, for trust, for thanksgiving. They teach us how to pray. And Psalm 40 moves through all of those in a single breath.

It opens in the pit: “I waited patiently for the Lord… and he inclined unto me.” It rises to the rock: “He set my feet upon the rock, and ordered my goings.” It becomes a song: “He hath put a new song in my mouth.”

And then - just when we think we’re home clear - “Innumerable troubles are come about me… my heart hath failed me.” The wandering returns.

And finally the psalm comes home: “Though I be poor and needy, yet the Lord thinketh upon me.”

The same theme. Deepened.

The horrible pit is not the whole story. The wandering is not the whole story. The key is recognising the returning theme: “Yet the Lord thinketh upon me.”

And notice - the psalmist does not keep that to himself: “I have declared thy righteousness in the great congregation.” What began as private rescue becomes public testimony.

Joshua stands at the edge of the Jordan - everything changed, Moses gone, the future uncertain. And the Lord doesn’t say: be impressive, be decisive, have a plan. He says: “As I was with Moses, so I will be with you.” The strength on offer isn’t capacity. It’s company.

And Paul, writing from prison, distils it further. Not “charge.” Not “overcome.” Simply: “Stand.” Presence held. Ground kept. That is the scriptural shape of strength.

Strength, in Scripture, is not intensity. It is steadiness born of God’s presence.

And that, perhaps, is the point of Lent. Not to offer God something impressive - but to have our ears opened. To slow us down enough to hear the music that has been there all along.

Psalm 40 does not pretend the troubles disappear. The heart fails again. The cry returns. Some of you will know exactly what movement you’re in right now - and it may not feel like the resolution. But so does the theme: “Yet the Lord thinketh upon me.”

The psalmist wanders - but he returns.

When I think back to being an 18-year-old in those concerts at the Barbican, I couldn’t have told you what sonata form was, or where in the piece we were. But something was happening. The music was doing its work, whether I understood it or not. I take comfort now in realising what movement that was - and in beginning to recognise, however falteringly, when the music comes home.

“Though I be poor and needy, yet the Lord thinketh upon me.”

Not that we are unshakeable. But that we are remembered.

Amen.