I’ve always believed that while most of us don’t read or write poetry regularly, we deeply need it. Poetry speaks to the rawness and beauty of life in a way nothing else can. In my sermon, I invited folks to write a few lines about their lives and their relationship with God—not to be profound or polished, but simply to see that we’re all poets when we speak from the heart. The Psalms show us this. They’re not just dusty old texts—they’re living poems that have carried people through celebration and suffering for generations.
I shared how these ancient poems were used in every part of life—from the coronation of kings to moments of personal despair. The Psalms are filled with honest cries of lament—David pleading, “How long, O Lord?” or Jesus echoing, “My God, why have you forsaken me?” These are not signs of weak faith; they are acts of deep trust. And the Psalms don’t stop there—they lift us with praise, with joy so big it feels like you might burst. Psalm 23, for example, is one I turn to often. It reminds me that even when I’m in the darkest places, God is with me, feeding me, leading me, restoring my soul.
In the end, I asked everyone—and I ask myself—what kind of psalm am I writing with my life? Am I writing one of bitterness or of joy? And how can I choose to offer God a poem of praise, even in the messiness? Communion brings that all together. The bread holds the sorrow and brokenness. The cup holds the joy and promise. When we take these elements, we are living the Psalms—laments and rejoicing held side by side, just like in our own lives. And that, to me, is the beauty of being human before God.
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