Emotional Meditation—By Micah Siemens
This psalm does not begin calmly. It opens in motion—violent, uncontrollable motion.
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”
Not a distant help. Not a theoretical one. Present. Which matters, because everything else in these verses is falling apart.
“Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea…”
The imagery is cosmic. Creation itself losing its balance. The things we assumed were fixed—gone. That line feels uncomfortably modern. Because fear often isn’t about small things. It’s about the ground shifting under our feet. Plans changing. Certainties dissolving. The sense that the structures we leaned on—internally or externally—can no longer hold our weight. And yet the psalmist says, we will not fear. Not because fear isn’t logical—but because refuge has already been named.
“Though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling.”
There is no denial here. No spiritual bypassing. The roaring is real. The trembling is felt. This is not faith that pretends the storm isn’t loud. It is faith that refuses to let noise have the final word. For someone like me—someone who thinks deeply, feels acutely, and refuses shallow comfort—this opening is honest in the way that matters. God is not introduced after the chaos subsides. He is named inside it. Refuge is not the absence of shaking. It is the presence of shelter while the shaking continues. And perhaps that’s the quiet grace of these verses: they do not promise stability in the world—they promise stability within God. Before stillness comes. Before surrender is asked for. Before the famous words we all know by heart. This psalm begins by meeting us where we already are—when the world will not hold still and neither can we.
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