Today’s psalm says, “I will say to the Lord, ‘My refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’” That’s a simple but powerful confession. It reminds us that trust isn’t something we conjure up on our own. It’s something we place in someone outside of ourselves—someone strong enough to hold it. The Reformers had a way of talking about this, using five short phrases called the five “alones”—Scripture alone, grace alone, faith alone, Christ alone, and to God alone be the glory. Each of these reminds us that our faith isn’t built on what we do, but on what God has done for us. And at the very center is Christ alone.
That’s what today’s psalm is getting at. “My God, in whom I trust.” We trust in Christ, not in our own effort, not in our own goodness, not in anything we can earn or achieve. Christ alone is our refuge, our salvation. No work, no merit, no other mediator stands between us and God—only Jesus. That’s something worth holding onto, especially because we don’t come to anything in life by ourselves. Think about it. Every step we take, whether in our faith or just in life itself, happens in the context of relationships—relationships with the people who shape us, guide us, challenge us, and encourage us. And most of all, our relationship with God, who holds us even when everything else feels uncertain. That’s why this psalm matters. It’s not about standing on our own. It’s about knowing where to stand—on Christ alone, our refuge and fortress, the one in whom we trust.
Let us pray. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our rock and our redeemer. Amen.
There’s a moment in every child’s life when they insist on doing something themselves. Maybe it’s tying their shoes. You watch as their little fingers struggle, looping and twisting, growing frustrated but refusing help. They huff and try again. The laces knot up. Finally, they sigh—exasperated—and let you help. And when you do, there’s a shift. Relief. The struggle fades, and suddenly, those untied shoes aren’t a source of frustration but of gratitude.
That’s us, isn’t it?
So often we live with a tight grip, insisting, “I can do it myself.” We fumble with the knots of our own making. We convince ourselves we just need one more try, one more pull to get it right. We think we have to provide for ourselves, secure ourselves, control our own destiny. We strive and struggle, convinced we don’t have enough—enough time, enough resources, enough strength. Gratitude feels secondary. But then—if we let it happen—there’s a shift. We loosen our grip. We stop trying to force the loops to stay in place on our own. We recognize the gifts we’ve already been given. And we give thanks.
That’s what the Israelites are doing in the first lesson from Deuteronomy. They have entered the land. The long wilderness journey is behind them. God has provided, as he always said he would. And their response? They bring the firstfruits—not the leftovers, not the excess, but the very first of what they have. They place it before the Lord and retell their story: we were once nothing. We were wanderers. We were slaves. But you, O Lord, have brought us here. You have provided. And so we give back, not because we must, but because we cannot help but do so.
This is gratitude—not just a polite “thank you,” but a posture of trust, a life oriented around the truth that all is gift. But gratitude doesn’t come easy.
That’s what we see in today’s gospel. Jesus is in the wilderness, fasting, when the devil comes with three temptations: provision, power, protection. Each one is a whisper of scarcity: you don’t have enough. You need to take more. Seize it. Secure it. Make it yours.
“Turn these stones into bread,” the devil says. You don’t have enough. But Jesus refuses. “One does not live by bread alone.”
“Bow down to me, and I will give you all the kingdoms of the world.” You don’t have enough power. But Jesus refuses. “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.”
“Throw yourself down. God will save you.” You don’t have enough security. But Jesus refuses. “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.”
The devil’s voice is that of a frustrated child, yanking at the laces, convinced that tying them tighter is the only way forward. Each temptation is rooted in the lie of ingratitude—that what we have is not enough, that God is not enough, that we must take instead of trust. But Jesus clings to what is true: God provides. God sustains. God is faithful.
Which brings us here—to this table. Every week, we gather and say: “it is indeed right, our duty, and our joy, that we should at all times and in all places give thanks and praise to you, O God.” This is the covenant of gratitude. Here, we do what Israel did—we bring our story: we were nothing. We were lost. We were bound by sin and death. Yet the Lord, God himself, has brought us here. He has provided. And so we give thanks.
And in response, God gives again. Jesus, who refused to make bread for himself in the wilderness, now declares that bread is his body, given for us. The one who trusted in the Father’s provision now provides for us. He places himself in our hands—not because we have earned it, not because we have seized it, but because this is who God is. A giver. A provider. A sustainer. Like a parent kneeling down to tie the shoes of a child who has finally let go, God does for us what we cannot do for ourselves. Here at this meal, Jesus gives himself completely. We take the bread, the cup, and we don’t just remember—we receive. His life, his love, his grace, poured out for us. It is a gift, freely given, meant to nourish and transform us. When we take him in, he makes us more like himself. We become people shaped by trust, not fear. By gratitude, not grasping. By love, not scarcity.
So what difference does that make for us today? For us who call ourselves disciples of Jesus? It means we rely on God. Proverbs reminds us: “trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.”
Like a child who finally learns to tie their shoes, not by force but by trust, by letting their hands be guided, we are not self-made. We are not self-sufficient. Even our faith is not our own doing. Because, you see, we don’t come to believe by our own understanding or strength; rather, true Christians know and understand that we cannot believe in our Lord Jesus Christ or come to him on our own. But the Holy Spirit calls us through the promise of God, enlightens us with her gifts, makes us holy, and keeps us steadfast even when everything else is crumbling around us.
She calls us.
She opens our hands.
She shifts our hearts from grasping to gratitude.
And gratitude doesn’t just stay inside us—it moves outward. We live our blessed life as a blessing for others, just as Christ lived his life for us. As Paul says in Galatians, gratitude is made visible in the fruits of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. These aren’t things we manufacture on our own; they grow in us when we recognize that all is gift. And we do so not with a frasmodic sense of unworthiness, but with a deep and steady trust in God’s provision.
And how does that happen? Through Jesus. Jesus gifts himself to us. We receive that gift—in the words we hear, in the meal we share—and we take it into ourselves. And when we do that, God takes us into himself. His body, his blood, his very life—given, received, and dwelling within us, and us dwelling in him. And perhaps, like a child finally stepping forward with confidence, laces secure, we go forth in trust. For it is indeed right, our duty, and our joy, that we should at all times and in all places, give thanks and praise to God…
And this gratitude isn’t new. It’s as old as the covenant itself. From the beginning, God made a promise—to Adam, to Noah, to Moses and the Israelites. They believed, and it was credited to them as righteousness. But that belief wasn’t just words—it was trust, it was action, it was gratitude lived out. And so it is for us.
To live for ourselves, to sow division, jealousy, anger—that is to hold the covenant in contempt. But to live as Christ lived, in trust, in love, in self-giving gratitude—that is to live as God intended. So that when we go out from this place, we live not as those who strive, who grasp, who hoard—but as those who trust.
Who love.
Who give.
Because all is gift.
And that is enough.
The Rev'd Daniel W. Spigelmyer, Jr. 