Known Through and Through: David’s Journey in Psalm 139

Part III

Psalm 139:7 Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence? 8 If I ascend to heaven, You are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, behold, You are there. 9 If I take up the wings of the dawn, if I dwell in the remotest part of the sea, 10 Even there Your hand will lead me, and Your right hand will take hold of me. 11 If I say, “Surely the darkness will overwhelm me, and the light around me will be night,” 12 Even darkness is not dark to You, and the night is as bright as the day. Darkness and light are alike to You....

Facing the Face of God

Before we delve into David’s closing cry, “Search me, O God, and know my heart,” I want to pause and share a change in direction prompted by further meditation on the Psalm this week. While I initially intended to address verses 23 and 24 in this installment, I felt it necessary to slow down and carefully examine the entirety of Psalm 139 leading up to those verses. The depth and richness of the text, particularly the journey David takes in confronting God’s presence and his own humanity, warrant closer attention than a single article can provide.

As such, this Part III will focus on the earlier verses of the Psalm, unpacking the rich interplay between God’s omniscience, omnipresence, and intimate engagement with David’s life. Part IV, which will follow next week, will take us into the heart of David’s prayer in verses 23 and 24. My hope is that this extended reflection will provide a fuller understanding of the psalm’s progression and the transformative encounter it invites us into.

In verses 7–12, David confronts the deeply human impulse to flee—not only from God but also from himself. The Hebrew term for God’s presence, pānîm (face), underscores the intimacy of what is being avoided. This flight is not merely an external act of avoidance; it reflects a significant internal disorientation. In losing sight of who they are, human beings enter into a state of estrangement—not only from God but also from themselves, others, creation, and their purpose within it.

This pattern is woven into the human story, tracing back to Adam and Eve in the garden. Their disobedience did not simply create a breach with God but also fractured their understanding of themselves and their place in the world. What began as shame turned into a reflex to hide, to run from the very One who could restore them. How often, even as children, did we run from our parents when we knew we’d done wrong? We feared not just the consequences but the exposure of our flawed selves. David’s words reveal that this same dynamic persists into adulthood, as we wrestle with the tension between our estrangement and the God who pursues us, even when we are most resistant.

The Four “Ifs”

The four “ifs” in verses 7–8—If I ascend to heaven… If I make my bed in Sheol… If I take the wings of the morning… If I dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea—capture the tension between faith and fear, trust and avoidance. These hypothetical scenarios express a human wrestling with extremes, as if David is testing the boundaries of God’s presence. Psychologically, the “if” signals an internal exploration, a probing of whether God’s love and care truly extend to the furthest reaches of one’s existence—both the heights of joy and the depths of despair.

When David says, “If I ascend to heaven,” he imagines himself reaching the highest point, the place of divine glory. But apart from God, such a feat is impossible. And yet, how often do we try? We strive, we climb, we achieve—believing, somehow, that we can elevate ourselves to a place of significance or transcendence on our own terms. At some point it becomes self-evident that this is a desperate ambition, destined to fail. It is an attempt to prove our worth, to grasp the unattainable, to become more than we are.

Derek Kidner observes that this movement of thought echoes Amos 9:2ff., where God relentlessly pursues fugitives from justice. But David, in contrast, is not pursued as a fugitive—he is embraced by a God whose presence he cannot escape^[1]. Kidner further notes that if no thought of escape had come to mind, David might have simply cried, “What shall separate me from thy Spirit, or drive me from thy presence?”^[2].

Yet the fact that escape does come to mind—this impulse to flee, to test the boundaries of God’s reach—reveals something essential about David’s humanity. Left to himself, David cannot reconcile his estrangement from God, nor can he overcome the internal dissonance that drives him to run.

This wrestling is a mirror of our own: the desperate, often futile attempts to handle our brokenness on our own terms. And yet, it is precisely in this moment of limitation—when David cannot help himself—that God’s inexhaustible grace becomes most evident. God does not wait for David to return or resolve his internal conflict; He meets him in the striving and fleeing, embracing him with a love that refuses to let him go.

Encountering Divine Love

David’s encounter with God’s love can be understood as an interruption of his despair—a moment where the infinite breaks into the finite. Divine love in this context is experienced as an embodied reality that transforms David’s perception of himself and of God. It is not merely conceptual but lived, tangible, and disruptive, reshaping the way he understands his existence.

This transformation is only possible through the inwrought work of the Spirit, who makes God’s love a present and active reality. David’s lived experience testifies to this truth. In this psalm, he acknowledges an impulse to flee from the Spirit, an act he knows to be futile because he is already deeply aware of the Spirit’s omnipresence. His wrestling reflects not a lack of knowledge but an underlying tension between his awareness of God’s presence and his human limitations in fully embracing it.

