Sermon Delivered at The Local Church
February 16, 2025
Scripture: Psalm 55:1–8

2025-02-16 Sermon

As I was preparing for this new series, I got to thinking about our first-ever sermon series here at The Local Church. Back in when we launched weekly worship at House of Hops in September 2019. It was called "This is Fine: A Series on Hope for a World on Fire." Based on this meme (one of my favorites - I even have a hoodie with this design). The dog, just enjoying his coffee, as everything around him burns, says, "This is fine."

We were so young. So naïve.

Because in the time since we launched that oh-so-prescient sermon series, we've endured a global pandemic, we've lived through two presidential elections, we've seen the storming of the Capitol, temperatures around the globe have continued to rise, wars have broken out in Gaza and Ukraine, hurricanes and wildfires have devastated parts of our country, and I know that many of us are feeling more overwhelmed and more disoriented with every breaking news alert that comes across our phones. And while it can often feel like the machinations in Washington, D.C., have little effect on our day-to-day lives, there are many of us in our community—many of us here in our congregation even—who have already felt the impact and many others holding their breath.

And that's to say nothing of the ways life continues to "be lifing," as they say. There's still food to get on the table. Kids to transport from one place to the next. Summer camps to book and pay for. There are still papers to write and Zooms to hop on. There's still schedules to sort out and conflict to work through and grief that seems to come out of nowhere. All while that existential dread can feel so thick in the air.

And that's why I've been thinking so much about this meme. That's why it feels so real. So relatable. Because when everything feels like it's on fire and our world can feel like it's unraveling, when everything we've known to be true feels like it's pulled out from underneath us, that temptation is so real to just drink our coffee and will ourselves into believing that "this is fine."

And here's the thing: There's no shortage of folks who will try to convince you that it's not a lie. That everything is fine—or it will be—if you just buy this product or take advantage of this sale or keep scrolling and swiping or binging or say these magic words.

For a while now, I've been thinking about how the church, at its best, offers something rare. I hope that's true of The Local Church. Communities of belonging and belovedness are exceedingly rare. It's exceedingly rare to gather around a table with people that you didn't get to choose, and discover that everyone has a place. It's a rare thing to be defined not by a political party or the vote you cast but by your identity in Christ, who welcomed the stranger, fed the hungry, comforted the brokenhearted, healed the sick, and blessed the poor. It's rare. Our work is to make it less rare—and we've got our work cut out for us.

But I think the church should also be a place where we can tell the truth—something else that feels all too rare. When the temptation is often to button it up, power through, put on that brave face, avoid the hard stuff, and proclaim, "This is fine," the church can and should be a safe place where we can say, "Actually… this is not fine."

Actually, I'm not okay.
Actually, I'm really struggling.
Actually, I'm just barely holding it together.

And this, in fact, is our theme for the morning. What if it's not fine? And what if we can say that? And what if that's, somehow, good news?

Speaking of barely holding it together, that's the title of our brand-new sermon series for the next three weeks: Holding It Together: Good News for an Anxious Time. It's a series for anyone who's ever woken up at 3 a.m. with a racing mind and couldn't fall back to sleep. It's for anyone who regularly plans for the worst-case scenarios. It's for anyone who's ever left a conversation and feels some vulnerability hangover because you probably said too much, and you wish you could take it all back. It's for anyone who can't bear to turn on the news because everything's a lot.

In so many ways, it feels like we're living in an anxious time. According to the CDC, in 2019, 15.6% of adults in the U.S. reported experiencing anxiety symptoms over a two-week span. In 2022, that number had increased to 18.2%. Young adults were reported to be the most affected.

In a 2024 poll, 43% of U.S. adults reported feeling more anxious than the previous year, compared to 37% in 2023 and 32% in 2022.

And according to the U.S. Census Bureau, the proportion of adults reporting symptoms of anxiety and depression rose from 11% in 2019 to approximately 40% in 2020.

Maybe you know something about this. Maybe you've experienced this, too. And so for the next few weeks, we're going to seek some good news here and ask what our faith has to say about this—not in a quick-fix or flippant or disingenuous sort of way, and not in a "just pray harder" sort of way as if you're the problem—but in a way that feels honest and hopeful, trusting in the God in whom, as Paul writes in Colossians, all things hold together—even as we're trying to hold it together ourselves.

A few disclaimers:

First, I'm a pastor and not a mental health professional. I'm working hard to stay in my lane here, though I have consulted some trusted mental health professionals who've graciously shared their wisdom for this series. I want to be clear that this does not (and should not) replace therapy—which I highly recommend. It's one of the best things I've ever done. I've been seeing my therapist about every other week since 2016, and it's been a game-changer. If you're feeling nudged to take a step in that direction, I'd be happy to share more about my experience and help you get connected.

