Chuck Larsen

I grew up in North Omaha delivering papers for the Omaha World Herald. By the time I was twelve, I had learned how to balance two heavy Sunday bags around my neck while riding my bike. It was not graceful, but it worked. After finishing my route, I would head to Blessed Sacrament Catholic Church, where I served as an altar boy. Sundays ended with a big family dinner and then a walk to the Beacon Theatre. That is where I met “The Creature from the Black Lagoon,” and I would argue that he made a lasting impression. On the walk home, we debated which monster would be worse, but the Creature always won in my mind. At night, I would pull the covers over my head and pray, reminding myself that nothing and no one was more powerful than God. It was a simple kind of theology, but it was enough to get me through the night.

That childhood fear has a way of growing up with us, just changing its costume. The monsters look different now. They have names like cancer, heart attack, and loss. They show up in professional struggles, family tensions, and quiet worries that keep us awake longer than we would like to admit. I say this carefully, because I still find myself imagining worst-case scenarios with remarkable creativity. Israel faced something similar when Babylon overtook them. Their fears were not imaginary. Their “Creature from the Black Lagoon” was real and powerful. Yet in Psalm 74, they reminded themselves of something greater. They prayed, “It was you who split open the sea… you broke the heads of the monster in the waters… you crushed the heads of Leviathan.” They looked back to what God had done to steady themselves in what they were facing. Sometimes faith begins by remembering.

The New Testament brings that same truth into sharper focus through Jesus Christ. Paul writes, “If God is for us, who can be against us?” (Romans 8:31). That is not a denial of danger but a declaration of God’s greater power. Jesus Himself calmed storms and confronted forces that terrified others, showing that nothing stood outside His authority. He told His disciples, “In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). The presence of fear does not disappear, but it is reframed. Through Christ, the monsters lose their final word. What once seemed overwhelming is placed under the authority of a Savior who has already overcome.

Most of the Psalms are written by David, though a few come from others such as Moses and Asaph. In Psalm 73, Asaph opens a window into a very human struggle. He looks around and sees people living comfortable lives, even those who have no regard for God. Meanwhile, his own path feels marked by difficulty. It is the kind of comparison that can quietly unsettle the heart. Yet Asaph steadies himself with three clear thoughts. First, God is with him: “Nevertheless, I am continually with you; you hold my right hand.” Second, God’s Word guides him: “You guide me with your counsel.” Third, there is a future beyond present struggle: “and afterward you will receive me to glory.” In just a few lines, Asaph moves from frustration to confidence, not because his circumstances change, but because his perspective does.

Those same truths meet us in our own lives, where the questions have not changed much. It is still easy to notice how well others seem to be doing and quietly wonder if we missed a turn somewhere. I say this carefully, because I have compared my path to others more times than I would like to admit, usually with a calculator that only works in their favor. Yet Asaph reminds us that we are not alone. God is present, not at a distance, but close enough to hold our hand. Scripture serves as a guide through what often feels like uncertain terrain. Psalm 23 echoes this: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” There is also the question of what lies ahead. We tend to speculate about heaven much like we do about lost places such as Atlantis, forming ideas without firsthand knowledge. It can become a mixture of imagination and uncertainty.

The New Testament brings clarity to that uncertainty through the words of Jesus. He says, “I go to prepare a place for you… I will come again and will take you to myself” (John 14:2–3). That promise gives substance to hope. It is not built on speculation but on the word of someone who knows. Paul adds, “We walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Corinthians 5:7), reminding us that present limitations do not define ultimate reality. John Bradford expressed it well: “though I want here, I have riches there… though I faint here, I shall be refreshed there.” Through Christ, the hand that holds us now is the same hand that leads us home, guiding us from present struggle into lasting glory.

Psalm 72 reads like a prayer offered at the turning of an era. It may have been David’s prayer for his son Solomon as he handed over the kingdom. The requests are wide-ranging: wisdom for leadership, prosperity for the land, honor among the nations, and peace for the people. Yet at the center of it all is a concern that stands out clearly. The king is to care for those who cannot care for themselves. Verse 4 captures this focus: “May he defend the cause of the poor of the people, give deliverance to the children of the needy, and crush the oppressor!” This is not a small detail. It is the measure of a righteous reign. Strength is not displayed merely in power, but in compassion. A king’s greatness is seen in how he treats the weakest among his people.

That emphasis carries into our own lives in ways that are both practical and revealing. It is easy to discuss justice, fairness, and care in general terms, yet much harder to embody them in everyday moments. I say this carefully, because I have noticed how quickly I can analyze a situation rather than enter into it. The familiar story of the man in the ditch captures this tendency. Each observer offers a comment, an analysis, or a critique, but no one actually helps. The realist identifies the ditch. The mathematician measures it. The preacher outlines three points about it. Meanwhile, the man remains in the ditch. It is possible to be informed, articulate, and even well-intentioned, while still missing the heart of the matter. Compassion requires more than observation. It moves toward need rather than simply describing it. Without that movement, even the best intentions can remain comfortably distant.