Jean-Luc Marion, in The Erotic Phenomenon, offers an insightful framework that can help us understand this transformation in terms of how we experience it. Be mindful, Marion’s use of “erotic” draws not on modern notions of romantic or passionate love but on the Greek understanding of eros as a movement toward truth and beauty^[3]. In the Greek philosophical tradition, eros is not about mutual attraction or physical desire but about an intrinsic urge within the lover (the amans) to move toward something higher, something transcendent^[4]. Eros in this sense is not grounded in emotional or physical passion but in the soul’s desire to pursue ultimate truth and beauty. This understanding elevates love beyond mere sentiment or attraction—it becomes the force that draws the self toward what is good and true^[5].

Marion expands this ancient concept by redefining the self as the ego amans, the loving self. He writes,

“I love even before being, because I am not, except insofar as I experience love, and experience it as a logic”^[6].

For Marion, love is not an earned or reactive response; it is a logic that grounds and precedes existence itself, which, it goes without say, for Marion, is rooted in God and God alone. David’s encounter with God’s love resonates with this approach. When David reflects on God’s inescapable presence, he is not responding to something he has achieved or merited but to a love that defines him, a love that draws him into relationship with the One who is truth and beauty itself.

This understanding of eros as a movement toward transcendence is vital for interpreting David’s experience. Unlike modern romantic notions of passion, which focus on mutual attraction or reigniting the proverbial “spark,” David’s relationship with God is not about emotional reciprocity^[7]. Instead, it reflects eros in its highest form: a love that originates in God and draws David toward Him. The love David experiences is not dependent on his striving or his worthiness; it is a love that transforms him because it is freely given and rooted in the very nature of God.

This divine love is both interruptive and transformative. It breaks into his experience and redefines his understanding of himself and of God. Marion’s insights, paired with the Greek concept of eros, help us see that this love is not bound by human limitations or expectations. It is the origin and the goal, the force that moves the soul toward what is good, true, and beautiful, even when the self cannot grasp it fully.

The Conflict And Irony Within Us

Yet, here lies the irony: while David recognizes this boundless love that sustains and draws him, his impulse to flee from it reflects the tension between being held by the Infinite and our human struggle to accept that loving grip. This tension is not a failure of understanding but a mirror of our own estrangement, setting the stage for David’s exploration of what it means to wrestle with presence, limitation, and meaning.

That being the case, his impulse to flee from God’s presence reveals the universal all-too-human struggle with estrangement and limitation. Yet, just as his imagined ascent to heaven exposes the futility of self-reliance, so too does his descent into Sheol reveal something even more earth-shaking: the transformative possibility of meaning in the midst of despair. Viktor Frankl, in The Unheard Cry for Meaning, describes this tension through the concept of the homo patiens—“the suffering man.”^[8]Unlike the homo sapiens, whose life revolves around the axis of success and failure, the homo patiens moves on a different axis, one that stretches between fulfillment and despair. Frankl writes,

“By fulfillment we understand fulfillment of one’s self through the fulfillment of meaning, and by despair, despair over the apparent meaninglessness of one’s life”.^[9]

Frankl’s insight strikes at the core of David’s experience in Sheol. Fulfillment, as Frankl describes, is not tied to external circumstances or success but to the discovery of meaning—even in the most desolate places. Despair, by contrast, is the absence of such meaning, a condition where life feels void of purpose.

Choosing The Abode Of The Dead

David’s reflection reveals this tension. To “make my bed in Sheol” suggests a moment of surrender to despair, a place where meaning seems lost, and life itself feels irredeemable. Yet, it is precisely in this moment, at the very edge of despair, that David finds God’s presence. The “Thou art there!” is not just a theological affirmation but an existential one: meaning is restored, not because the circumstances have changed, but because God’s presence transforms even the darkest places into spaces of possibility.

This again, is the work of the Spirit, who makes David cognizant of the divine presence in a way that transcends mere intellectual awareness. Jean-Luc Marion’s insight that “I love even before being” ^[10], speaks to this reality: the Spirit awakens David to the fact that God’s love precedes his despair and permeates his experience. It is this lived encounter—this recognition of divine nearness—that reshapes David’s understanding of himself and his circumstances, turning a place of hopelessness into a space where meaning is rediscovered.

Frankl’s distinction between fulfillment and despair is critical here. How often do we equate fulfillment with external achievement or success, only to find it empty? And how often does despair seem like an abyss, when in fact it can become fertile ground for rediscovering purpose? David’s cry from Sheol mirrors this dynamic. His fulfillment does not come from escaping Sheol but from encountering the God who is already there, the God who infuses even the depths with meaning and hope.

