Psalm 39 (38):13Meaning & Commentary from the Church Fathers

I am an outsider in this world from which I must depart, not in the realm where I will reside for eternity. That eternal realm is my true home. In the land from which I will depart, I am a stranger; yet I journey with my God, with whom I will dwell in the future, when I arrive at my true home. But what is that home to which you will transition from this state of being an outsider? Acknowledge that dwelling which the apostle describes as, We have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. (2 Cor. 5:1) If this dwelling is eternal in the heavens, then upon entering it, we cease to be strangers. How can one be a stranger in a house that is everlasting? However, here, where the Master of the house may one day say to you, ‘Depart,’ though you do not know when that will be, be prepared. As you aspire towards your eternal home, you will be equipped for it. Do not harbor resentment towards Him for instructing you to leave when the time pleases Him. He has made no promise to you, nor has He committed Himself to any obligation; you have not entered into a lease for this dwelling with defined terms: you must vacate it when it suits its Owner. This is why you currently reside here without charge. For I am a resident with You and a voyager. Thus, this is my land, this is my home. I am a resident with You and a voyager. Here, it is evident with You. Many are lost with darkness; yet those who have believed and remained steadfast are indeed strangers, as they have not yet entered that country and dwelling, but remain outsiders to God. For while we are in the flesh, we stand as strangers before the Lord and yearn, whether as outsiders or if we remain here, to be accepted by Him. (2 Cor. 5:9) I am a resident with You; a stranger like my forebears. If I share in the fate of my ancestors, shall I say that I will not endure their departure? Shall I settle here on different terms than those on which they settled?

True happiness does not lie in attachment to earthly possessions or considering localities as one’s true homeland. Instead, it comes from recognizing one’s distance from the ultimate good and enduring the trials of this life, akin to those exiled from their land due to a transgression. Few truly escape the bonds of earthly attachments, realizing the fleeting nature of material wealth, the frailty of physical strength, and the unreliability of human splendor.

David states, "With Thee I am a stranger while I am on earth; now I am not an inhabitant of Thy paradise." He elaborates further, referring to himself as “a stranger, like all my fathers.” The Apostle Paul also recognized this truth, stating that while we are present in the body, we are apart from the Lord (2 Cor. 5:6). Though faith dwells within us, we walk by faith, not by sight (2 Cor. 5:7), indicating that we do not perceive His presence directly; instead, we navigate in uncertainty rather than in complete knowledge (see 1 Cor. 13:12). The apostle reassures us, "We are confident and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord" (2 Cor. 5:8).

The phrase "we dare" reflects not recklessness but the conviction of a believer's hope; "we firmly hope" signifies a conscious desire and earnest endeavor to approach God, whom we are separated from by the gap of time between this life and the next. We earnestly strive to be near Him (2 Cor. 5:9). It is important to recognize that striving implies an ongoing effort toward achieving a goal rather than having already attained it; it describes a process rather than an outcome. When examining the essence of the apostle's words, we hear the spirit of intention: "Therefore we strive, whether absent or present, to be acceptable to Him" (2 Cor. 5:9). While we are absent, we do so by faith; when present, we behold Him directly. Thus, we aspire to be pleasing before our Judge and Redeemer both here and in the life to come. It is crucial that we remain in His presence so that each person can receive due reward for their deeds in the trial of existence: rest for the righteous and punishment for the wicked. "Bend your ear to my tears!" (Psalm 38:13), cries David, lamenting as a wanderer detached from his homeland, enduring the pains of long exile. Consider Adam, expelled from paradise—adrift in a place far removed from where he once belonged, he mourns for all that he has lost and where he has fallen. Therefore, let us give thanks to God, who has rescued us from eternal estrangement by opening the pathway back to our true home. The apostle foresaw this promise: "You are therefore no longer strangers and aliens, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God" (Eph. 2:19).

