For those of us who have spent any length of time in the church, the Psalms feel like a familiar, well-worn book. We sing them, pray them, and turn to them for comfort. The word “praise” itself can feel just as familiar, a cornerstone of our vocabulary for worship. We praise God in song, in prayer, and in testimony. It is an act as central to our faith as it is common.
But familiarity can sometimes obscure depth. What if the praise described by the ancient psalmists was more radical, more demanding, and more transformative than we often assume? What if a single, carefully crafted psalm held keys to reorienting not just our Sunday mornings, but our entire view of God, ourselves, and the world we inhabit?
This is precisely what we find in Psalm 145. Attributed to David, this hymn is a masterclass in the theology of praise. Below the surface of its beautiful poetry lie at least five impactful takeaways that challenge our modern assumptions. These ancient truths can reshape our understanding of worship from a simple feeling into a life-altering practice.
1. Praise isn’t just a feeling; it’s a declaration of who’s in charge.
When the psalmist writes, “I will extol you,” he is doing more than just offering a compliment. The Hebrew word for “extol” comes from a root (rûm) that means to actively lift up, to raise, or to exalt. This is a deliberate, volitional act of acknowledging God’s supreme status. In the Wesleyan tradition, this resonates with the language of “entire consecration”—the choice to lift God above every rival in our hearts. It prompts us to ask: which “throne” receives our ultimate trust and emotional energy day to day?
This declaration becomes even more potent when the psalmist identifies the one he extols as “my God and King” (ʾelohay hammelek). This is a deeply personal and confessional statement. For post-exilic Israel, after the earthly Davidic monarchy had fallen, naming God as their King was a radical act of hope grounded in His universal reign. It placed God’s authority above all human empires, a confession that anticipates the New Testament language of Jesus as “Lord” and “King of kings.” This ancient act of praise challenges our modern assumptions about personal sovereignty and our ultimate political loyalties, reminding us that our primary citizenship is in God’s kingdom.
2. God’s greatness is meant to be both mysterious and personal.
Psalm 145 presents a beautiful and necessary tension. On the one hand, it declares that God’s “greatness” (gādôl) is “unsearchable” (ʾên ḥēqer). There is a mystery to God’s being that we can never fully exhaust. Yet, in the same psalm, we are told that the Lord “is near to all who call on him” (qārōv YHWH). He is transcendent and immanent, both beyond our full comprehension and intimately accessible.
This balance was a key note in John Wesley’s own prayers and hymns, and it is theologically vital for us today. The truth of God’s unsearchable greatness fosters humility and wonder, protecting us from the arrogance of believing we have God figured out. At the same time, the truth of God’s nearness offers immense comfort, assuring us that this great God is not distant but is present and available. This dual reality keeps us from making God too small and manageable, or from seeing Him as too remote and unapproachable.
How, then, do we relate to a God who is both mysteriously great and personally near? The psalmist’s answer is a specific kind of practice: meditation.
3. Biblical meditation is the opposite of what you think.
In many popular modern contexts, meditation is understood as emptying the mind to find inner peace. The Bible, however, presents a different vision. When Psalm 145 says, “I will meditate on the glorious splendor of your majesty,” the Hebrew word for “meditate” (sîaḥ) carries the dual meaning of internal musing and speaking aloud.
Biblical meditation, therefore, is not about emptying the mind but about intentionally filling it with specific content: God’s character, promises, and wondrous works. It is an active engagement with the truth of who God is. Furthermore, the psalm frames this as a communal practice that “shaped Israel’s collective memory and identity.” “One generation shall laud your works to another,” it says. This aligns perfectly with Wesley’s emphasis on conferencing, class meetings, and testimony as means of grace—shared, active practices where the community reinforces its faith by telling and retelling the story of God’s faithfulness.
4. God is near to all who call on him “in truth”—which means honestly, not perfectly.
The psalm makes a universal offer—the Lord is near to all who call on him—but it includes a crucial qualifier: they must call upon him “in truth” (beʾemet). This phrase is not about theological perfection or flawless performance. Rather, it points to sincerity, integrity, and a heart genuinely turned toward God. The source suggests it involves trust, honesty, and alignment with God’s character.
This is a deeply pastoral truth. It means God invites our authentic prayers, not a formulaic religiosity where we say the “right things.” The prayer of the struggling parent, “God, I don’t know if I can do this,” is more true—and more welcome—than a polished but hollow recitation. As the great Old Testament scholar James L. Mays writes in his commentary on Psalms, this kind of worship is grounded in reality.
Praise is not flattery but truthful testimony.
5. God’s kindness doesn’t cancel out His moral seriousness.
Our final takeaway addresses a tension that can make modern readers uncomfortable. In verse 17, the psalm declares that the Lord is “righteous (tsaddiq) in all his ways and kind (ḥāsid) in all his doings.” Yet just a few verses later, we read a stark statement: God “preserves all who love him, but all the wicked he will destroy” (v. 20).
These are not contradictory statements but two sides of God’s unified character. The parallelism in verse 20 is typical of wisdom literature—not a mechanical formula, but a theological affirmation of God’s ultimate moral governance. God’s kindness is not an indulgent laxity that overlooks evil, and His righteousness is not a cold legalism devoid of mercy. For Wesleyans, this unity of righteousness and mercy undergirds the call to holiness of heart and life. This truth is ultimately good news, especially for the vulnerable. It is a promise that God’s holy love will not allow injustice, corruption, and evil to have the final word.
Praise That Changes Everything
The five truths embedded in Psalm 145 reveal that praise is far more than a Sunday morning routine. Praise begins as a political choice to name God as King (Takeaway 1), which requires us to hold the tension of His mysterious greatness and intimate presence (Takeaway 2). We sustain this posture through the active, communal practice of meditation (Takeaway 3), approaching Him not with perfection but with the honesty He invites (Takeaway 4), and trusting in His character, which is both perfectly just and unfailingly kind (Takeaway 5).
When understood this way, praise ceases to be a momentary activity and becomes a transformative practice that reorients our lives around the reality of who God is. It shapes our character and strengthens our communities from one generation to the next. For those of us in the Wesleyan tradition, this robust vision of praise fuels our pursuit of perfect love—a life so filled with God’s character that praise becomes its natural atmosphere. It is, in short, a practice that changes everything.
How might one of these ancient truths reshape the way you speak to and about God this week?
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