Second, anxiety is not inherently bad. It can alert us to what matters, signal when something needs our attention, and even sharpen our awareness. But, left unchecked, anxiety can shape our decisions, hijack our thoughts, and keep us stuck. If you've seen Inside Out 2, you know what I mean. And so this series isn't necessarily about getting rid of anxiety but working with it—not letting it drive—so that we can continue to respond to our world with clarity and faith.

The scripture this morning comes to us not as a narrative or letter—but a Psalm. We don't spend a lot of time with the Psalms here on Sunday mornings. We could honestly stand to do so a little more. The book of Psalms is found in the Old Testament or Hebrew Bible, the story of God and God's people prior to Jesus entering our time and space. And while so much of the Bible is about God, the Psalms are written to God. That's what makes them distinct. It's direct speech to God.

I've heard the book of Psalms described as the prayer book of the Bible. It's full of poetry and music and spaciousness. The word Selah , for instance in Hebrew, is simply an instruction to pause. To hold space. To listen deeply. It's built in to the text. It's beautiful.

There are 150 psalms in all, and while authorship of the psalms is largely attributed to King David—the one who, as the story goes, slayed Goliath, was anointed as king, danced naked before the Ark of the Covenant, found himself embroiled in assault, cover-up, and murder, and yet, was still "a man after God's own heart"—while authorship is largely attributed to him, it's very likely that the Psalms are made up of multiple authors.

And what I love about them is that there is no human emotion—no feeling of anger or betrayal or joy or delight or grief or jealousy or bitterness—that isn't encompassed in the psalms. There is nothing you can feel that hasn't already been felt. What I love about the psalms is that in those moments that you can't find the words, there's a good chance they can be found for you in one of the psalms.

You may have some experience with the Psalms. Psalm 23 is probably the most famous:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul… (23:1–3a)

My personal favorite is Psalm 139:

O Lord, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away. You search out my path and my lying down and are acquainted with all my ways. Even before a word is on my tongue, Lord, you know it completely. You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high that I cannot attain it. (139:1–6)_ 

We read Psalm 51 every year on Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, which is coming up. It's a prayer for cleansing and pardon.

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy, blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. (51:1–2)

But what we're looking at today is one of what's called the psalms of lament. We only heard the first eight verses of the psalm this morning, but there are 23 verses in all. Here's how it begins:

Give ear to my prayer, O God; do not hide yourself from my supplication. Attend to me and answer me; I am troubled in my complaint. I am distraught by the noise of the enemy, because of the clamor of the wicked. For they bring trouble upon me, and in anger, they bear a grudge against me. (55:1–3)

We can gather from this opening that the psalmist is deeply troubled. When they ask God not to hide, you get the feeling that God seems far off. That hope feels elusive. And when they write about feeling distraught by the noise of the enemy and the clamor of the wicked—in such a way that feels personal—we get the sense that the psalmist is feeling overwhelmed and bombarded.

We'll discover later in the psalm—beyond what we've read—that the cause of the psalmist's anguish and angst is a sense of betrayal from a close companion. But the feelings here are universal. Maybe you know something about this. Maybe for you, it's the 24-hour news cycle. Maybe it's a sense of disorientation if you've experienced a similar form of betrayal or if you've ever known gaslighting and questioned your reality. Maybe it's those intrusive, unproductive thoughts from deep within that pile on the shame. Or maybe it's something else. But, at least for me, the noise of the enemy and the clamor of the wicked? That hits.

The psalmist continues:

My heart is in anguish within me; the terrors of death have fallen upon me. Fear and trembling come upon me, and horror overwhelms me. (55:4–5)

The psalmist speaks directly of the overwhelm here. It can feel crippling. And now, I love this next part. It feels so relatable.

And I say, "O that I had wings like a dove! I would fly away and be at rest; truly, I would feel far away; I would lodge in the wilderness; Selah I would hurry to find a shelter for myself from the raging wind and tempest." (55:6–8)

I love this. Because the psalmist is basically saying, "I wish I could run away. If I could escape this nonsense—fly away, lodge myself in the wilderness, cut bait, call an Uber and make a break for it, avoid it altogether—I would in a heartbeat."

And here again, the psalmist is naming something we know all too well. When we're overwhelmed or anxious or distraught or disoriented, if we're honest, our impulse is often to do the same. To run in the opposite direction. To try to escape. To avoid what's right in front of us.