David thus proclaims, I, O Lord, dwell among men, as I am the steward of my household; yet when You, O Lord, Sovereign of all creation, command it, I will transition to another realm. Similarly, a wanderer, after spending some time in one location, ultimately returns to the place of origin. This mirrors the fate of every individual: after a brief existence in this world, death occurs, and the body is returned to its elements. The highest explanation of these words is provided by Blessed Maximus: the active person is termed a wanderer in the flesh, one who through virtues interrupts the soul’s attachment to the body, thereby liberating himself from the snares of the material world. Meanwhile, the contemplator is referred to as a wanderer in relation to virtue, as he perceives truth through reflections and allegories. For him, the immediate forms of goodness remain obscured by the absence of direct experience; every saint navigates the reflections of goodness in anticipation, proclaiming: I am a stranger and a sojourner, like all my forebears. Theodoret observes the remarkable nature of King David, rich and powerful, who humbles himself by identifying as a settler and a wanderer, lacking hope in his personal gain. Truly, these wise words reflect a profound understanding of creation's essence and consequently induce disdain for transient prosperity.

From the Psalmist, I gather a word of solace that, though marked by sadness, may offer some balm for my grief. “Hear my prayer, O Lord, and inspire my supplication; do not be silent to my tears.” Who brings such a sorrowful petition to the Lord? It is King David, whose lament reflects a deep despair. Yet what has plunged him into such bitterness? The Psalm does not reveal a transgression deserving of this suffering; rather, it is the voice of one striving to guard his ways, ensuring he does not sin even in speech (Psalm 38:2), who grapples with anguish. “I am an alien and a stranger with You, as all my fathers were,” he continues in his prayer. But is not the realm of the King, in essence, his home and family? How profound must that sense of loss be for him to feel like a foreigner, a solitary traveler, distanced not just from his household but from his entire kingdom!

Finally, this sorrowful monarch calls to God: "Release me, that I may find peace, before I even depart." What an inconsolable grief! He does not seek joy or prosperity; rather, he pleads for relief from his sorrow and rest from his torment: "Free me, let me find rest." His spirit is no longer animated by the continuance of life but yearns instead for the quietude found in the final moments: “I will find rest; I will not truly leave.” Contemplating this grave state, the heart feels torn—especially upon realizing that this was the plight of one not abandoned by God, but rather cherished by Him, praying through the Holy Spirit. The astonishment envelops the mind like a vessel adrift in the boundless sea of fate, shrouded by the shadow of mystery. Let us not be swept away in prolonged despair. There exists a haven of faith, eternally open and near for the troubled soul; an anchor of hope that can safeguard both the smallest and the mightiest of ships.

What fate befalls the righteous and virtuous, sending or permitting them to endure trials, sorrows, and life’s calamities? It is nothing other than the destiny of love: "For whom the Lord loves, He chastens" (Hebrews 12:6). Why do noble and virtuous souls frequently face greater trials than the common folk, despite being shrouded in the veil of apparent happiness afforded by their noble lineage and the devotion of their loved ones, who care and protect them? This occurs to exalted souls because they possess true worth; their value is akin to gold, precious in the sight of God as a chosen offering: "The Lord will refine them and test them as gold is tested in the fire; they shall be pleasing to Him as the sacrifice" (Zechariah 13:9). What then is the order of creation that permits the best among us to suffer so intensely? It resembles the process of refining gold, or the act of sacrificing at the altar. The gold becomes pure, the offering invokes grace; through the flames of trial, the purified soul will shine, ultimately resulting in joy: "In the time of their visitation, they shall shine" (Zechariah 13:9).

