“Ascribe to the Lord
the glory due his name”
Psalm 29:2
It is not beyond me to understand what David the poet is demanding here—and it is so forceful a
demand that he makes it three times in two verses: “Ascribe. . .ascribe. . . ascribe!”
What he’s insisting is that mighty ones in particular (but
all of us, methinks) lay their (and our) greatest accomplishments at the throne
of the One who made those accomplishments possible. Give him the credit, the glory for what he
has done, and nevermind yourselves.
The sacrifice he’s demanding is far easier to understand
than it is to accomplish, of course.
Theoretically, who could argue with the rightness of what David is
demanding? Practically, however, I’d
just as soon take credit for whatever successes I achieve.
I know what he’s telling us all to do. I really do.
But the second half of this verse offers a whole new style
of monkey-wrench: give God almighty the
glory that is due him, David says, the glory that he deserves. Pardon the pun, but, really, how on earth can
I give him what he’s deserves, when he will be eternally due so very much more
than I can ever give? Seems to me that
when it comes to the creator and sustainer of the universe, there’s no gift I
could bring that can fulfill what David considers to be my obligation.
Scratch the whole phrase up to poetic license. In the heat of creative energy, his soul
overflowing with his own thanks, David scratches out a line that makes sense in
terms of his emotion, even if, rationally, what he demands goes far beyond his
and our abilities. There’s simply no way
he or I can give God what he deserves.
But if he’s asking the impossible, what do I do?—just take
myself out of the line up? Even though I
can’t do what David demands—and neither could he—I need to hear the prophetic
command he gives us three times in two verses.
I need to ascribe Him glory.
“What shall I render to the Lord?” is a question that echoes
out of another song, Psalm 116. Some of
us can’t really utter that line without hearing it set to music in an old hymn.
I can’t. “How shall my soul, by grace restored,” the next line asks, “give
worthy thanks, O Lord, to Thee?”
It is a vexing question. How can I repay him for the life
he’s given me?
Benjamin F. Baker—I know nothing more of him—wrote that
hymn, and the answer he offers, and the answer of Psalm 116, is, at least to
me, no startling revelation: “With
thankful heart I offer now/My gift, and call upon God’s Name;/Before his saints
I pay my vow/And here my gratitude proclaim.”
What he wants is our deepest thanks. What he wants is our gratitude. That’s all we’re due to give him,
really—lifelong gratefulness, for deliverance, certainly, and for love shown to
us in mountaintop experiences and everyday forgetfulness.
By way of Adam and Eve we chose to honor ourselves more than
our Creator. It is a mark of our fallenness—mine certainly—that giving the Lord
our best is as tough as it is. That may
well be why David says it three times in the first two verses of Psalm 29.
Give thanks. Always.
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