A Pastor’s Reflection on Psalms 114 & 115
A People Without Power—but Not Without Presence
They stood there—dust-covered, barefoot, unarmed. A rabble, really. A nation not yet formed. A people not yet free. Just escaped from centuries of backbreaking labor and brutal command.
No banners. No cavalry. No strategy. But they had one thing no empire could touch: God was with them.
There’s a stillness you hear in nature sometimes. It was early one spring morning on the lake, fog still lifting, when not even the birds had started. I sat there, rod in hand, listening to nothing. But somehow I wasn’t alone.
I’ve always believed Psalm 114 and 115 live in that space—the gap between the roar of the Red Sea and the silence that follows when no more waters part, and the waiting begins.
When Creation Saw Its Creator
Psalm 114 doesn’t name Moses. It doesn’t retell Pharaoh’s collapse. It doesn’t even mention the plagues. It just says: creation trembled. The sea ran. The Jordan turned back. The mountains skipped like sheep. Why? Not because of Israel. Because of Israel’s God.
We probably would’ve laughed if we saw it. Slaves pretending to be a nation. Toddlers dragging sandals through sand. Moses with a staff held high. But heaven didn’t laugh. Heaven parted. The sea didn’t see a crowd—it saw a King.
Creation reacts when God moves. And He moved through a crowd of exiles like royalty passing through the streets. The Red Sea had watched Pharaoh’s chariots thunder by for centuries. Never flinched. But one day, God’s presence walked with a people—and the sea ran like a servant late to open the palace gate.
Forty years later, it happened again. The Jordan River, bloated and rushing, fled. No staff this time. No wind. Just priests carrying the ark—and a space cleared wide enough for two million souls. First the Red Sea, then the Jordan: bookends of a God who goes ahead.
But what makes Psalm 114 beautiful is its restraint.
It hides the name of God until the very end, building tension. The poet wants us asking: why does the sea run? Why does the river recoil? Why do the mountains skip? And then, only then: because God was with them.
From Miracles to Mockery: When God Feels Absent
But Psalm 115 crashes in like reality on a Monday morning.
Where is He now? the nations ask. Where is this God of yours?
And the tone shifts. From trembling earth to mocking voices. From miracles to silence. From glory to reproach.
Psalm 115 doesn’t flinch. It replies with steel: Our God is in the heavens. He does whatever pleases Him.
This is the tension every believer knows. There are Red Sea days, and there are desert days. There are times when God is obvious. And there are times when He’s not. But silence is not absence. Stillness is not abdication.
Psalm 115 is not an apology. It is not a defense. It’s a declaration.
Where Is Your God Now?
Then comes the sarcasm—the kind only those who have seen God move can wield. “Their idols,” the psalmist says, “are silver and gold. The work of human hands.” And then, like an unrelenting courtroom cross-examination:
Mouths—but silent. Eyes—but blind. Ears—but deaf. Feet—but unmoving. Hands—but powerless.
They can’t even coo like pigeons. That’s the literal translation. They can’t speak, can’t grunt, can’t hum. Nothing.
You Become What You Worship
And the terrifying truth: those who make them become like them.
You always become what you worship.
If you adore control, you’ll become anxious. If you worship wealth, you’ll become empty. If you idolize comfort, you’ll grow weak. But if you fix your gaze on the living God—even when He’s quiet—you’ll become like Him. Steady. Alive. Enduring.
God Has Not Forgotten You
“The Lord has been mindful of us,” the psalmist says.
Not nostalgic. Not forgetful. Not absent. Mindful.
And that’s when the song rises again—not because everything’s easy. But because God remembers. He blesses. Not just the priests, not just the strong, not just the influencers. He will bless those who fear the Lord—both small and great.
I think about that often. In my little country church, tucked into the hills where cell signal dies and stars still shine, I watch the small and the great kneel together. Farmers. Widows. Children. Old deacons with shaking hands. The blessing isn’t bigger in the city. It isn’t louder under stadium lights. It’s here too. It’s always been.
And here’s the promise: The Lord will increase you more and more—you and your children.
Not just survive. Increase. Not just hang on. Multiply. Not just nostalgia for past revivals, but new work, new fruit, new mercies.
Why? Because He is not a regional deity. Not a forgotten legend. Not a museum piece.
He is the Maker of heaven and earth.
The Living Must Sing
So when people ask, Where is your God now? you can say, He is with us. Still. Even when He’s quiet. Even when we can’t part the river or shake the mountain. Still ours. Still ruling. Still mindful.
Because, the psalmist says, the dead do not praise the Lord.
That’s our job. Ours. The living. The breathing. The broken-but-still-singing.
We will bless the Lord—from this time forth and forevermore.
Even when He’s not obvious.
Even then.
Praise the Lord.
Recommended Resource: If you’re studying the Psalms, you won’t want to miss my in-depth review of The Treasury of David by Charles Spurgeon. This timeless masterpiece unpacks the Psalms with rich theological insight, making it essential for devotion, sermon prep, or deep Bible study. Read the full review here.
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