After the storm, the river still carries people home.
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When a Roaring Lion Is Not King
There is a story I used to tell in the camps up in the Yukon back in the 1980s.
A lion was having a bad day.
As he walked along a jungle trail, he came to a clearing and saw an elephant quietly eating leaves from a tree.
The lion puffed himself up and roared across the clearing:
“Who is the king of the jungle?”
The elephant paid no attention.
The lion walked closer and roared again:
“Who is the king of the jungle!?”
Still nothing.
By now, the lion was furious. He marched right under the elephant’s head, looked up, and roared as loudly as he could:
“WHO IS THE KING OF THE JUNGLE!!!?”
The elephant looked down, wrapped his trunk around the lion, pounded him three times into the ground, and tossed him aside.
A few moments later, the lion staggered to his feet, shook off the dust, and limped away.
Then he looked back over his shoulder and said,
“You didn’t have to get all mad just because you don’t know the answer.”
I still love that story.
Partly because it is funny.
And partly because it asks a question every human being eventually has to answer:
Who really is King?
Not who roars the loudest.
Not who takes up the most space.
Not who dominates the clearing.
Who is actually King when the waters rise, the trees fall, the wilderness shakes, and our world feels like it is crashing in around us?
Psalm 29 answers that question when thunder is crashing.
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Sometimes the strongest realities do not need to roar.
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When God Speaks Over the Deep
Psalm 29 reaches all the way back to Genesis.
In the beginning, the earth was formless and empty. Darkness was over the deep. The Spirit of God hovered over the waters.
Then God spoke.
Light came. Waters were gathered. Dry land appeared.
Trees grew. Birds filled the sky. Fish filled the sea. Animals moved across the land.
Human beings were placed in a garden world, images of God, commissioned to steward His good creation.
God spoke, and a good world took shape.
That is why Psalm 29 matters so much.
“The voice of the LORD is over the waters.”
“The voice of the LORD is powerful.”
“The voice of the LORD is full of majesty.”
This is not abstract theology. This is the foundation of courage.
If God’s voice can bring creation out of darkness, emptiness, and chaos, then His voice can still speak into our darkness, our emptiness, and our chaos.
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Psalm 29 does not pretend the trees never fall. It teaches us who reigns when they do.
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When the World Comes Undone
Genesis tells another story, too.
The flood.
The waters rise again. The ordered world becomes undone. Creation feels as though it is being pulled backward into chaos.
That is why Psalm 29:10 is so powerful:
“The LORD sits enthroned over the flood.”
Enthroned over it.
The flood is not King.
Chaos is not King.
Cancer is not King.
Conflict, governments, money, history… not the King.
The Lord sits enthroned as King forever.
This does not make suffering easy. It does not make loss imaginary. Trees really do fall. Waters really do rise. Families really do ache. Leaders really do get tired. Good people really do walk through seasons that feel like de-creation, as if something God once formed is being torn apart.
But Psalm 29 gives us a way to stand in the storm without worshiping the storm.
David looks north toward Lebanon and its mighty cedars. The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars.
He looks toward the wilderness of Kadesh. The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness.
He looks west toward the Great Sea. The voice of the Lord is over the waters.
David looks across the whole map of Israel’s world—mountains, forests, rivers, borders, nations, deserts—and says:
The Lord is over all of it.
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Put Your Own World on the Map
That is one reason a map helps me pray this psalm.
When I see ancient Israel on the map, I imagine Lebanon to the north, Syria to the northeast, Kadesh near the wilderness, the Great Sea to the west, and the Jordan River running like a blue thread through the land.
Then I imagine my own map.
The Lord is over Marabá and Belém.
The Lord is over Brasília and Ottawa.
The Lord is over Vancouver.
The Lord is over the Americas, Europe, Africa, Asia, and the nations beyond my knowing.
The Lord is over the places where decisions are made by people I cannot control.
The Lord is over the places where my children and grandchildren are growing up.
The Lord is over the waters.
The Lord is over many waters.
And this is where Psalm 29 becomes more than a storm song.
It becomes a peace song.
After the thunder, after the shaking, after the flood, David ends here:
“The LORD gives strength to his people; The LORD blesses his people with peace.”
That is astonishing.
Psalm 29 begins with glory in the heavens and thunder over the waters.
It ends with strength and peace for ordinary people.
For tired people.
For praying people.
For people trying to follow Jesus in a world that often feels louder than it is wise.
The psalm that begins in thunder ends in peace.
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The Garden Has Not Been Abandoned
Our twin grandchildren turned two this week.
There is something holy about small children laughing when they are safe and loved.
They do not begin life cynical.
They do not wake up suspicious of beauty.
They do not analyze whether joy is worth the risk.
They receive the world as a gift, and it is incredible beyond imagination.
In a loving home, children intuitively know something adults often have to learn again:
Creation is good.
Yes, the world is wounded.
Yes, storms come.
Yes, trees fall.
Yes, waters rise.
But this is still God’s world.
The garden has been damaged, but it has not been abandoned.
As we get older, the mud of life can stick to us. Disappointments accumulate. Storm debris gathers in the soul. We can become guarded, weary, and half-expectant of bad news.
This is when we need a spiritual reset, a recalibration.
Not denial.
Not naïve optimism.
A deeper reality.
Psalm 29 is one of those reality tuning forks.
It walks us through storms and floods.
It lets us hear thunder.
It shows us trees falling.
And then it lands us in the arms of the King, who gives strength and blesses His people with peace.
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Two years old—and already teaching us how to receive the world as gift.
Many of you prayed when they spent their first months in the hospital. This week they turned two. Watching them laugh feels like a small sermon on Psalm 29: peace is not just an idea; sometimes it has a face.
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Hear the Voice Above the Roar
This week, perhaps take a few minutes with Psalm 29.
Read it slowly.
Picture the waters, cedars, and wilderness.
Picture the Lord enthroned over the flood.
Then picture your own world.
Your family.
Your secret fears.
Your future.
Peter warns us that the adversary prowls like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.
That is not the Lion of the Tribe of Judah.
That is another lion.
A counterfeit roar.
A devouring voice.
A pretender to the throne.
The enemy roars like a lion, but Psalm 29 says the truest voice over creation is not the lion’s roar. It is the voice of the LORD.
And sometimes, when we are exhausted, that same voice comes not as thunder, but as a gentle whisper.
The point is not the volume.
The point is whose voice is true.
Over all of it, hear this:
The storm is not King.
The flood is not King.
The roaring lion is not King.
The Lord is King.
The God of glory thunders.
And the children of God can laugh again.
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This Week’s Recalibration
When the world feels loud, remember:
The loudest voice is not always the truest voice. Chaos is real, but chaos is not King. The Lord still speaks over the waters. His final word over His people is strength and peace.
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A Prayer
Lord Jesus,
When the waters rise, help us remember who is King.
When the trees fall, help us remember who is still enthroned.
When the wilderness shakes, help us hear Your voice beneath the noise.
Speak again over the deep places in us.
Bring light where darkness has settled.
Bring order where life feels formless.
Bring courage where fear has roared too loudly.
Teach us to see our world under Your reign:
our families, our cities, our nations,
our churches, our work, our bodies,
our future.
Give strength to Your people. Bless Your people with peace.
And make us, once again, like children in Your garden,
free enough to laugh,
and steady enough to walk through storms
and connected enough to create pockets of thriving
