“Summer in the Psalms.” At the beginning of this sermon
series, Rev. Chris Henry encouraged us to claim these
prayers within the Bible as our prayers, and to consider
writing down or memorizing a few lines that might
become roots, a way of planting ourselves near living
water in the ordinary rhythms of our days. It is not too
late to accept that invitation, and today’s reading of
Psalm 121 is a perfect opportunity to do so.
“I lift up my eyes to the hills—from where will my
help come?”
“My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven
and earth.”
Simple words. Powerful truth. Deep roots.
This ‘song of ascent’ was sung centuries ago by
pilgrims as they began a journey up to Jerusalem, up
to the Temple. And it has been used by people of faith
throughout the centuries on journeys of all kinds. I know
of a family who will read this psalm anytime they leave
for a road trip. Jewish families sometimes display Psalm
121 in the delivery room or in a young child’s bedroom.
Our lives are filled with journeys, with comings and
goings, and this psalm gives us the language to call on
God’s protection and care.
I remember it like it was yesterday: Melrose, Scotland.
I was with two dear friends and traveling companions
as we embarked on a pilgrimage of our own. It was all
planned out: we’d be walking about 60 miles over the
course of 5 days. Our bags were packed, our hiking
boots were laced, our poles extended and at the ready,
nothing left but to take the first step—or climb the first
step, rather. As we lifted our eyes to the beginning of our
journey, we were met with a winding series of narrow
steps that climbed up, and up, and up—and beyond
that, towering hills. Melrose was in a valley, and the only
way out was up.
I lifted my eyes to the hills—and I would love to be able
to tell you that the words of Psalm 121 instinctively
flowed through my heart and across my lips. That’s not
what happened. It was something much more…colorful,
let’s say, that shall not be repeated from this pulpit.
And then we began to climb.
I really could have used these words as I hovered on the
cusp of that first step, wondering, can I do this? Will we
make it? What might go wrong on the way?
For the ancient Israelites journeying to Jerusalem, the
answer to that question—what might go wrong on the
way?—was “a lot.” Depending on the starting point,
the journey to Jerusalem took as many as several days
on foot through rugged terrain. Hebrew Bible scholar
Bobby Morris reminds us that “travel for the ancients
was at best difficult and commonly dangerous. The
availability of water would have been a constant
concern, especially in the hot dry summers when the
sun mercilessly beats down…and the danger of bandits
could never be ruled out, as the parable of the good
Samaritan later bears witness.”
Physical exertion and exhaustion…a limited and shifting
food and water supply…uncertainty around braving the
elements and finding adequate shelter…We lose some of
this context in our world today. For many of us at the start
of a journey, our worries are not as fundamental as will
we be able to find water? or how will we protect ourselves
from wild animals? (When my husband and I drove to
southern Indiana earlier this summer to drop our kids
Rev. Madison M. VanVeelen
AssociAte PAstor of cAre
Psalm 121 July 12, 2026
7700 North Meridian Street • Indianapolis, Indiana 46260 • SecondChurch.org • (317) 253-6461off for a week at camp, we borrowed my father-in-law’s
electric vehicle for the drive and our biggest worry was
finding a place to charge the car on the way back!)
The psalmist could have never imagined a world with
electric vehicles, but the truth in this psalm is deeper
than these differences of context. Our lives are filled
with journeys. Sometimes of the miles—an exciting
road trip or an ambitious hike. We go through major life
transitions: graduations and first jobs, new opportunities
and perhaps a sudden job loss or a change of
circumstances. We go on journeys of relationship and
belonging, navigating closeness and distance within
marriage or as a sibling, child, or parent. Many of you
have been on journeys of infertility, cancer, or chronic
illness—you’re not bracing for bandits and wild animals
but for scans and test results. We embark on journeys
of understanding, struggling to bridge the distance
between ourselves and those who lives and viewpoints
seem worlds away.
Sometimes the challenges we encounter are expected.
And then there are the surprises. Hiking up and out of
Melrose, I was so daunted by the enormity of those hills.
My heartrate was elevated and I had a sinking feeling
in the pit of my stomach—there were the hills that I
could see, but what about those that I couldn’t yet see?
How many more were lurking in the distance? Of course,
what goes up must come down, and I was humbled to
quickly learn that I had been fearing the wrong thing
all along. Uphill was hard, but it was the downhill that
wreaked havoc on my knees. In a strange way, I began
to enjoy the predictable challenge of climbing up – and
was much more cautious, and much less cavalier, about
going down.
I wonder what journey you are on now, or what journey
you might be preparing to begin? What journeys
have you eagerly embraced? What hills have you
encountered? Where have you been humbled or gained
wisdom? What roads have you traveled that you never
would have willingly walked down?
This psalm makes that powerful claim that whenever
we face a journey, whenever we lift our eyes and ask,
“where will my help come from?”—the answer is as
close as our next breath: “My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.”