I'm right there. It's why I put off sending that one email for so long or making that one call that's been hanging over me. Procrastination is a form of avoidance. But there are other forms of avoidance, too. Hours spent mindlessly scrolling TikTok or Instagram to avoid having to sit with the discomfort of what's unfinished, unknown, or overwhelming. Sometimes, we try to numb our anxiety away with any number of things to avoid naming what's really weighing on us—disappointment, uncertainty, fear.

Maybe we stay busy so we don't have to sit with the ache of unmet expectations. Or we binge another episode or scroll again to keep our minds off that nagging sense of dread. Or we joke instead of admitting we're hurt. That's my go-to. Or we ghost to avoid the hard conversation. You get the idea.

In yesterday's weekly email, I talked about how I've been struggling with Paul's exhortation to not be anxious. Here it is again:

Do not be anxious about anything… (Philippians 4:6)

I wrote about how I wanted to shake Paul by the shoulders and say, "Really?! Don't you know what's going on in my life? Don't you get these notifications, too?" But I intentionally held back the next part of the verse.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. (Philippians 4:6)

In other words, I believe that Paul is saying that instead of letting your anxiety fester, name it. Let it be made known to God. Name it.

It's why I love that Selah there. It's invitation, to pause, to sit with it. To name it. To tell the truth.

So often, there's a sense that if you let yourself feel, you'll get swept away by the tidal wave of that feeling. It'll be all-consuming. But in reality, something different happens. A therapist friend was telling me this week that when we lean into an emotion—when we actually let ourselves feel it—the initial wave of that feeling typically crests within about sixty to ninety seconds. Now, anxiety is complex, and it can certainly persist beyond that, especially when we're dealing with ongoing stressors. But there's something powerful about learning to ride that initial wave instead of running from it.

Psychologists have a term for this practice of naming what we're feeling. They call it affect labeling. It's a fancy way of describing putting our emotions into words. Because when we feel fear or anxiety, the amygdala—which is basically the brain's alarm system—becomes highly active. But when we label an emotion, the prefrontal cortex, which helps us reason, steps in and allows us to put some distance between ourselves and what we're feeling. And yes, sometimes we need that distance to come through Netflix or TikTok or whatever helps us cope in the moment. There's no shame in that. But eventually, we want to work toward naming what's really going on.

In the case of anxiety, in particular, naming it can kick it out of the driver's seat and allow us to begin the work of integration and incorporation with our other feelings. In fact, a 2018 study found that people who used simple words to describe their emotions felt less stress and more emotional clarity overall.

And it strikes me that this is what the psalmist is doing. In his lament, he's naming how he feels. Even in the desire to run away—to escape it all—he's telling the truth. And this is powerful, especially when you consider that he's not just naming it, but he's naming it before God.

I'll be honest. There have been seasons in my life when I've had a hard time with this. For some, naming these sorts of things can feel like weakness or vulnerability. But for me, I've felt the need to protect God or to somehow defend God. There must be a reason. It's probably my fault. If I say what I'm feeling, it can seem like I'm operating from a lack of faith.

But in reality, the opposite is true. When the psalmist names these feelings to God, it's not a lack of faith. It's a deep and abiding faith—a trust that God can take it. That God can handle it. In fact, to simply name it is an honest form of prayer that says, "God, I don't know how to hold it together, but I trust you to hold it and make something of it." It creates an opening.

After all, Jesus didn't say, "Blessed are those who can hold it all together." He said, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." And when his friend Lazarus died, Jesus didn't put on a brave face and power through. Jesus wept. And when the crucifixion neared, and Jesus went to pray in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus offered these words:

Then he said to them, "My soul is deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and stay awake with me." And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed, "My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me, yet not what I want but what you want." (Matthew 26:38–39)

Here, Jesus lays it bare. He names his feelings before God, trusting God with them. And the invitation for us—amidst an anxious time—is to do the same.

Here's my prayer for you:

If you've been carrying it all alone, willing yourself to hold it together, I pray you'd hear the invitation to set it down, even just for a moment.

If you've been running, avoiding, numbing, distracting—afraid that naming it might make it worse—I pray you'd find the courage to stop, to breathe, to trust that God can handle it.

If everything in you wants to say, "This is fine," when you know deep down it's not, I pray you'd know the freedom of telling the truth—that naming what's real is not weakness but an act of faith.

And if you don't know where to start, then start here: You don't have to hold it all together. Because you already are being held.

In the name of the one in whom all things hold together, Amen.