Even though there was an enormous reward for her capture, Harriet Tubman, after escaping slavery herself, returned to the slave-holding states over nineteen times. She led hundreds of people out of slavery into the north, where they could live with freedom. When she was asked about the source of her fearless strength, she would say: “It wasn’t me, it was the Lord. I always told him, ‘I trust you. I don’t know where to go or what to do, but I expect you to lead me.’ And he always did.”

Tubman’s story is inspiring. Her courage and heroism were exceptional. And her story points to a deeper truth. Countless Christians over the centuries have found strength and courage that they didn’t know they had… when they placed their lives in God’s hands. Not because they were naturally brave. Not because they were certain of the outcome. But because they trusted the One who was leading them.

That kind of trust is not naïve. It does not deny danger. Harriet Tubman knew the risks. She felt fear. What set her apart was not the absence of fear, but the presence of faith — a lived conviction that God was active, guiding, and faithful.

Throughout Scripture, we see this same pattern. Abraham goes without knowing the destination. Moses stands before Pharaoh trembling. Mary says yes without knowing the cost. The disciples step into a world that will resist them. Again and again, courage is born not from self-confidence, but from God-confidence.

You and I may not be called to lead people along the Underground Railroad. But we are called to faithfulness in our own time and place. To speak when silence would be easier. To act justly when compromise would be safer. To love when resentment would feel more natural.

And when we do, we often discover something surprising: strength rises to meet obedience. Not all at once. Not in dramatic fashion. But enough for the next step. And as we lean into that grace, we find that the One who calls us is also the One who sustains us.

Let us pray: Loving and gracious God, time and time again, people of faith have had to lean on you and have found you faithful. May you meet us this day. Lead us. Guide us, and grant us the strength and courage to face each hour. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

‍

I was recently listening to the On Being podcast with Krista Tippett. In one episode, she spoke with Sharon Salzberg about her work with parents who lost children in the Stoneman Douglas High School shooting.

During one gathering, a grieving parent raised her hand and said, “I feel strange. I’m having this meaningful, even beautiful experience learning mindfulness with you — and yet the only reason I’m here is because something terrible happened. I don’t know how to get over that.”

Salzberg gently replied, “I don’t know that we ever get over it. We learn to hold them both at once.”

That phrase stayed with me: hold them both at once. Joy and sorrow. Light and darkness. Gratitude and grief. It is all real.

The psalms understand this. They cry out in anguish and, sometimes in the very same breath, declare praise. They do not deny pain. They do not pretend everything is fine. But neither do they surrender the conviction that God is present.

And this is crucial: we do not praise cancer. We do not praise violence or dementia or pandemics. Christian praise is not denial. It is defiance. It is the stubborn confession that even here — especially here — God has not abandoned us.

Our hope is not that we will escape hardship. Scripture never promises that. Our hope is Emmanuel — God with us. The God who in Jesus entered suffering, held it, bore it, and redeemed it. The God who holds the whole of our lives — from birth to death and beyond.

I don’t know what you are carrying today. But I pray you will know this: you do not carry it alone. The One who holds joy and sorrow together is holding you even now.

Let us pray: Your righteousness, O God, reaches to the heavens. You who have done great things — who is like you? Be our rock and our refuge. Teach us to trust you in sorrow and in joy, and give us grace to sing your praise through it all; through Christ our Lord. Amen.

‍

In Psalm 71, again and again, the psalmist cries out: Deliver me. Rescue me. Save me.

None of us would have to reflect very long to remember a time when we prayed that prayer… maybe by a hospital bed… or in the wake of a diagnosis… or divorce… or even in the throes of a long-term serious illness. Save her! Help us! Deliver me!

I remember some time ago, a young man who was in recovery from serious drug addiction told me that right before he got sober, he had this moment when he realized that there was nothing he could do within his power to stop using. He simply fell to his knees in prayer… Help me… But he shared with me that this prayer is not something he prayed just once. It is the same prayer every day, first thing when he gets out of bed. He hits his knees and pleads, “I can’t do it without you, Lord. Help me…”

What’s interesting about this psalm is that there is a balance, a back and forth, between a heartfelt prayer for deliverance and a confident sense of trust and hope.

