Psalm 139 is a Psalm that I have frequently visited in my short life as a Christian. Early on, this Psalm led me to develop a healthy fear of the sovereign, omniscient God. A God who has searched me and known me (v. 1). A God who knows all my comings and goings. A God who is acquainted with all my ways (v. 3).
The application of this Psalm for me, then, was to flee from my sin because even my darkest deeds or thoughts were not hidden from the all-seeing, all-knowing God of the Scriptures. The reality of God’s knowledge of me helped me forsake sin and fight temptation. How could I sin against a God who knew so extensively all I would ever do, even the things hidden from the eyes of others? Why would I say those things when my God knew every single syllable that was uttered from my lips? Why would I think the things I think when even my mind’s ponderings and presumptions are cast before God?
This application is good for the Christian. We need an awareness of God’s knowledge of us to help us flee from our sin and to fight the battle against our flesh. But there’s more to this Psalm, and the application of fleeing from sin comes with hopeful promises to the believer.
His knowledge of us cannot be separated from His presence with us. Our God knows us, yet He is with us. The war that we are waging with sin and temptation is not a fight that we are committed to on our own. God is with us in the fight. Where shall we go from His Spirit? (v. 7) In our best moments, He is there. In our worst moments, He is there. “If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!” (v. 8)
This combination of knowledge and presence makes the Cross of Christ such a riveting moment in the history of mankind. Our Savior saw all the grievous ways that are in us and the ones that we have yet to commit, and that knowledge only moved Him more fervently to Calvary. We have a God that sees and knows us at our best and worst, and we have a God that is with us in our best and worst.
John Bunyan, the 17th-century English pastor, writes about our knowledge of Christ’s love and the lengths to which He went to redeem us in his work, All Loves Excelling: The Saints' Knowledge of Christ's Love. Bunyan writes:
“All the while that He (Christ) was in the world, putting Himself up on those other preparations which were to be antecedent to His being made a sacrifice for us, no man, though he told what he came about to many, had, as we read of, a heart once to thank Him for what He came about. No, they railed on Him, they degraded Him, they called Him devil, they said He was mad, and a deceiver, a blasphemer of God, and a rebel against the state: They accused Him to the governor; yea, one of His disciples sold Him, another denied Him, and they all forsook Him, and left Him to shift for Himself in the hands of His horrible enemies; who beat Him with their fists, spat on Him, mocked Him, crowned Him with thorns, scourged Him, made a gazing stock of Him, and finally, hanged Him up by the hands and feet alive, and gave Him vinegar to increase His affliction, when He complained that His anguish had made Him thirsty. And yet all this could not take His heart off the work of redemption. To die He came, die He would, and die He did before He made His return to the Father, for our sins, that we might live through Him.”
Several years ago, my son was struggling to fall asleep because he was afraid of the dark and did not want to be alone. We had been working through The Baptist Catechism for Children with him. I asked him question 11 of this catechism as he struggled with his fear. Question 11 asks, “Can you see God?” We recited the answer together: “No, I cannot see God, but He always sees me.”
Though my son’s earthly father was not going to be in the room with him as he tried to sleep, his Father in heaven watched over him with eyes that never blinked or waned in their vision. His presence should be comforting to our weary or worried hearts. “Such knowledge is too wonderful for me.” (v. 6)
Like my son, the knowledge of God's omniscience and omnipresence—no matter where we are or what we have done—provides rest and peace despite our circumstances.
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