With this understanding, I find it easier to approach a subject that touches many hearts with anguish. The sovereign lady possessed mental and spiritual qualities that matched her exalted station—her intellect radiated even through her cherished silence. Her heart, filled with gentleness and love for humanity, although concealed by humility, was particularly evident to those who suffered and needed compassion. She extended her kindness to those engaged in charitable works, often conducted in secrecy. Even amid great challenges, she did not lose her spirit but drew unexpected strength to face the most daunting tasks, especially when her spouse fell ill; she persevered through both weakness and sorrow to remain by his bedside. Was such a soul not deserving of every earthly happiness? Did she not find herself surrounded by the means to attain such joy? Ah! How the esteemed Consort, overcoming all obstacles, journeyed to the far reaches of the realm to bring her healing or, at the very least, some relief from her severe illness. How the noble Mother, too, tore herself away from her own responsibilities in a maternal capacity, venturing forth to shower her beloved with the love that might heal her enduring pain.

Despite the various comforts offered by her loved ones, including Alexander and Mary, who endeavored to bring long-lasting happiness to Elizabeth, it is conceivable that nature, upbringing, and a longing for children—especially unfulfilled aspirations linked to her position—planted in her heart a hidden, encumbering seed of despair. The unending desire for children, initially unfulfilled and later complicated by the deep sorrow of short-lived offspring, seemingly cultivated a disease of despondency. The tragic flood of the Capital consumed this seed, and a grief intensified by compassion blossomed into a physical ailment of the heart. Within the spouse was found the truest remedy for her affliction; yet, the love that nourished her waning spirit suddenly faded, leaving her in a state of desolation akin to an evening sky obscured by clouds, leaving a weary traveler alone in a desolate wilderness.

Blessed be the strength of faith! Only the heavenly flame of faith could stave off the frost of death from enclosing the heart, which was rapidly nearing its grave, driven by the illness drawing ever nearer. The goodness of her brother and successor stirred within him a desire to protect and comfort his grieving widow and to bring her back into the fold of family love. From her distant place of exile, she sought to return home. On this journey, the reassuring glow of hope, akin to a guiding star emerging after sunset, shone from the heart of Mother Alexander toward her. The weary traveler quickens her pace toward this cherished light, mustering the last of her strength and extending her arms. The august Mother reciprocates, reaching out to embrace her. May you find these life-giving arms, if only for a moment, dear Elizabeth, worn by body and spirit!—Alas, the embrace falters; Elizabeth does not rest in the solace she sought from her Mother but in the peace awaiting her sanctified soul in the presence of the Father of the pure in heart. Without completing her earthly path, she returned to the promised land from which none wander again: "She is gone, and there shall be no more."

We do not challenge Your unchangeable will, fulfilled in Your devoted servant, the Pious Empress Elisabeth, upon this earth; however, we beseech You, boldly in hope, that Your gracious and eternally blessed will be accomplished in her heavenly abode. Adorned here with crowns of greatness and patience, of majesty and endurance, crown her also with augmented glory above, that she who now observes silence in earthly suffering may finally raise her voice in celestial joy to proclaim the blessed mystery of her trials: "In the multitude of my thoughts within me, Your comforts delight my soul" (Psalm 94:19). Yet, it is not just one royal soul suffering—the entire House of the Tsar, the whole Russian Kingdom, cries out to You, King of Kings: "Release me, that I may find rest!" Our hearts have not yet known peace amidst our earlier grief, as new sorrows continue to arise. Across our land, from border to border and from capital to capital, funerary paths marking the loss of our Kings stretch forth. O Lord, let Your wrath rest upon us no longer; let our souls find solace before You. We have seen enough of death’s dominion and sorrow; grant us triumphs of life and joy for the resilient successor of Alexander, for his esteemed lineage, and for Russia. Amen.

He deliberately adds the phrase “at Thee” to emphasize that God, gazing from the heavens, recognizes the depths of our plight, especially if He does not, in His mercy, make our sorrowful journey in this life more bearable. It is as if he expresses: Listen to my supplication, O Lord, for You are aware that I am not of this earthly realm, but rather a sojourner and an outsider, and therefore a resident of the heavenly Jerusalem; it is fitting for You to heed the pleas of one from Your city who finds himself in exile, crying out to You from the distant mountains.