The In-breaking Of Meaning

Kidner reflects that Sheol, for David, represents ambiguity and estrangement^[11]. But Frankl’s insights push us deeper: meaning can be found even in the darkest places. He recounts letters from individuals who, despite extreme suffering, found fulfillment by discovering purpose in their circumstances. One prisoner writes,

“I have found true meaning in my existence even here, in prison. I find purpose in my life, and this time I have left is just a short wait for the opportunity to do better”.^[12]

For David, Sheol is not the end of the story but a space where despair and fulfillment converge. Through the lens of the gospel, this transformation becomes even clearer. Christ descended into Sheol on our behalf and could not “be held by it” (Acts 2:24, 31). What was once a realm of despair has become, in Christ, the promise of Paradise. David’s exclamation, “Thou art there!,” takes on new clarity when read alongside Paul’s eager declaration: “to be with Christ, which is far better” (Phil. 1:23)^[13]. The suffering of the homo patiens, as Frankl describes, finds its ultimate resolution in the presence of a God who transforms despair into hope and suffering into meaning. In Sheol, David encounters a God who does not abandon him but meets him, sustains him, and leads him toward the fulfillment of his purpose.

I Believe I Can Fly

And then, there’s the flight: “If I take the wings of the dawn.” What a striking image—light breaking over the horizon, the first rays of morning scattering the shadows. But this is more than a poetic metaphor for hope; it speaks to speed and escape. The wings of the dawn suggest a frantic urgency, an attempt to outrun whatever haunts us. Have you ever felt that urge? To move faster than your fear, guilt, or pain—only to find it still waiting for you when you arrive? Kidner highlights the grandeur of this phrase, noting that it may evoke the great expanse of the heavens stretching from one horizon to the other^[14]. Dawn is fleeting, unstoppable, and beautiful, yet even its wings cannot carry us beyond God’s reach. The very light that illuminates our path reveals His unyielding presence, grounding us when all we want to do is flee.

The Journey To The Far Side

Finally, David considers the “far side of the sea.” In Israel’s worldview, the sea was synonymous with chaos and the unknown. To dwell on the far side of the sea is to choose separation, to push oneself as far as possible from the familiar and the sacred. Have you ever longed to disappear, to put miles and oceans between yourself, others, and your struggles? Yet even here, David confesses, God’s hand is there. Kidner draws attention to the dual imagery: the sea as chaos and mystery, and the far horizon as a symbol of exile^[15]. But God’s hand reaches across the waves, steadying us in the midst of turmoil. It is not a hand of judgment but of guidance, leading us back toward Himself, even when we think we are beyond His grasp.

Once Caught, No Escape

In each of these “ifs,” David wrestles with his humanity—the desire to ascend, to descend, to flee, and finally, to isolate. And in every scenario, he finds the same unshakable truth: God is there. He cannot be outrun, outdistanced, or outmaneuvered. Kidner aptly describes these “ifs” as the last, unavailing bids to hide from God^[16]. But what David discovers, and what we are invited to embrace, is that God’s presence is not contingent on our success or failure. His love pursues us in every direction, refusing to let us go.

This movement from fleeing to being lovingly led sets the stage for David’s ultimate invitation in verses 23–24. However, between the cry of “Thou art there!” and David’s plea for divine examination lies the marvel of God’s creative and sustaining power (vv. 13–18) and the psalmist’s passionate declaration against the wicked (vv. 19–22). These intervening strophes deepen the psalm’s theological progression, moving from God’s omnipresence to the intimacy of divine craftsmanship and, ultimately, to David’s cry for justice and purification.

Pride Is The Most Deadly Of The Seven Deadly Sins

The seven deadly sins, while not a biblical list, offer a practical framework for understanding the human heart’s vulnerabilities. Emerging from the monastic tradition, this categorization reflects the early Christian struggle against passions that disrupt love for God and neighbor. Pride, identified by Gregory the Great as the “queen of sins,” is the root from which all other vices spring. It distorts relationships, elevates self above others, and blinds us to our dependence on God.^[17]

Samuel Terrien observes that the psalmist does not stumble into metaphysical hubris (pride) when contemplating the complexity of his own formation^[18]. From a psychological perspective, this humility can be understood as a safeguard against what is often referred to as "hubris syndrome," a condition characterized by exaggerated pride, a diminished sense of reality, and a failure to recognize one’s limitations^[19].

