Let’s Go!

Sunday Teaching

Jun 28

The full video of this teaching is available at the bottom of this post and can also be accessed directly at this link.

WHAT ARE THE PSALMS OF ASCENT

As you'll notice in the thumbnail for this article, this series on Psalms that we are bringing to a close today is titled "Playlist: Blood. Dust. Praise." The reason is simple—it's a gritty, honest, and sacred collection of songs that spans the full range of human experience: blood, because it wrestles with violence and injustice; dust, because it is grounded in the earthiness of life—mortality, weariness, and the fragile human condition; and praise, because through it all, the psalmists return again and again to worship, declaring the goodness and faithfulness of God.

I've chosen to close this series of five articles with a playlist within the playlist: the Psalms of Ascent (120–134). Three times a year, as commanded in the Torah, the people of Israel journeyed to Jerusalem for the festivals: Passover, Pentecost, and Tabernacles (see Deuteronomy 16:16). These fifteen Psalms were memorized and sung as they traveled toward the Temple in Jerusalem.

They came from all directions traveling from towns as far as 150 miles away. No matter where they began, the road eventually tilted upward—because Jerusalem sits high in the Judean hills. The journey was a physical challenge, and the Psalms of Ascent were used as a spiritual formation tool along the way.

Psalm 120 begins in distress, far from peace, while Psalm 134 ends at the house of the Lord, with hands raised in praise. Along the way, the songs touch on God's protection (Psalm 121), the joy of worship (Psalm 122), family and work (Psalm 127), national hope (Psalm 126), personal humility (Psalm 131), and the beauty of unity among God's people (Psalm 133). And that last one is where we'll focus our attention today.

Before we zoom in on Psalm 133, it helps to step back and trace the theme of community as a melody running through the entire playlist.

TOGETHER

I was glad when they said to me,
“Let us go to the house of the Lord.” - PSALM 122:1

The psalmist doesn’t say, “I was glad to go,” or “I went when I felt like it.” He says, “I was glad when they said to me, ‘Let us go.’” That simple invitation carries the weight of shared faith and encouragement. It’s a call, not a pressure. It’s not just about getting to the temple—it’s about moving toward God—in the company of others—with the desire to encounter Him together.

“Just me and Jesus” is a sentiment that runs through American Christianity. But the Bible doesn’t leave space for a personal, cut-off kind of faith. God’s relationship with you is intimate, yes—but never isolated. The moment you put your trust in Jesus, you became part of a spiritual house (1 Peter 2:5), a family (Ephesians 2:19), and a body of believers (1 Corinthians 12:27).

Whether or not your name is on a church membership list.

Whether or not you’ve found your “perfect church” (spoiler: you won’t).

Whether or not you’ve kept up the habit of gathering weekly for worship and study.

Belonging to Christ means traveling this life of faith together—“Let us go.”

In addition—you can’t bear one another’s burdens, confess your sins to one another, or serve the body of Christ without actually being with the body. Forgiveness, reconciliation, mutual encouragement, laying hands in prayer, lifting one voice in worship—these are communal commands, not private options. They require presence. Proximity. Togetherness.

SAFETY

Those who trust in the Lord are as secure as Mount Zion; they will not be defeated but will endure forever. Just as the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds his people, both now and forever. PSALM 125:1–2

This isn’t about one person’s private faith. It’s about people gathered close and held together. The psalmist paints a picture of a group, huddled together, trusting the same God, looking in the same direction. Like the mountains wrapped around Jerusalem, the Lord wraps Himself around us—not one at a time, but all at once. You don’t get that kind of covering when you’re off doing your own thing. You get it when you plant yourself with others who trust Him too.

The activities of eating, praying, reading God’s Word, and worshiping can all be done in solitude. But when done together, they become something more. Meals become ministry. Conversations turn into confession. Worship becomes warfare. And in that shared space, something sacred happens—God surrounds it. Covers it. Protects it.

Because isolation is not just lonely—it’s dangerous. “A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer” (Ecclesiastes 4:12). The enemy loves nothing more than to pull people away from the fold. Proverbs warns us: “Whoever isolates himself… breaks out against all sound judgment” (Proverbs 18:1). Pull away from the people of God long enough, and you start thinking things God never said.

Stay surrounded by God by being together. That’s where the safety is. That’s where the strength is. That’s where the mountain doesn’t move.

FAMILY

You will enjoy the fruit of your labor. How joyful and prosperous you will be! Your wife will be like a fruitful grapevine, flourishing within your home. Your children will be like vigorous young olive trees as they sit around your table. - PSALM 128:2–3

Community begins in the home. Not flashy. Not loud. It starts with morning routines, meals, and the way you love your spouse, as well as the way your kids grow up watching what faith looks like in real-time. And from there, the blessing moves outward from families who are learning to walk with God together. When families lean in, show up, and stay faithful, the whole community gets stronger.

That doesn’t mean people without spouses or kids are left out. The New Testament is full of key voices—Paul, Timothy, Lydia, Jesus Himself—who didn’t build households in the traditional sense but were deeply rooted in the household of faith. Still, Scripture doesn’t shy away from showing us that the families who do exist—however imperfect—play a crucial role in shaping the life of the church. When a family chooses to center their lives on Christ, it creates spiritual gravity that keeps the community grounded.