The New Testament reveals that this kind of compassion is fully realized in Jesus. The Gospels repeatedly describe Him as one who “had compassion” on those who suffered. When He encountered need, He did not remain at a distance. In the story, it is Jesus who says, “Give me your hand.” That simple response reflects His entire ministry. He said, “The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve” (Mark 10:45), and He lived that out in countless ways. His compassion was not abstract; it was active. As Francis Schaefer observed, “There is nothing more ugly than an orthodoxy without understanding or compassion.” In Christ, truth and compassion are never separated. His kingdom, foreshadowed in Psalm 72, is marked by care for the overlooked, where strength is expressed through mercy and where the forgotten are lifted by His hand.

I will turn eighty years old on my next birthday, and I am becoming well acquainted with the realities of aging. That may be why Psalm 72 has grown more meaningful to me. There is a note in the Hebrew Psalter, not carried into many English translations, that reads, “This concludes the prayers of David, son of Jesse.” Whether or not that is the case, the Psalm carries the tone of transition. It is attributed to Solomon, a young man stepping into leadership, yet it echoes the concerns of someone who understands the long road ahead. There is a prayer that stretches across the years: “Do not cast me off in the time of old age; forsake me not when my strength is spent.” Later it adds, “Even to old age and gray hairs, O God, do not forsake me.” It is the honest voice of someone who knows that strength fades, but dependence does not.

Those words feel increasingly familiar. Hearing is not what it once was, memory sometimes takes a moment to cooperate, and walking distances that used to seem routine now require a bit more planning. I say this carefully, because I occasionally walk into a room and forget why I went there, only to stand confidently as though that was the plan all along. John Wesley described similar experiences in his later years, noting the decline of sight, strength, and memory. Yet he added a deeper concern, that physical decline might lead to stubbornness or irritability. That is a perceptive observation. Aging does not only affect the body; it presses on the spirit as well. It can reveal what is beneath the surface. The Psalmist’s prayer acknowledges both the reality of decline and the continued need for God’s presence. Strength may lessen, but the need for guidance and companionship remains steady.

The New Testament brings a quiet assurance to these concerns through Jesus Christ. Paul writes, “Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16). That renewal does not depend on physical ability. It is rooted in a relationship that does not fade. Jesus said, “I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20), a promise that spans every stage of life. Charles Wesley’s words capture this hope: “Jesus, my only hope thou art, Strength of my failing flesh and heart.” In Christ, aging is not simply a story of loss. It becomes a journey held together by a presence that does not diminish, guiding, sustaining, and ultimately leading beyond this life into something enduring.

The first thing that becomes apparent in Psalm 70 is the writer’s desperate situation. We are not told exactly which episode in David’s life is in view, but that almost seems beside the point. David, the beloved king of Israel, chosen and blessed by God and even called “a man after His own heart,” lived with constant trouble and danger. That reality can feel surprising until we pause and consider it more carefully. If this was true for David, should we expect anything less? As James Boice asks, “Should we be astonished that troubles and dangers, enemies, and even muddy pits are our frequent lots in life?” David’s repeated cry says it all: “Hurry, O God, to save me! O Lord, come quickly to help me!” He says it four times in five verses. It is not polished or refined. It is urgent and honest.

That urgency resonates more than we might care to admit. There are moments when life tightens around us and we feel the pressure from every direction. It might come from family concerns, workplace strain, or health issues that refuse to cooperate with our plans. I say this carefully, because I have had days where my prayers sounded less like thoughtful reflections and more like David’s: “If I do not get some help soon, I am going to lose it.” Psalm 70 gives us permission to bring that kind of honesty to God. David prays for three things. First, he prays for himself, pouring out his need without hesitation. Second, he prays for justice regarding his enemies, leaving vengeance in God’s hands rather than taking it into his own. Third, he remembers others who are also suffering, recognizing that he is not alone in his struggle. Even in desperation, there is a widening awareness that includes others.

The New Testament carries this same pattern forward and anchors it in Christ. Paul writes, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication… let your requests be made known to God” (Philippians 4:6–7). The promise is not immediate relief, but a peace that guards the heart and mind. Jesus Himself said, “In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). That statement does not remove trouble, but it places it within a larger victory. Through Christ, even urgent, unfinished prayers are heard and held within a purpose that extends beyond the moment.

Psalm 69 stands out as a clear Messianic Psalm, pointing forward to a Savior who would suffer. It reminds us that Israel’s deliverer would not come merely to overthrow political enemies but to confront a deeper problem within the human heart. The Psalmist writes, “For zeal for your house has consumed me, and the reproaches of those who reproach you have fallen on me” (Psalm 69:9). These words find their fulfillment in Jesus, whose life was marked by unwavering devotion to the mission given to Him. He set His face toward the cross with steady resolve, refusing to be diverted even when those closest to Him struggled to understand. His purpose was clear: to bear the weight of sin and accomplish what no one else could. The suffering described in this Psalm is not abstract; it becomes personal in the life of Christ.