In verse 14:

But I will hope continually, and will praise you yet more and more.

In fact, three times the psalm goes back and forth between a crying out and a statement of trust and praise. And it seems to be, in the balance of it all — in the holding of it all together, the crying out, the remembering, and the praise — that something arises deep within this psalmist. It’s a confidence that cannot be shaken, a hope that cannot be contained.

Verse 3: …you are my rock and my fortress.

Verse 7: …you are my strong refuge.

This is not a hope that we will necessarily escape hardship. But a hope in the God who is with us in the midst of all of it… in the joy and the sorrow, the laughter and the tears, the tragic and the breathtakingly beautiful. It is a hope in the God who holds it all and who holds us, from the moment of birth to the moment of dying, and beyond…

I pray today that this prayer from the psalms would be your prayer. May you too cry out when in need, and even in the midst of that need, may you too remember God’s past grace. And as you do, may there arise within you a profound hope, a measure of trust, and even a song of praise.

Let us pray: Loving God, I pray today especially for those who need you most. Deliver, Lord. Rescue. Save. We entrust our very lives to you again this day; through Christ, in whose name we pray. Amen.

‍

Yesterday, I related how several years ago now, I invited folks to take a few moments to reflect on a moment when God had carried them through the wilderness of life. I asked if they were willing to write their stories down in brief form and to share them with me and others. Here are just a few I received:

Dear God, you carried me through a challenging time in my life dealing with cancer…

Dear God, you carried me through the years of being an immigrant with an uncertain future and sometimes being on the brink of not having enough money…

Dear God, it wasn’t until I laid on the floor and gave my whole self to you. When I stood up and thanked you, I was a new person. Alcohol no longer was ruining my life. That was 25 years ago…

Dear God, you carried me through the death of my mother at too early an age. You watched over me when I lost sight of you. Thank you for always being in my life, even when I wasn’t listening to you…

Dear God, you were with me even through losing a job. You rescued me from constant worry and blessed me when I was connected with this church.

Dear God, I went through a devastating divorce after 28 years of marriage. The Holy Spirit came to be my constant companion.

Dear God… you have carried me through sickness and pain many times. You carried me through the loss of a grown child and gave me hope…

I could go on and on. You could, too. This is quite possibly why all throughout the psalms — even while crying out in need — the psalmist looks back over his life, remembers, and gives praise.

Today, as you look back over the span of your life, may you remember how God has met you, how God has carried you, and how God has saved you. If you didn’t do so yesterday, take a few moments today to reflect and write down your story. As you remember, may hope arise within you. And may you give thanks and praise.

Let us pray: God of ages past, God of tomorrow, God of this very moment, into your hands we commend our lives. We thank you for meeting us in the darkest moments of life. Meet us again here and now. May your presence, strength, and grace fill us and sustain us. In Christ’s name. Amen.

‍

Many scholars believe that the writer of Psalm 71 was older, looking back over the course of a long life when he or she wrote this song. We get clues:

For you, O Lord, are my hope,

    my trust, O Lord, from my youth.

So even to old age and gray hairs,

    O God, do not forsake me,

Upon you I have leaned from my birth…

As the poet looks back over the span of life, she remembers… She remembers how God had carried her, rescued her, delivered her in the past. In fact, we see this all throughout the psalms — a remembering, a recalling, a retelling. And in that remembering, there is hope.

Several years ago now, as a part of one of our worship services, I invited our congregation to take a few moments to reflect on those moments when God carried each of them through a wilderness. I asked if they were willing to write out the stories and share them. And they did. I received story after story about how God carried them through cancer, through addiction, and through incredible loss.

I wonder if you were to think back over the span of your life… I wonder if you were to complete the statement, “God, you were with me even when…” — what stories might you have to tell? What witness might you raise? What hope might arise?

Today, take just a few moments to reflect. Write it out into prayer. And as you do, may you give thanks and praise.

Let us pray: Gracious God, thank you for those times when you have carried us through the wilderness of life. Time and again, you have rescued; you have saved. Therefore, as we face the future, we remember, and we have hope; through Christ our Redeemer. Amen.