AS I WRITE these words, I’ve been contemplating what I’ll say at yet another upcoming memorial service for a friend. In recent years, it seems, especially since the COVID-19 pandemic, I’ve been attending, speaking at, or even officiating more memorials than I care to count.

There’s a reason, though, that these are often called “celebrations of life” now. People don’t just gather to mourn and be reminded of the afterlife. They come together to tell and listen to stories which are at turns inspiring, funny, or endearing. I remember being asked to officiate a service for a man who had been murdered by a relative. We were warned in advance that there was still bad blood in the family, and that things could get dicey. We took the advice to heart, and on the day of the service, we were ready for anything.

Well, almost anything. I was prepared for the worst, but got the best.

I had never met the man personally, so I didn’t know how bold he had been in sharing the good news with others. His friends told stories of the way he lived as a fearless witness for Jesus — and in his honor, following suit, they in turn invited the guests to believe. They did my job for me. When I took to the podium, I told them so, with wonder and gratitude.

Nor did I know about the man’s penchant for outlandish practical jokes. We listened to stories that made us gape in surprise — Wait, did somebody really do that? — or laugh out loud. It was simultaneously one of the most grace-filled and uproarious memorials I ever had the privilege of participating in. We had anticipated trouble, and there was none. But I personally did not anticipate the way God would show up and bless the gathering in such a moving and delightful way.

With few exceptions, every memorial I attend, with all its stories, reminds me again and again of how little I knew of the person who died. The friend at whose service I’ll be speaking next week was someone I mostly knew from church, as a dedicated member of the Bible class I teach. A few days ago, I had a long conversation with his daughter, who filled in a great deal of his backstory, a story of which I had only the faintest of hints. I simply wasn’t curious enough to find out. The conversation deepened my appreciation for him as a complex human being with a difficult past who largely surmounted the obstacles set before him.

. . .

HOW WELL DO we really know each other, the good and the bad, the virtues and vices? What do we let other people see, and what hidden sins will we take to the grave? And have we become so good at managing the impressions others have of us that we’ve begun to believe that the actor and the performance are one and the same?

No, I’m not suggesting that you suddenly post all your deepest and darkest secrets on social media (though that would probably go viral). Rather, I want us all to pause with the psalmist and recognize a truth we often either take for granted or fail to truly appreciate: that God knows everything about us, and still loves us for who we are.

. . .

PSALM 139 IS one of the most beloved of the many psalms attributed to King David, and for good reason. It portrays a God whose knowledge of the psalmist is deep and intimate. God knows more about the psalmist than the psalmist knows about himself.

We would probably fear to let someone else know us that well. Who knows how people would react? Some stories, therefore, will never get told. Either we repress them so we can convince ourselves that they never happened, or we suppress them because we don’t trust others to hear them without rejecting us.

But there is no story that is hidden from the all-knowing God. Listen to how the psalm begins:

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.
You hem me in behind and before,
    and you lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
    too lofty for me to attain. (vss. 1-6, NIV)

The poet uses a series of contrasts — known technically as merisms — to convey just how complete God’s knowledge of the psalmist truly is. When we say we searched for something “high and low” or “far and near,” for example, that doesn’t mean we searched in two places; it means we searched everywhere, at the extremes and everywhere in between.

Thus, God knows everything about the psalmist’s activities: when the psalmist sits and stands, starts and stops. He even knows what the psalmist will say before he says it. Imagine how horrified we would be to find out that even when we managed to control our tongues, someone was able to read our very thoughts!

But God knows, the psalmist says.

Moreover, God is not only omniscient, but omnipresent, surrounding the psalmist behind and before, front and back. “You lay your hand upon me,” the psalmist says in verse 5. That wording in the English doesn’t necessarily convey something positive. But the word translated as “hand” here suggests the palm, the hollow of a cupped hand. It’s used twice at the end of Exodus 33 to describe how God covers Moses protectively with his hand so that Moses can safely see God’s glory pass by (vss. 22-23).

The psalmist, therefore, may be envisioning God cupping him protectively in his mighty hand, hemming him in on all sides. All of this is too much for the psalmist to comprehend; the knowledge is too exalted, too awe-inspiring. God knows him so well, and yet the psalmist is filled with gratitude, wonder, and praise instead of fear.

As we’ll see, the psalm continues in this vein for several verses. For now, however, take a moment to ponder the truth of what the psalmist says. God knows you inside and out, coming and going, everything you say, do, and think.

How do you feel about that?