HUMILITY

My heart is not proud, O Lord, my eyes are not haughty.
I don’t concern myself with matters too great or too awesome for me to grasp. Instead, I have calmed and quieted myself…
- PSALM 131:1–2

You can’t build community without humility. It just doesn’t work. Sooner or later, pride poisons the relationships you’re trying to build. Psalm 131 gives us a picture of someone who’s stepped out of the cycle of proving, performing, and needing to be right. This isn’t passivity—it’s peace. It’s someone who knows who they are and who God is, and doesn’t feel the need to chase control or have the last word. That kind of inner calm creates space for others to breathe.

And when enough people in a community begin to live like that—less noise, less ego, more quiet trust—you start to get a glimpse of what unity can look like. Humility doesn’t show up on stage or post about itself. But it does show up when people listen more than they speak. When they choose grace over being impressive. When they’re content to be faithful instead of needing to be seen. Psalm 131 reminds us that sometimes, the strongest foundation for community is a quiet heart.

UNITY

How wonderful and pleasant it is when brothers
live together in harmony (unity)! – Psalm 133:1

The psalm doesn’t start with a rule. It starts with a reaction. A feeling. It’s like the writer’s standing in the middle of something rare and real, looking around and just saying—this is wonderful. You’ve felt it, maybe. The moment when walls drop and people show up for each other with nothing to prove. The moment a room full of differences becomes a room full of grace. This verse doesn’t just describe something spiritual—it describes something enjoyable. Unity isn’t just holy. It’s good for the soul.

And here’s the thing—this verse doesn’t say “when everyone agrees” or “when nobody’s annoying.” It says when people have unity. Harmony. That’s covenant language. That’s family language. These are people who didn’t choose each other but are choosing to live as if they belong to each other. It’s not natural. It’s spiritual. It’s a gift. And when it shows up, you don’t take it for granted. You participate in it. And you savor it.

For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil that was poured over Aaron’s head, that ran down his beard and onto the border of his robe. – Psalm 133:2

Now the psalm shifts from delight to imagery. And it’s vivid. This isn’t a polite dab of oil—it’s oil running down Aaron’s beard, soaking into the collar of his robe. In ancient Israel, this wasn’t hygiene. It was holy. Anointing oil marked someone as set apart, as God’s. And that’s the point here—real unity is sacred. Not cute. Not convenient. Sacred.

The oil in this image wasn’t something Aaron poured on himself. It was poured on him. It came from outside, from above, like a gift. Just like unity. You don’t create it by accident. You receive it, you protect it, you make space for it. When a community chooses humility, forgiveness, patience—when we move toward each other instead of pulling apart—that’s priestly work. It says something about who God is. It smells like grace.

And the imagery of oil isn’t just spiritual—it’s immersive. It gets into everything. The picture here isn’t containment—it’s overflow. When a church or a family or a small group starts to live this way, the blessing doesn’t stay put. It spreads.

Harmony is as refreshing as the dew from Mount Hermon that falls on the mountains of Zion. And there the Lord has pronounced his blessing, even life everlasting. – Psalm 133:3

This is where the imagery gets a little wild. Mount Hermon is up north—tall, green, cool. Zion? Dry. Smaller. More southern. But the psalmist says unity is like dew from Hermon falling on Zion—like something lush and alive showing up in a place that would usually be dry and cracked.

And that’s precisely what real community feels like, isn’t it? It’s surprising. It’s refreshing. It brings life to places where things were starting to feel barren—your spirit, your home, your relationships, even your church. Tim Mackie points out that in a semi-arid region, dew is daily provision. Not dramatic. But essential. You wake up, and there it is. And when you’re in a community where people walk in peace with each other, where they choose grace over drama and honesty over hiding—it might not be flashy, but it keeps you going. It keeps you alive. In our unity, that’s where God shows up and says, I can work with this.

PRIORITIZE COMMUNITY

The blessing of community in the Psalms of Ascent is not Amazon-Prime spirituality—ordered when you feel like it, delivered on your terms.

God pours the oil where people have poured themselves out first—into real names, real faces, real schedules. Com-munus—the Latin root of community—means “together for a shared responsibility.” If you’re not carrying any of that weight, you’re not in community. You’re just observing. Soloing.

So take the next uncomfortable, holy step.

Plant your life in a local church, plant it deep, and stay long enough for somebody to know when you’re off your game.

Trade the bleachers for the trenches.

Shoulder a burden that isn’t yours.

Let someone else shoulder yours.

Confess the sin you’ve been practicing in private.

Unity isn’t a vibe; it’s a blood-bought covenant that only shows up when you do.

Here’s the bottom line: if you insist on a “just-me-and-Jesus” faith, expect a just-you-sized blessing.

But if you’ll step into the sweaty, demanding, glorious mess of God’s family—week in, week out—watch what happens. Oil will run. Dew will fall. Life will multiply. And the very place that once felt optional will become the ground where God speaks “life forevermore.”

Choose proximity over preference.

Choose responsibility over comfort.

Choose unity—then watch heaven drop its blessing right where you’re standing.

Greg McNichols