Introduction
I want to begin this morning with words that many of us recognize—not because they are complicated, but because they are honest. They weren’t written to impress anyone. They weren’t written to explain theology. They were written to be carried.
I’m but a stranger here,
Heaven is my home;
Earth is a desert drear,
Heaven is my home.
Danger and sorrow stand
Round me on every hand;
Heaven is my fatherland,
Heaven is my home.
Some of you grew up with words like these.
Others are hearing them for the first time.
Whether the hymn is familiar or new, most of us recognize the feeling behind it.
Being a stranger.
Not in the sense of being lost—but in the sense of not being fully settled anywhere. As if life keeps moving, but there’s no place where you finally exhale. No moment when everything softens and stays that way. Home carries pressure instead of rest. Bodies don’t cooperate the way they once did. Sickness shows up uninvited. Finances stay tight. Work takes more than it gives back. Marriages strain, or disappoint, or ache with absence. And even when things are “fine,” there’s a low, persistent sense underneath it all that says, Is this really it?
We all know that feeling.
It’s the feeling of living in between. Not broken beyond hope—but not whole either. Not lost—but not home. Still walking. Still carrying weight. Still trying to be faithful in the middle of unfinished circumstances.
That’s why the language of being a stranger resonates so deeply. Not because we dislike this world, but because nothing in it quite holds us the way we hoped it would. No relationship, no achievement, no season of life seems able to bear the full weight of our longing. There is no place where everything finally lines up and stays there.
And beneath that shared experience is something else we all know, whether we name it or not: we are in process.
Our lives are unfinished. Our stories are still unfolding. Our faith is still learning how to breathe under pressure. We are becoming, growing, adjusting—sometimes slowly, sometimes painfully.
The question isn’t whether we’re in process.
The question is why.
Are we in process to become something we are not yet?
Or are we in process because we already are something, and this is what the road looks like?
That distinction matters more than we usually realize.
Most of us live as if we are still auditioning—for stability, for peace, for approval, even for God’s favor. We assume that once we get far enough down the road, once things improve, once we handle life better, then we’ll rest. Then we’ll belong. Then we’ll feel secure.
But what if that assumption is part of what’s exhausting us?
What if the weight we feel isn’t just the length of the road, but the pressure of trying to prove something while we’re walking it?
There is a small collection of psalms in Scripture often called the Songs of Ascents. They were carried by people who were still on the road—travelers heading toward Jerusalem, taking step after step, year after year. These weren’t psalms for people who had arrived. They were for people who were still walking.
And they weren’t written to explain the journey. They were written to steady it.
They functioned less like lectures and more like work songs—words spoken together to help people keep going. Not to deny danger or difficulty, but to remind one another who they were while they walked.
That’s the register we’re going to stay in today.
Not explanation first, but orientation.
Not arrival, but movement.
Not performance, but endurance.
Because the deepest pressure most of us feel isn’t simply that life is hard. It’s the quiet fear that the hardness means something about us—that maybe we’re behind, or lacking, or somehow not measuring up.
And that pressure raises a question we rarely say out loud, but often feel:
Are we walking this road to become someone who finally belongs?
Or are we walking because we already belong—and we’re learning how to live from that?
That question sits at the center of everything that follows.
--- Part 1 — The Road and the Stranger
That feeling of being a stranger is not accidental. Scripture never treats it as a defect or a failure. It treats it as a condition of life lived honestly in a world that is unfinished.
The moment we assume that faith should remove that feeling, we begin to misread our lives. We interpret pressure as punishment. Delay as disfavor. Struggle as evidence that something is wrong with us. But the Bible does not diagnose dislocation as rebellion. Often, it names it as awareness.
You feel like a stranger because you know—deep down—that this world, as good and beautiful as it can be, is not capable of bearing the full weight of your hope. It was never designed to. When we expect it to, the strain shows up everywhere: in our bodies, in our relationships, in our work, in our restlessness.
That is why Scripture gives us language for the road.
There is a small group of psalms—fifteen of them—often called the Songs of Ascents. They sit quietly in the middle of the Psalter, easy to overlook, easy to rush past. But they were never meant to be studied in a hurry. They were meant to be carried.
These were road psalms. Travel psalms. Words shaped by movement. They were sung—or spoken, or repeated—by people going up toward Jerusalem, step after step, year after year. They weren’t written for people standing still. They were written for people who were walking with children, with animals, with supplies, with aging bodies, with uncertainty, with memory, with hope.
