The Song of the Downcast Soul (Part 1)

Book II of the Psalms begins as Book 1 began: with the image of streams of water. This time, the godly person is not like a tree but like a thirsty, parched deer searching for a cool drink. The psalmist longs for God like that — and by the way, we should note another change in Book II: David is not the author of this psalm but the “sons of Korah.” There are twelve psalms total attributed to the sons of Korah, who may have been descendents of the rebellious leader in Numbers. We know from 1 Chronicles that one part of this family became temple caretakers, while another part became singers and musicians. Their song begins with longing and desperation: “As a deer pants for flowing streams, so pants my soul for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and appear before God?” The word “soul” in Hebrew doesn’t mean an immaterial essence like we use the word in English. Rather, the word nephesh means our life, our breath, our physicality. The word is literally related to our throat, which matches the rare word “pants.” The psalmist describes the agonizing thirst of a drought, the audible gasping of need. It’s a visceral image for wanting to be with God, the living God who is himself the source of life. The psalmist is wandering the desert of this life, stumbling and coughing as he moves toward his destination: to appear before God and drink in his presence. Book I ended with a confident enjoyment of the LORD’s presence forever, and Book II begins with a longing for that same intimacy. There’s one more key difference between Books I-II, and it’s the term used for God. In Book II, the term “God” (elohim) largely replaces the personal name Yahweh (the LORD in all caps). For those who like statistics, in Book I, Yahweh occurs 278 times and elohim occurs 15 times. But Psalms 42–83 (Book II and part of Book III) have been called the “Elohistic Psalter” because they contain elohim 200 times and Yahweh 44 times (which is quite a reversal of the pattern). Rivers of ink have been spilled on the possible meaning for this change, but the general consensus is that it’s simply a matter of liturgical preference rather than theological shift. Similar to how Christians will sometimes refer to “Jesus” or to “Christ” interchangeably, it seems that the psalmists do the same for Yahweh and God. That might sound like much ado about nothing, but we shouldn’t lose sight of the main point: the psalmist is consumed with a need for God, and nothing but God’s presence will quench his thirst.

The tone shifts in verse 3 from longing to lament: “My tears have been my food day and night, while they say to me all the day long,“Where is your God?” These things I remember, as I pour out my soul: how I would go with the throng and lead them in procession to the house of God with glad shouts and songs of praise, a multitude keeping festival.” Still wandering without God’s presence, the psalmist has only his tears to keep him company. Meanwhile, “they” (and we’ll learn later who “they” are) mock his longing for God. It’s like a twisted version of Elijah mocking the prophets of Baal: “Where is your God? He must be away on a trip or sleeping! He’s not here.” What’s worse, the psalmist remembers a time when he felt the presence of God amidst the company of like-minded worshipers. This spiritual isolation is made all the more bitter by the memory of better times. It’s an important reminder that the spiritual life needs not only God but also the people of God; we’re not merely meant to know God individually but corporately. It seems as though the psalmist is about to fall to the dust in despair, but then he cries out not to God but to his own soul: “Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God.” This chorus is profound and powerful. It’s not to be read as dismissive of the psalmist’s emotional pain, like a sarcastic “Why are you so sad?” In fact, the Psalms as a whole are much more honest and vulnerable with emotions than most modern people. Rather, the psalmist begins a dialogue with himself. One scholar put it this way: “[He] is at once a man of convictions and a creature of change. He is called to live in eternity, his mind stayed on God; but also in time, where mind and body are under pressures that cannot and should not leave him impassive… The psalmist’s refrain teaches us to take seriously both aspects of our existence.” We should see the tension of both grief and hope, sorrow and faith, need and praise. Despite all else that happens, no matter what is going on internally or externally, even if God doesn’t answer my prayers exactly how I want, this truth remains: he is my salvation, and he is my God. My hope is always in him.

After the moving declaration of verse 5, the second half of the psalm returns to lament but with a slightly different emphasis: “My soul is cast down within me; therefore I remember you from the land of Jordan and of Hermon, from Mount Mizar. Deep calls to deep at the roar of your waterfalls; all your breakers and your waves have gone over me.” The psalmist zooms to a particular geographical place, the headwaters of the Jordan in the far north of the promised land. The rivers and waterfalls and waves have swept him up and plunged him into darkness. There are echoes here of Genesis in both the chaotic abyss before creation and the terrifying flood of judgement. The psalmist’s emotional and spiritual pain is overwhelming, wave after crushing wave… and it all comes from God. Did you catch that? “All your breakers and your waves have gone over me.” How could it be otherwise? God is sovereign and in control over all things, so he must be intending the psalmist to experience this painful flood. The psalmist is hurt by God’s absence, but the next verses change back to assurance followed by more lament: “I say to God, my rock: “Why have you forgotten me? Why do I go mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?” As with a deadly wound in my bones, my adversaries taunt me, while they say to me all the day long, “Where is your God?” There is grace even in our troubles, like clinging to a rock in the midst of a storm. The sirens are calling out a song of scorn, his body aches in grief, his soul whispers bold questions… and still the psalmist holds on. God’s steadfast love never fails. His song of peace and presence is still with us, even in the dark night of the soul. The rock may be battered but never broken. One commentator called it “a growing reliance on the things that cannot be shaken even when the storm of suffering is shaking everything else.” We hear once more the poignant refrain: “Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God.” It is the end of the psalm… kind of. Psalms 42 and 43 are separate in the Hebrew text and are distinct compositions, but because they share a lot of similarities, they’re meant to be read together as companions. I’ve called them Part 1 and Part 2 in the episode titles, and in the next episode, I’ll go into the relationship between them. But for now, Psalm 42 is one of the most sadly beautiful psalms in the entire book. It refuses to be simply a song of lament or praise. It intertwines abandonment and faith. It is a song of a downcast soul still yearning for God to bring relief.