Untitled Sermon (4)

KINGDOM CITIZENS

SHOW & TELL: WEEK 4 (SUMMER 2025)

PSALM 139:1-14

SUNDAY JULY 13, 2025

Intro:

How many people in your life would you say truly know you? Not just people who know your name, follow you on social media, or see you every day at school or work—but people who really get you. People who know what makes you tick. People who understand your fears, your dreams, your habits, your quirks. People who have seen both the best and the worst in you.

The truth is, most of us can count those kinds of people on one hand. And for some, maybe even fewer. Because being truly known—deeply, personally, vulnerably—is rare. It’s something we all crave, but often fear. We want to be seen, but we’re also afraid of what someone might think if they really saw us.

A 2018 study published in Smithsonian Magazine found that the average person is able to remember between 1,000 and 10,000 faces. Participants were shown faces of family, friends, former teachers, pastors, classmates, and celebrities, and asked a simple question: “Do you know this person?”

I like to call this difference head knowledge versus heart knowledge. There’s a big gap between the two. Head knowledge is knowing aboutsomeone—facts, stats, surface-level details. For example, I can rattle off nearly every player from the 2004 Boston Red Sox. I know what positions they played, teams they played with before and after that Red Sox team, and key moments they had for the team that year. But I don’t know them—not in a personal, relational way. That’s where heart knowledge comes in. It’s deeper. It’s built through relationship, experience, and presence. It’s one thing to recognize someone’s name or achievements. It’s another thing entirely to knowtheir heart.

And all this wrestling between head knowledge and heart knowledge—the deep longing in each of our souls to be truly known, loved, and cared for—leads me back to the story we've been exploring this summer: the encounter between Jesus and the Samaritan woman in John chapter 4.

As we reorient ourselves to the scene, we find Jesus and His disciples traveling through the region of Samaria—a route most Jews would avoid. Along the way, they stop in the town of Sychar, and Jesus, weary from the journey, sits down by a well while the disciples head into town to buy food. It’s the middle of the day—the hottest, most inconvenient time to be outside—when a Samaritan woman approaches the well to draw water.

Now, if that strikes you as unusual, it should. In the ancient world, collecting water was typically a communal, early morning task. But this woman comes alone, at noon. Whether by her own choice or because she’s been pushed to the margins, it’s clear she doesn’t belong to the rhythm of community. She’s isolated—an outsider not just because she’s Samaritan, but even among her own people.

And yet, Jesus engages her. He initiates conversation. He acknowledges her presence. He sees her. Right there—in the heat of the day and in the heart of her shame—Jesus meets her. And in that moment, He communicates something profound, even without saying the words directly: “I know you.”

He knows the intimate details of her story—the broken relationships, the social isolation, the spiritual hunger. He sees the parts she’s tried to hide, the things that have pushed her to the margins. And still He stays. He speaks. He offers living water.

And as I reread that personal and intimate interaction between Jesus and the Samaritan woman this week, I found myself drawn to another deeply personal encounter in the pages of Scripture—this time in Psalm 139. As we turn to that text this morning, I want to center our time around one guiding question: What do our personal experiences with God teach us about His heart for us? (x2).

To answer that question, let’s engage with the text paying close attention to what the Spirit of God is speaking to us. V.1 reads in this way: You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you, Lord, know it completely.

Now, let’s be honest—our first reaction might be, “Yikes… God knows all my thoughts?” “He knows me completely?” That can feel intimidating—maybe even a little uncomfortable. That can be a scary thought. But listen closely to how David describes what God knows. It’s not just that God knows everything—which He does—it’s that He knows me. He knows you. God is familiarwith us. This isn’t a distant deity peering down through a microscope. This isn’t a cold judge waiting for us to mess up. This is a God who draws near. A God who wants to be in relationship with us. And if we want to truly know Him, we must allow ourselves to be known by Him.

Many people—across different faiths and even within certain Christian traditions—carry an image of God that’s shaped more by fear than by love. And while it’s easy to swing to one extreme or the other, Psalm 139 calls us to something deeper and more balanced.

Yes, Scripture teaches that a healthy reverence—a holy fear—of God is both normal and necessary. But David, in this psalm, paints a picture of a God whose character is far more intimate and compassionate than many of us imagine. He shows us a God who knows us—not to punish, but to pursue. Not to condemn, but to care. A God who sees every detail of our lives—not to shame us, but to walk with us. He knows when we sit and when we rise. He knows when we come and when we go. He is familiar with all our ways.

This is not a God scanning our lives to catch us in failure. This is a God who sees us fully—and still chooses to stay near.

And yet—even with all of that love, that intimacy, that grace—there’s still something weighty about this truth. Because if God really knows everything about us—every thought, every word, every motive—then that reality should shape the way we live. It should affect the words I speak. It should influence the way I treat others. It should shape the way I live when no one else is watching.

David continues this psalm by saying in verse 5: “You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me.”