The rest of the psalm is both a blessing and a vivid
portrayal of just who this God is.
The Lord is your keeper: the One who safeguards,
protects, and provides. Near and vigilant enough to
steady our steps; faithful and powerful enough to keep
watch in the night without rest. A divine presence, not
far away but right at your side, providing shade from
the elements. The relief that we feel in stepping out of
the sun’s rays on a blazing hot day—that’s what God’s
shelter feels like! God’s care extends from the tips of
our toes, across the surface of our skin, and by the end
of the psalm, encompasses the whole of our lives. “The
Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from
this time on and forevermore.”
This is good news for anyone starting or on the midst of
a journey, whether a journey of the miles, of the body, or
the head or the heart.
But there is a danger here. I’d be willing to bet that
a number of you have sprained an ankle before. I’m
certain that many of us have been sunburned more
times than we can count. If we turn the poetic language
of this prayer into a literal guarantee against all harm,
we will end up disappointed, and even worse, we’ll miss
the point. This psalm isn’t meant to give us illusions of
invincibility, but rather to tell us who God is. In our human
experience, we know that the character of a parent is to
protect and care for their child. That is who a parent is.
When a child scrapes their knee, which they inevitably
will, and worse—that doesn’t diminish the identity of the
parent. The parent is one who loves and protects.
It’s an imperfect metaphor, to be sure. We must be very
careful about comparing our imperfect human love and
action to the enormous and unfathomable love and
character of God. But I don’t think that the psalmist
means to deceive us and say that we will never suffer.
The psalmist means to encourage us, assuring us that
when we are in need of help, the same God who made
the heavens and the earth is at our side, and will never
leave or forsake us.
LIFT UP YOUR EYES
7700 North Meridian Street • Indianapolis, Indiana 46260 • SecondChurch.org • (317) 253-6461The deep truth of this psalm is never more apparent to
me than when I’m at the bedside of someone who is
dying. These are often the words that I reach for. And it is
in these hard and holy moments when all is decidedly not
well, when the most unfathomable journey of all looms
near, that the words of Psalm 121 ring deep and true:
“God will not let your foot be moved.
The one who keeps you will neither slumber nor sleep.
The Lord is your keeper;
the Lord is your shade at your right hand…
The Lord will keep you from all evil…
The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in
from this time on and forevermore.”
In these hard and holy moments our vision becomes
clear: This psalm was never about our bodily security,
or our changing aches and pains. It’s about the God to
whom we belong in life and in death, who accompanies
us on each and every journey.
This God spoke through the prophet Isaiah: “When you
pass through the waters—I will be with you.”
Of this God, the psalmist prayed: “If I go to the heavens,
you are there. If I make my bed in the depths, you are
there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the
far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.”
Jesus, speaking of his own death on the cross, said to
his friends and followers, “I am leaving you…But I will
come again and will take you to myself, so that where I
am, there you may be also.”
In Jesus Christ, the Lord who made heaven and earth
lived and walked among us, and died and rose again—so
that where he is, there we may be also.
Yes, God is our help! The invitation here is not to see
our lives as supernaturally shielded, but as securely held
in God’s care—on the small and ordinary journeys, the
long and challenging, the surprising and delightful—and
on the grand journey that encompasses the whole of our
lives. “I lift up my eyes to the hills—from where will my
help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made
heaven and earth.”
God is our help.
One of the gifts of this psalm is that when we find
ourselves taking in the hills and grasping for help—
it reminds us where to look. A couple of Sundays
ago, Rev. Audrey Thorne invited us to think of God’s
presence as a candle in the corner of the room—always
there, and yet something that goes in and out of
our awareness. Something that we would do well to
remember and to notice.
“From where will my help come? My help comes from
the Lord.”
There it is! The candle. Perhaps this is why the psalmist
asks and answers his own question. It’s not that he
didn’t know the answer; he needed to remember it, to
rehearse it, to speak it out loud as a source of courage
and inspiration for the journey ahead.
When we remember that God is our help, we are more
likely to call upon the resources and commitments of
our faith when faced with difficult journeys or situations.
Imagine: I’m faced with a complex ethical dilemma…
”my help comes from the Lord!” What would it look like
to be guided by the justice and compassion of Jesus in
this situation?
Imagine, I’m making decisions about how to use my time
and resources…”my help comes from the Lord!” How do I
faithfully use these gifts for the good of God’s kingdom?
Imagine, my health and abilities are changing…”My help
comes from the Lord!” How can I see even this part of my
life’s journey as held in God’s care?
“I lift my eyes up to the hills—from where will my help
come?” Say it with me: “My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.”
So take this prayer. Claim it as your own. Use these
words to call upon what you already know to be true—
and be strengthened and encouraged for whatever the
road ahead might bring.
Friends, lift up your eyes. Remember. And walk. Amen.