David’s response demonstrates that ever-so-necessary awareness of his own finitude and an elementary dependence on God, which acts as a restraint against the kind of ego-inflated self-perception that leads to hubris. His reflection reveals a lived experience of being grounded in something greater than himself. Terrain speaks of his recognition of the “extreme complexity of his coming into being” as not being a source of self-aggrandizement but a cause for praise^[20]. This acknowledgment shifts the focus from self-assertion to an awareness of the very hand of God shaping his life. David’s words echo the essential humility that arises when we recognize the intricacy and intentionality of our existence as the work of our Maker.

Rudolf Otto’s concept of the numinous, as introduced in The Idea of the Holy, helps illuminate the essence of this recognition. Otto describes the numinous as a transcendent experience of awe and wonder, evoking what he calls the mysterium tremendum et fascinans—a mystery that is both overwhelming and captivating^[21]. This experience redirects attention away from ourselves toward the Lord, allowing us as worshipers to grasp our “coming into being” not as an achievement of our own but as a gift. When Isaiah encounters the numinous, the holy, the One who is totally “Other”, he is “ruined” (Isaiah 6:5 NASB). When Peter encounters it in the great catch of fish after fishing all night can catching nothing, he falls on his knees in the bot and cries out that he is “a sinful man” (Luke 5:8 NASB). When John the Revelator has his encounter with the Cosmic Christ on Patmos, he falls at his feet as though dead (Revelation 1:17 NASB). Here for David, he is reduced to praise, to worship, to adoration. This is a holy reduction as he rightly, in this instance and at this season, perceives his life as a reflection of God’s creative power and intention.

For us, this “coming into being” challenges us to consider the divine origin of our own existence. Like David, we are invited to see the complexity of our lives—not as an accident or a point of self-centered reflection—but as an opportunity to marvel at the very One in whom we live and move and have our being (Acts 17:28).

The numinous quality of this awareness calls for awe, gratitude, and a reorientation of our lives toward the Creator who is both intimately present and utterly transcendent. We too need to be undone, ruined, and fall as though dead.

With David, we dare not view our formation as an achievement but as evidence of Yahweh’s majesty and care. This shift in perspective, where David becomes aware of his dependence on God, acts as a corrective to the pride that can arise when contemplating our uniqueness.

However, David’s life journey reveals that this humility was not always consistent. With sobriety we simply have to remind ourselves of his affair with Bathsheba and the orchestration of Uriah’s death. It was the season when kings go out to battle (2 Samuel 11:1). David, the king, had always led his people into battle, yet chose at this Spring season of his life, to stay behind. Perhaps it appeared to him a small decision. It was not. It set the stage for one of the most tragic chapters of his life.

As king, David was called to lead—not just in governance but in the shared struggles of his people. By staying behind, David abandoned the rhythm of his calling. Spring was the time when kings were expected to go out with their armies, a season of action and engagement. But David stayed home, and in doing so, he created space for complacency and temptation. The palace, which should have been a place of strength and wisdom, became instead the setting for moral failure.

When David remained in Jerusalem, he distanced himself from the places and actions that reminded him of who he was called to be. The battlefield had always been a place where David found clarity and purpose. It was there that he trusted God to deliver him from Goliath and there that he grew as a leader of Israel. By choosing comfort over responsibility, David not only avoided the physical battle but also neglected the spiritual disciplines that kept his heart aligned with God.

This disconnection from his calling set David on a path toward sin. Idleness gave way to distraction, and distraction led to a wandering gaze. From the roof of his palace, David saw Bathsheba, and what started as a look became an act of betrayal. His failure didn’t begin with Bathsheba—it began with the decision to stay behind, to avoid the responsibilities that required his full attention and trust in God.

The events that followed cast a long shadow over David’s life, offering a sobering picture of how disconnection from calling and responsibility can lead to devastating consequences. This moment of hubris, where David placed his desires above his dependence on God, leads to deep pain, deep sorrow, and significant loss. Lest we forget, Psalm 51 emerges from that experience in David’s life. It captures the cry of a broken man seeking mercy and restoration, whereas Psalm 139 reflects a David who is deeply aware of God’s presence and intimate knowledge of his life. The two psalms are deeply connected, offering complementary insights into David’s journey. Psalm 51 shows the rawness of repentance, while Psalm 139 reveals the reflection of a man who, in humility and wonder, has come to marvel at the God who knows him completely and is present in every moment of his life.

These connections allow us to grasp the breadth of David’s experience with God: the depths of his failure and the heights of his reverence. The psalms, taken together, reveal the ongoing tension in David’s life—a man deeply flawed yet ever-so-responsive to God’s grace. Even in the aftermath of failure, there remains a path to return, to reflect and repent, and to rest in the assurance of God’s faithful presence.

