574_The deep longing of a pilgrim (Psalm 120)
Psalm 120 In my distress I called to the Lord,
and he answered me.
2 Deliver me, O Lord,
from lying lips,
from a deceitful tongue.
3 What shall be given to you,
and what more shall be done to you,
you deceitful tongue?
4 A warrior’s sharp arrows,
with glowing coals of the broom tree!
5 Woe to me, that I sojourn in Meshech,
that I dwell among the tents of Kedar!
6 Too long have I had my dwelling
among those who hate peace.
7 I am for peace,
but when I speak, they are for war!
A humanitarian worker once told the story of a 9-year-old Syrian refugee who arrived at a border crossing after walking for days through dangerous terrain. The boy was exhausted, blistered, and carrying only a small backpack. When he finally stepped onto safe ground, he asked, “Is this where peace starts?”
He didn’t know the language, the culture, or what lay ahead. All he knew was that he was walking away from war and toward something he longed for but had never fully experienced—peace.
That is the spirit of Psalm 120—the ache that pulls a pilgrim forward. It is the first of the fifteen “Songs of Ascents,” the sacred playlist of those who journeyed to Jerusalem for the great feasts of Passover, Pentecost, and Tabernacles. Three times a year, Israelites from every direction—villages, deserts, coasts, and far-flung regions—would climb the winding paths toward the holy city. As the elevation rose, so did their hearts. They sang these psalms not simply as tradition, but as a declaration of hope, desire, and longing for the presence of God.
And the journey begins with a cry.
“In my distress I called to the Lord,
and He answered me.”
The pilgrim does not start with celebration; he starts with desperation. Before he ascends, he acknowledges the valley he has come from. Before his feet climb the mountain, his heart rises in prayer. This is a testimony to the God who hears—“O You who hear prayer, to You shall all flesh come” (Psalm 65:2). The journey toward God always begins with the recognition that we need Him.
The psalmist’s distress is specific:
“Deliver me, O Lord, from lying lips,
from a deceitful tongue.”
There is no wound quite like the wound caused by deceit. Words, when twisted, can pierce the soul, distort reputation, and break trust. Sometimes the deepest valleys in our lives are carved not by circumstances, but by conversations—whispered accusations, hidden agendas, or subtle distortions that are meant to injure.
Scripture is painfully realistic about this kind of suffering. In Psalm 52, David tells of Doeg the Edomite, a man whose half-truths brought about the massacre of innocent priests. David describes Doeg’s tongue as a “sharp razor”—cutting, deliberate, and destructive. What made the tragedy even heavier was that Doeg was himself in the house of God when he betrayed others. Proximity to holy things does not make a holy heart.
David, however, describes himself as a “green olive tree in the house of God”—rooted, fruitful, and steady. When given chances to strike back at Saul, he refused. He would not repay evil with evil. He chose integrity over impulse and trust over retaliation.
Psalm 120 tells us plainly: God does not overlook the violence done with words. “What shall be given to you, O deceitful tongue? A warrior’s sharp arrows, with glowing coals of the broom tree!” These are images of divine judgment—reminders that God will ultimately defend the innocent and bring justice where human justice fails.
But the psalmist’s burden is not only deceit—it is the heaviness of living among people who hate peace.
“Woe to me, that I sojourn in Meshech,
that I dwell among the tents of Kedar!
Too long have I had my dwelling
among those who hate peace.
I am for peace, but when I speak, they are for war!”
Meshech and Kedar were far-off, harsh, foreign places—symbols of life lived far from the atmosphere of God’s people. One was known for barbaric tribes; the other, for nomadic warriors of the desert. To say “I live among Meshech and Kedar” was to say, “I am surrounded by people who do not share my values, my faith, or my longing for God’s peace.”
Many of us know this feeling well. You might work in an environment where gossip travels faster than truth. You might be in a family where conflict is normal and peace is rare. You may live in a culture where aggression is rewarded, and gentleness is dismissed as weakness. You may feel, like the psalmist, that you speak peace but others respond with hostility.
This ache—this longing for something better—is not a flaw. It is the mark of a pilgrim heart.
For this pilgrim is not merely walking away from trouble; he is walking toward peace. He is climbing to Jerusalem, the city whose very name means “foundation of peace.” It was there that sacrifices were offered and sins were forgiven, where the people gathered in unity to worship the God who dwelled among them. The closer the pilgrim came to the city, the more his burdens began to lift.
The Christian journey mirrors this ascent. We, too, walk toward the One who is our peace. Romans 5:1 declares: “Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” Peace with God is not a feeling—it is a reality anchored in the finished work of Christ. And from that peace flows the ability to withstand hostility without becoming hostile, to endure deceit without losing integrity, to walk through conflict without letting it define us.
But the beauty of Psalm 120 is that it does not pretend the journey is easy. The psalmist is not yet in Jerusalem. He is still surrounded by those who hate peace. His longing is still unfulfilled. But he has taken the most important step: he has started moving.
And maybe that is what God is asking of us too.
Perhaps today you feel like you’re living in Meshech—far from where you want to be spiritually, emotionally, or relationally. Or maybe you feel like you’re dwelling in Kedar—surrounded by conflict, pulled in by pressures you didn’t choose. You may feel worn down by people who misunderstand you, discouraged by conversations that wound, or weary of trying to bring peace into places that seem addicted to drama.
But Psalm 120 reminds you: you do not have to stay there. You can begin the ascent. You can lift your eyes to the God who hears your distress. You can take one step—not toward escape, but toward His presence.
The pilgrimage of faith is not about perfect circumstances; it is about persistent direction. The ache inside you—the longing for peace, truth, and God Himself—is a holy ache. It is the very thing that keeps you moving.
So how do we live this out?
We begin by bringing our distress honestly to God, just as the psalmist did. Prayer is not the last resort of the defeated—it is the first step of the pilgrim. Then we choose integrity, refusing to allow the deceit of others to shape our responses. We guard our words and our hearts. We pursue peace even when others pursue conflict. And we surround ourselves with the songs of ascent—with Scripture, worship, and the fellowship of God’s people—to keep our hearts aligned with the path.
The world around you may be noisy and combative, but Christ walks with you. The environment may not change immediately, but the direction of your soul can. And as you keep taking steps, you will discover that longing is not a sign of weakness but a sign of belonging—the longing pulls you toward God, who alone satisfies the pilgrim heart.