They don’t deny danger. They don’t pretend the road is easy. They don’t promise quick arrival. What they do, over and over again, is remind people who they are while the journey continues.
That matters, because movement has a way of eroding identity. When you’re always on the road—always adjusting, adapting, enduring—you start to wonder what all of it is for. You start to wonder whether the road itself is a test.
One of the shortest of these psalms, Psalm 131, names the temptation clearly—not by arguing against it, but by refusing to participate in it.
The psalmist says his heart is not haughty, his eyes not lifted too high. He is no longer preoccupied with great matters or things too wonderful for him. That isn’t anti-intellectualism. It’s a declaration of release. He has stepped away from the exhausting project of trying to secure his place through comparison, mastery, or control.
And then he uses one of the most tender images in Scripture:
“I have calmed and quieted my soul,
like a weaned child with its mother.”
A weaned child is not frantic, but neither is the child self-sufficient. The child is no longer grasping, no longer demanding proof that care will come. The relationship has been settled. The child rests, not because every question has been answered, but because belonging is no longer in doubt.
That image is crucial.
The psalmist does not say the road has ended. He does not say the threats are gone. He does not say life has become predictable. He says his soul is quiet.
That quiet is not circumstantial.
It is relational.
And once that is named, the psalmist turns outward: “O Israel, hope in the Lord.” What has become true for one is offered to the whole community. This is not private spirituality. It is shared orientation.
That’s what these psalms do. They don’t remove people from the road. They change how people walk it.
The Songs of Ascents function less like instructions and more like work songs. They give rhythm to tired feet. They give language to people who don’t have the energy to explain themselves anymore. They say, in effect, You’re not wrong for feeling this way. You’re not alone. And you’re not forgotten.
That’s important, because the danger on the road is not just exhaustion. It’s misinterpretation.
When life is hard, we instinctively ask what it means. And very often, we decide it means something about us—that we’re failing, lagging behind, not doing enough, not measuring up. We turn the road into evidence. We turn process into a verdict.
But Psalm 131 quietly dismantles that logic. It suggests that maturity does not look like constant striving. Sometimes it looks like surrender. Sometimes faith looks like knowing when to stop trying to manage what cannot be managed.
And that reframes the whole journey.
Because if you believe you are walking in order to earn belonging, then every stumble feels fatal. Every delay feels suspicious. Every hardship feels like disqualification.
But if you believe you are walking because you already belong, then the road—even with all its difficulty—no longer threatens your identity.
It becomes what it always was: a place to learn trust.
That’s the posture the Songs of Ascents invite us into. Not denial. Not escape. But a settledness that allows us to keep going without constantly asking whether we’re still accepted.
And that brings us to the deeper pressure we haven’t named yet—the voice that turns every hardship into a question mark over who we are.
That voice will have its say next.
--- Part 2 — The Accusation
Every road has a voice that follows it.
Not an audible one—but a persistent, interpretive voice that keeps asking what the journey means. And if we’re not careful, that voice begins to define us.
When life presses in, we don’t just feel tired—we start to evaluate ourselves. We begin to read circumstances as commentary. We assume that what is happening around us must be saying something about who we are and where we stand with God.
If the road is smooth, we feel affirmed.
If it’s rough, we grow uneasy.
If prayers seem unanswered, we quietly wonder whether we’ve missed something.
That’s how pressure becomes accusation.
And Scripture names that voice with unsettling clarity in the temptation of Jesus.
Jesus has just heard the defining word spoken over Him: “You are my beloved Son.” No conditions. No caveats. No probation period. Identity is settled before ministry begins.
And immediately, the voice comes.
“If you are the Son of God…”
Notice what is happening. The temptation is not first about hunger, or power, or spectacle. It is about identity. It questions what has already been spoken. It suggests that sonship still needs verification.
If you are… then you should do something.
Turn stones to bread.
Force God’s hand.
Take control.
In other words: prove it.
That same accusation follows believers every day, though it rarely sounds dramatic.
It sounds reasonable.
Familiar. Practical.
If you were really God’s child, you wouldn’t still be struggling like this.
If God were truly for you, this wouldn’t keep happening.
If your faith were real, your life would look different by now.
Those thoughts don’t announce themselves as temptation. They present themselves as logic.
And once we accept them, everything becomes an audition.