At first glance, that language—“hem me in”—might feel unfamiliar, maybe even a little uncomfortable. Is David saying that God’s knowledge restricts us? That His presence boxes us in or limits our potential? David isn’t describing a trap—he’s describing protection. He’s not talking about being confined—he’s talking about being cared for. To be “hemmed in” is to be surrounded. Guarded. Guided. It’s the picture of a loving Father walking with His child—one hand before them, one hand behind them, gently placing His hand on their shoulder to keep them safe and steady. It’s not a wall to keep us from living—it’s a shield to keep us from wandering off the path that leads to life. God’s intimate knowledge of us doesn’t limit us—it frees us. It frees us to live with confidence, knowing that we are never outside of His care.

It’s like hiking a trail that leads to a cliffside overlook. The view is stunning—but the path is narrow, winding, and bordered by steep drop-offs. On some of the more dangerous stretches, you’ll find guardrails placed along the edge—not to restrict you, but to protect you. At first, you might think, “Why are there limits here? Why not just let people go wherever they want?” But those rails aren’t a burden—they’re a gift. They allow you to walk with confidence, not fear. They guide you safely along a path that leads to something beautiful.

That’s the kind of image David is giving us here in Psalm 139 when he says, “You hem me in behind and before.” God isn’t hemming us in to control us—He’s surrounding us in love. He protects us, not to hold us back, but to lead us forward on a path that is both safe and fruitful.

David continues in verse 6: “Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain.”

In other words—this is too much for me to wrap my mind around. God’s complete knowledge of me—His presence in every detail of my life—isn’t something David runs from. He marvels at it.

And I had a moment like that this week. We just wrapped up an incredible week in Student Ministry called Gladiator Training. It’s a week-long experience for our high school students where we walk through an in-depth study of God’s Word. We teach them how to unpack Scripture, how to dive into passages the way we do as a pastoral team when we prepare sermons—how to explore things like commentaries, historical context, cultural setting, literary structure—and ultimately, how to apply it to their lives.

It’s one of my favorite weeks of the year. And honestly, a lot of what I’m sharing in this message came out of conversations I had with students throughout the week—just sitting with them, wrestling with these truths of Scripture, and talking about how it relates to what they experience.

One of the highlights of the week was a day trip we took to Peaks Island, just off the coast of Portland. Before we jumped into the beach day and fun, we started with a quiet moment on the back shore—giving students time to simply sit, look out over the ocean, and spend some time in God’s presence.

As I sat there myself, taking it all in—the waves crashing against the rocks, the horizon stretching beyond what I could see—I found myself marveling, just like David in Psalm 139.

The same God who made that—the ocean, the sky, the rocks, the beauty of creation—knows me. Not generally, not from a distance. Personally. Intimately. Completely.

And just like David, I had to admit: that’s hard to grasp. But it’s also wonderful. It’s the kind of truth that doesn’t just inform your mind—it stirs your heart.

Maybe you’ve had moments like that too. Moments where the majesty of creation reminded you that you are not forgotten. You are not invisible. You are known by God. So that’s the first thing our personal experience reveals about God’s heart for us: He knows us—fully.

David continues in verse 7:

“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.”

These verses in my opinion are some of the most beautiful in the entire Bible, not only because they celebrate God’s presence, but because in a very real sense David is wrestling with it. He asks, “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?” and if we’re honest, many of us may have felt that same impulse at one point or another. Maybe not physically running, but emotionally withdrawing, spiritually withdrawing. Avoiding God in our hearts, even if we’re still showing up at church.

In his commentary on this passage, Derek Kidner reminds us that this desire to withdraw from God’s presence is as old as the Fall. From the moment Adam and Eve hid in the garden, humanity has been trying to cover itself—trying to run, like that Samaritan woman at the well, to manage shame, to create distance from a God who sees too much.

But friends, here is one of the many stunning truths about this Psalm. Even when we want to run—God is there. David is saying that wherever he goes and wherever he finds himself God is there. If we go to the depths, He is there. If we go to the highest point, to the furthest sea, He is with us there too. But even though He knows where we are, He doesn’t force Himself on us, as one commentator I read this week put it, God is moved by love alone. When Adam and Eve fled from the presence of God in the Garden naked and ashamed, God did not meet them with wrath or anger, but with a simple question: Where are you? That’s the voice of a God who knows everything—but still pursues us with love.

The Bible teaches that God is omniscient—He knows all things. And He is omnipresent—He is everywhere, all the time, at once. Because God exists outside of time, there is no place—physical, emotional, or spiritual—where He is not.

And yet, He comes not with force, but with grace. He’s always present, always aware, and always ready to draw near, when we stop running. Just like the Samaritan woman.

She had been running in her own way—not physically, but emotionally. Spiritually. She avoided the morning crowds at the well. She kept her distance from community. She tried to stay hidden—hoping no one would look too closely, not even God.

But when she finally stopped running—when she let Jesus speak into the very places she had tried to hide—she discovered what David is describing here: a God who meets us in our brokenness. A God who already knows us completely and still offers living water. A God whose presence doesn’t condemn—it restores and gives us the opportunity to proclaim