Big Buts of the Bible

Read Psalm 18:1–19

“I love you, LORD, my strength.”

What a beautiful way to begin a song.

Psalm 18 is David’s celebration of deliverance. The long years of running, hiding, fearing for his life, and wondering what Saul might do next were finally behind him. God had delivered him.

And David’s first response was not simply gratitude. It was love.

“I love you, LORD.”

Psalm 18 closely parallels the song recorded in 2 Samuel 22, but that opening declaration is distinctive here. And I love what it adds. David has experienced the faithfulness of God personally, and God’s faithfulness has moved David’s faith toward affection.

This isn’t merely I believe in You. It’s I love You.

Then David begins piling up descriptions:

“The LORD is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer;
my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge,
my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.”

I’ve always loved those words: my Rock, my Fortress, my Deliverer.

As a young believer, I had a pastor who always close our congregational prayers of confession with those words. They lodged themselves somewhere deep in my heart. What a wonderful reminder when we are broken: this is the One to whom we are crying.

Not merely a rock. My Rock.

Not merely a fortress. My Fortress.

Not merely a deliverer. My Deliverer.

Show Me, David

Then the writer in me really begins to appreciate this psalm.  Writers are forever being told: Show, don’t tell.

David could simply have written, Things got really bad.

Instead we read:

“The cords of death entangled me;
the torrents of destruction overwhelmed me.
The cords of the grave coiled around me;
the snares of death confronted me.”

You can almost feel the ropes tightening. You can hear the water rushing. You can sense the trap closing. David doesn’t merely tell us he was afraid. He shows us what fear and danger felt like.

Maybe you’ve known something of that feeling. Not Saul chasing you through the wilderness, perhaps, but circumstances tightening around you. Trouble arriving faster than you can process it. Grief. Fear. Uncertainty. A situation you cannot fix. A darkness you cannot seem to outrun.

David felt surrounded. So he cried out.

“In my distress I called to the LORD;
I cried to my God for help.”

And then David does something wonderful. He turns his show, don’t tell storytelling toward God.

God Moves

The earth trembles. The foundations of the mountains shake. Smoke rises. Fire comes from His mouth.

God parts the heavens and comes down. Dark clouds gather beneath His feet. He mounts the cherubim and flies. His voice thunders from heaven. Lightning scatters the enemy. The valleys of the sea are exposed.

It is magnificent imagery.

David could simply have said, God helped me.

Instead, he describes the God of heaven and earth responding to the cry of one frightened man as though all creation has been summoned into action.

And then comes one of my favorite pictures:

“He reached down from on high and took hold of me;
he drew me out of deep waters.”

The God who shakes mountains reaches down.

The God whose voice thunders takes hold of David.

The Almighty becomes wonderfully personal again. My Rock. My Fortress. My Deliverer.

And finally we arrive at the big but.

But the Lord

David remembers:

“They confronted me in the day of my disaster,
but the LORD was my support.
He brought me out into a spacious place;
he rescued me because he delighted in me.”

There it is.

The cords were real. The torrents were real. The enemies were real. The danger was real.

But the Lord was my support.

Notice that the but doesn’t pretend the trouble wasn’t there. Biblical hope rarely does that. Grace doesn’t require us to minimize what hurts, deny what frightens us, or pretend we’re stronger than we are.

David had been overwhelmed. But the Lord.

And perhaps the most wonder-filled words come last:

“He rescued me because he delighted in me.”

Think about that for a moment.

The God who shakes the earth, parts the heavens, rides upon the wind, thunders from heaven, and reaches into deep waters delights in His own.

No wonder David begins where he does: “I love you, LORD.”

Sometimes worship begins with remembering. Remembering the deep waters. Remembering the cry. 

Remembering the hand that reached down. Remembering the Rock who held when everything else moved beneath our feet.

And remembering that somewhere in the middle of our story—between the danger that surrounds us and the deliverance we cannot yet see—there remains a glorious, hope-filled: But the LORD.

That is reason enough for wonder. Reason enough for awe. And reason enough to say with David:

“I love you, LORD, my strength.”