That kind of unwavering focus stands in contrast to the fatigue we often experience. Life has a way of wearing us down. Soldiers speak of battle fatigue, a loss of motivation that can spread quickly through a group. It is not hard to see a similar pattern in everyday life. Discouragement can become contagious. I say this carefully, because I have felt that quiet drift more than once, where energy fades and purpose feels distant. Yet history and Scripture both show that renewed strength often comes through the example of others. Jehu called others to see his zeal, Elijah spoke of his devotion, and Paul urged believers, “Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord” (Romans 12:11). There is something about seeing steadfast commitment, especially in difficult circumstances, that stirs something within us. It reminds us that the struggle is not the whole story.

The New Testament directs our attention beyond examples to the person of Jesus Himself. He did not simply model perseverance; He accomplished victory. “Because I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will but the will of him who sent me” (John 6:38), He said, revealing the depth of His commitment. Even in suffering, He remained faithful. Paul later writes, “Thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Corinthians 15:57). That victory is not something we achieve on our own. It is given through Him. While His zeal inspires, His sacrifice saves. Before we can follow His example, we must first receive what He has done. In Christ, the battle we could not win has already been fought, and the outcome has been secured.

Numbers 10:35 describes a powerful moment in Israel’s journey. As the people traveled from Egypt toward the Promised Land, they followed the visible presence of God over the Ark of the Covenant. Whenever the Ark set out, Moses would declare, “Rise up, O LORD! May your enemies be scattered; may your foes flee before you.” Psalm 68 echoes that same confidence: “God shall arise, his enemies shall be scattered, and those who hate him shall flee before him!” The imagery is striking. God’s presence is pictured as smoke by day and fire by night, a force before which opposition cannot stand. The Psalm continues, “As smoke is driven away, so you shall drive them away; as wax melts before fire, so the wicked shall perish before God!” It is not a subtle picture. When God moves, resistance does not linger; it dissolves.

That imagery carries into our own experience in ways that are both encouraging and humbling. We all face mountains of problems, hills of difficulty, and hearts that can feel as unyielding as stone. Scripture repeatedly uses the language of melting to describe what happens when God intervenes. “The mountains melt before the LORD” (Psalm 97:5), and “the earth melts” at His voice (Psalm 46:6). I say this carefully, because I have stood in front of a few personal mountains that seemed quite content to remain unmoved. It is easy to feel as though certain situations are fixed in place, immune to change. Yet history and experience suggest otherwise. Franklin Roosevelt once observed that problems often “melt before the fire of a spiritual awakening.” There is something about God’s presence that reshapes what appears permanent. What feels immovable begins to soften when brought into His light.

The New Testament reveals that this same power is fully expressed in Jesus Christ. He is not only the presence of God among His people but the One through whom God’s victory is made clear. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). That light carries the same effect as the fire described in the Psalms. Jesus also demonstrated authority over forces that seemed overwhelming, whether in nature, sickness, or the human heart. Paul writes, “Thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Corinthians 15:57). When God arises through Christ, the outcome is not uncertain. Opposition may appear strong, but it cannot endure. Like wax before fire, it gives way in the presence of a greater power.

Psalm 67 is often called a “Missionary Psalm,” and it earns that name honestly. It begins with a prayer that sounds very familiar: “May God be gracious to us and bless us and make his face to shine upon us, Selah…” Then it answers its own question about why we ask for such blessings: “…that your way may be known on earth, your saving power among all nations.” This echoes the priestly blessing from Numbers chapter 6, where Aaron was instructed to say, “The LORD bless you and keep you; the LORD make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the LORD turn his face toward you and give you peace.” These words were not spoken in a quiet corner for private comfort. They were given to a people about to live among unbelievers, carrying the light of God into a world that did not yet know Him. The blessing was never meant to stop with them; it was meant to shine through them.

That idea challenges how we often think about blessing. We tend to treat it like a personal delivery service, expecting God to drop off comfort, success, or a smooth day with no traffic. I say that carefully, because I have prayed that exact kind of prayer more times than I can count, especially when I am running late and suddenly become very spiritual at stoplights. Yet Psalm 67 reminds us that blessing is not only about what we receive, but about what others see. As Boice explains, “A shining face is the opposite of an angry or scowling face, and a face turned toward someone is the opposite of a face turned away in indifference or disgust.” A shining face speaks of favor and warm relationship. When God’s favor rests on His people, it creates something visible. It is not just a better set of circumstances; it is a changed countenance, a different way of living that quietly points others toward Him. The true desire is not simply for physical gain, but for a living connection with God that others cannot ignore.

This finds its fullest meaning in Jesus. The New Testament shows that God’s shining face is revealed in Him. Paul writes, “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ” (2 Corinthians 4:6). The blessing is no longer distant or abstract; it is personal and present. Through Christ, believers experience that same grace and are called to reflect it. Jesus Himself said, “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden” (Matthew 5:14). The purpose remains the same as in Psalm 67: that God’s way may be known on earth. What Jeremiah once expressed still holds true: “Let not the wise man boast in his wisdom… but let him who boasts boast in this, that he understands and knows me.” In Christ, that knowledge becomes both a gift received and a light that quietly shines outward.