David’s story reminds us of the tension within human nature—the constant oscillation between humility and pride. His failure with Bathsheba demonstrates how hubris can take root when we fail to restrain our desires or acknowledge our dependence on God. Yet what sets Psalm 139 apart is the way David opens himself to the Spirit’s work. He does not allow pride or shame to define him but instead submits to God’s intimate knowledge and creative power.

This responsiveness brings us back to Samuel Terrain’s insight that,

“The extreme complexity of his coming into being becomes only the source of his praise and astonished wonder at Yahweh’s works”^[22].

It is this Spirit-led astonishment that shapes David’s poetic expression. His choice of the imagery of being woven in the “uttermost depths of the earth” reflects an ancient symbolic understanding shared across the Near East and classical Greece, where the earth itself was seen as a maternal source of life^[23]. This language conveys divine omnipotence, situating David’s identity not in self-determination but in the creative hands of God. Even the “book” in which all his days are written affirms God’s “supratemporality”—a reality where past, present, and future merge in the eternal purposes of the Creator^[24]. Terrien further explains that this is not the rigid determinism of predestination but a poetic expression of trust in the One who authors life^[25].

This trust, however, does not eliminate tension. Instead, it deepens the invitation to confront the complexities of what it means to be fully known by God. As David moves toward the closing verses, this tension comes into sharper focus. The interplay of divine searching and human vulnerability will call for a response—not only from David but from each of us who meditate on these words. In the next installment, we will follow David as he wrestles with this reality and moves from acknowledgment of God’s omniscience to the bold, relational cry: “Search me, O God, and know my heart.”

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^[1] Derek Kidner, Psalms 73–150: An Introduction and Commentary, vol. 16, Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1975), 501.

^[2] Derek Kidner, Psalms 73–150: An Introduction and Commentary, vol. 16, Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1975), 501.

^[3] https://berkeley.pressbooks.pub/interpretinglovenarratives/chapter/24-early-greek-philosophy/

^[4] https://berkeley.pressbooks.pub/interpretinglovenarratives/chapter/24-early-greek-philosophy/

^[5] https://berkeley.pressbooks.pub/interpretinglovenarratives/chapter/24-early-greek-philosophy/

^[6] Marion, Jean-Luc. The Erotic Phenomenon (p. 16). University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

^[7] Marion, Jean-Luc. The Erotic Phenomenon (p. 16). University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

^[8] Viktor E. Frankl, The Unheard Cry for Meaning (New York, NY: Touchstone, 2024), 42.

^[9] Viktor E. Frankl, The Unheard Cry for Meaning (New York, NY: Touchstone, 2024), 42.

^[10] Marion, Jean-Luc. The Erotic Phenomenon (p. 16). University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition.

^[11] Derek Kidner, Psalms 73–150: An Introduction and Commentary, vol. 16, Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1975), 501.

^[12] Derek Kidner, Psalms 73–150: An Introduction and Commentary, vol. 16, Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1975), 501.

^[13] Derek Kidner, Psalms 73–150: An Introduction and Commentary, vol. 16, Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1975), 501.

^[14] Derek Kidner, Psalms 73–150: An Introduction and Commentary, vol. 16, Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1975), 501.

^[15] Derek Kidner, Psalms 73–150: An Introduction and Commentary, vol. 16, Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1975), 501.

^[16] Derek Kidner, Psalms 73–150: An Introduction and Commentary, vol. 16, Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1975), 501.

^[17] Jeffrey P. Greenman, “Seven Deadly Sins,” ed. Joel B. Green, Dictionary of Scripture and Ethics (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2011), 717–718.

^[18] Samuel Terrien, The Psalms: Strophic Structure and Theological Commentary, The Eerdmans Critical Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2003), 877

^[19] https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/37679027/

^[20] Samuel Terrien, The Psalms: Strophic Structure and Theological Commentary, The Eerdmans Critical Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2003), 877

^[21] https://www2.kenyon.edu/Depts/Religion/Fac/Adler/Reln101/Otto.htm

^[22] Samuel Terrien, The Psalms: Strophic Structure and Theological Commentary, The Eerdmans Critical Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2003), 877

^[23] Samuel Terrien, The Psalms: Strophic Structure and Theological Commentary, The Eerdmans Critical Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2003), 877

^[24] Samuel Terrien, The Psalms: Strophic Structure and Theological Commentary, The Eerdmans Critical Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2003), 877

^[25] Samuel Terrien, The Psalms: Strophic Structure and Theological Commentary, The Eerdmans Critical Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2003), 877