Prayer becomes leverage.
Obedience becomes proof.
Endurance becomes evidence.
Suffering becomes suspicion.
We stop walking the road and start defending ourselves on it.
That’s why this accusation is so exhausting. It doesn’t deny faith. It burdens it. It turns the journey into a trial where the verdict is always pending.
And Jesus refuses it.
He does not perform to validate His identity. He does not rush to demonstrate power. He does not turn relationship into spectacle. He remains anchored in what has already been spoken.
That refusal is not passivity. It is trust.
Jesus shows us that the deepest freedom is not found in controlling outcomes, but in refusing to let identity be renegotiated by circumstances.
And that matters because most of us don’t struggle with blatant unbelief. We struggle with conditional belonging. We live as if acceptance is always just ahead of us—waiting on improvement, resolution, or explanation.
The road becomes heavy not just because it is long, but because we are carrying the fear that it might be telling a story about us we don’t want to hear.
The Songs of Ascents quietly stand against that fear. They do not say, “Explain yourself.” They say, “Lift your eyes.” They do not say, “Prove your worth.” They say, “Remember who keeps you.”
But the accusation persists, because it feels urgent. It demands action. It insists that faith must always be demonstrable.
And that’s where so many believers burn out—not from rebellion, but from trying too hard to secure what was already given.
If belonging must be proven, rest is impossible.
Which is why Scripture does not answer the accusation with argument. It answers it with trust. With stillness. With a refusal to play the game.
And that prepares us for another voice in the Songs of Ascents—a voice that does not silence the road, but changes how it is traveled. A voice that does not promise arrival, but promises keeping.
That voice meets us not with demands, but with assurance.
And once you hear it, the accusation begins to lose its power.
--- Part 3 — The Keeper
There is a voice that answers the accusation—not by arguing with it, but by outlasting it.
It appears quietly in another of the Songs of Ascents, Psalm 121. And what it offers is not explanation, not strategy, not control—but keeping.
The psalm begins with a question that every traveler eventually asks:
“I lift up my eyes to the hills—
from where does my help come?”
That question matters because it assumes vulnerability. It does not pretend self-sufficiency. It does not deny fatigue. It admits that the road has reached a point where the traveler knows they cannot carry themselves the rest of the way.
And the answer that follows is not a plan. It is a presence.
“My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.”
The psalm does not say the Lord will remove the road. It does not say the hills will flatten. It does not promise ease. It promises attention.
“He will not let your foot be moved;
He who keeps you will not slumber.”
That word—keep—is repeated again and again. Not as poetry for poetry’s sake, but as reassurance for people who need to hear the same truth more than once.
The Lord is your keeper.
He does not sleep.
He does not look away.
He does not lose track.
This is not the language of outcomes.
It is the language of companionship.
And that distinction matters.
Because most of our anxiety comes from imagining that God’s role is to manage results. We assume that if He is truly for us, He will make the road shorter, smoother, clearer. When that doesn’t happen, we begin to wonder whether His care has lapsed.
Psalm 121 refuses that framework.
God is not portrayed as the one who guarantees success. He is portrayed as the one who guards the walking itself.
“The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in
from this time forth and forevermore.”
That’s not a promise of arrival.
That’s a promise of presence.
And it speaks directly to the accusation we named earlier.
Because when life demands proof—prove who you are, prove that God is for you—Psalm 121 answers by shifting the question entirely. It does not ask whether you are strong enough. It asks whether God is attentive.
And the answer is yes.
This is where the Songs of Ascents do their deepest work. They do not help people achieve confidence. They help people release it. They invite travelers to stop trying to carry their own legitimacy and to entrust themselves instead.
That’s why these psalms were sung on the road. Not because people felt victorious, but because they felt small. Not because they were certain, but because they were tired.
And this is where the voice of another hymn begins to sound—not as sentiment, but as settled faith.
I know not why God’s wondrous grace
to me hath been made known…
Notice what the singer does not claim to understand. There is no explanation offered for grace. No attempt to justify why it came, or how it took root, or why it stayed.
The singer simply refuses the need to explain.
But I know whom I have believed,
and He is able…
That is not certainty about circumstances.
That is certainty about custody.
What I have committed unto Him,
He will keep.
That word again. Keep.
This is not the sound of a faith that has solved everything. It is the sound of a faith that has stopped trying to prove itself. It is the voice of someone who has stepped out of the courtroom and back onto the road—no longer defending their identity, but entrusting their life.
And that changes how everything else feels.
When you know you are being kept, the road does not disappear—but it no longer threatens who you are. Pressure does not revoke belonging. Sickness does not silence the voice that named you. Delay does not mean disqualification.
You may still feel like a stranger here.
You may still be in process.
You may still be waiting.
But you are not unclaimed.
You are not on probation.
You are not being tolerated until you improve.
You are being kept.
And that is enough to keep walking.
The Songs of Ascents never promise that the journey will be short. What they promise—over and over again—is that the journey will not be walked alone. They give voice to a people who know they belong, even when nothing around them feels settled.
Which means the road, as hard as it can be, becomes something else entirely.
Not a test to pass.
Not a performance to manage.
But a place where trust is learned—slowly, imperfectly, honestly.
And when trust replaces proof, the accusation begins to fade.
Because the one who keeps you
does not require you to prove
what He has already claimed.
--- Conclusion — Walking Because You Belong
We began this morning with the language of being a stranger—not because it is poetic, but because it is honest.
Most of us live with pressure that never quite lets up. Pressure at home. Pressure in our bodies. Pressure in our finances, our work, our relationships. Even when things are stable, there is often no place where we fully rest. No place where life finally settles and stays that way.
So we walk. We keep going. We adjust. We endure.
And somewhere along the road, a quiet question begins to form: What does all of this say about me?
That question is where the pressure deepens. Because when life is hard, we instinctively assume it must be meaningful. We assume the road itself is evaluating us. That struggle is commentary. That delay is a verdict. That difficulty is evidence.
And into that space comes the accusation—sometimes loud, sometimes subtle, but always familiar:
Prove it.
Prove your faith.
Prove your worth.
Prove that you belong.
Prove that God is really for you.
That was the accusation spoken to Jesus: “If you are the Son of God…”
And it is the accusation whispered to believers every day.
And Jesus refuses it.
He does not perform to validate His identity. He does not rush to demonstrate power. He does not renegotiate what has already been spoken over Him. He rests inside the truth that He is already named, already loved, already held.
That refusal is not weakness.
It is sonship at rest.
And Scripture invites us into the same posture.
The Songs of Ascents were never meant to turn the road into a test. They were given to people who were already on the move—people still walking, still carrying, still hoping. Not to explain the journey, but to steady them inside it.
They remind us that faith is not proven at the destination.
It is carried on the road.
Psalm 131 shows us what maturity looks like when striving gives way to trust—a soul quieted like a weaned child, no longer grasping, no longer demanding proof, resting inside a settled relationship.
Psalm 121 lifts our eyes—not to outcomes, but to the One who keeps us. Not to success, but to presence. Not to arrival, but to companionship.
The Lord does not sleep.
The Lord does not lose track.
The Lord keeps your going out and your coming in.
And then, quietly, another voice joins the chorus—a voice that does not explain grace, but entrusts itself to it:
I know whom I have believed.
Not I know why.
Not I know how.
Not I know what I’ve accomplished.
Just: I know whom.
And you are allowed to say those words.
You don’t have to have a polished testimony.
You don’t have to understand why grace reached you.
You don’t have to justify why faith took root when it did.
You don’t have to explain why the road has been so long.
The words are already there.
You can say:
What I have entrusted to Him, He is able to keep.
That is not the sound of someone who has arrived.
It is the sound of someone who has stopped trying to prove themselves.
And that is where rest begins.
Not because the road ends.
Not because everything resolves.
But because belonging is no longer in question.
We are not walking this road to earn our place.
We are not in process to become someone God might one day accept.
We are walking because we already belong.
We are in process because we are already claimed.
And when that order is restored, the road changes. It does not disappear—but it no longer threatens who we are. Pressure no longer revokes identity. Struggle no longer signals rejection. Delay no longer means disqualification.
You may still feel like a stranger here.
You may still be waiting.
You may still be unfinished.
But you are not unclaimed.
You are not on probation.
You are not being tolerated until you improve.
You are being kept.
And that is enough to keep walking.
So we sing—not because the road is easy, but because we know where we belong. We carry words that steady us, not words that test us. We lift our eyes, not to prove anything, but to remember who holds us.
We do not walk toward belonging.
We walk because we belong.
And the One who claimed you at the beginning
will keep you—
all the way—
to the end.
