Catholic Commentary
Lament: Apparent Divine Rejection
10Who will bring me into the fortified city? Who will lead me to Edom?11Haven’t you rejected us, God? You don’t go out, God, with our armies.
Psalms 108:10–11 expresses the psalmist's anguish over military defeat and divine absence, using the impenetrable fortress city of Petra as a symbol of impossible barriers. The passage shifts from personal desperation to communal lament, accusing God of violently rejecting Israel and withdrawing divine support from their armies.
The psalmist dares to ask God a question he thinks he already knows the answer to—and that wrestling refusal to accept silence becomes prayer itself.
Patristic commentators consistently read the "fortified city" as a figure of the human heart hardened by sin, or alternatively as the heavenly Jerusalem barred to fallen humanity. St. Augustine (Enarrationes in Psalmos 107) hears in the question "Who will bring me in?" the groan of the whole human race locked outside paradise — the city of God inaccessible by human merit alone. The answer, implicit but not yet spoken in this verse, is Christ: the only one who can breach the wall between creature and Creator.
The accusation of rejection in verse 11 finds its supreme fulfillment — and its radical inversion — in Christ's cry from the cross: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" (Ps 22:1; Matt 27:46). There, the Son of God genuinely enters the experience of divine rejection on behalf of all humanity, taking zanach upon himself so that it need never be the final word for any human soul. The Catechism (CCC 603) teaches that Christ "took our sins upon himself" such that he bore the full weight of estrangement from God — not because the Father rejected the Son in his divine nature, but because the Son, in his human nature, fully inhabited our desolation.
Catholic tradition brings several distinctive lenses to these verses that other interpretive traditions often miss.
The Legitimacy of Lament in Prayer. The Catechism (CCC 2589) affirms that the Psalms teach us "to complain, to supplicate, to intercede, to give thanks, to praise." Verse 11's bold interrogation — "Haven't you rejected us?" — is not impiety but what the tradition calls oratio pugnatrix, the wrestling prayer. St. John Chrysostom notes that such prayers demonstrate a deeper faith than easy praise, because they refuse to let God go. The psalmist argues with God toward God, which is only possible within a covenant relationship.
Divine Hiddenness and the Dark Night. St. John of the Cross, drawing directly on the Psalter, identifies the experience voiced in v. 11 as the ligamen — the binding — of the soul in the dark night of the spirit (Dark Night of the Soul, II.7). God's apparent withdrawal is not rejection but purification: the soul is being weaned from consolations so that it may cling to God alone. This transforms "Haven't you rejected us?" from a statement of abandonment into the threshold of deeper union.
The Church as Body in Exile. Vatican II's Lumen Gentium (§8) acknowledges that the Church herself is simul iusta et peccatrix — holy and in need of constant reform — and therefore participates in the condition of the psalmist: standing before a city not yet fully possessed, conscious of her own unworthiness, dependent entirely on divine initiative. These verses thus become a prayer of the whole Church, not just the individual soul.
Christological Fulfillment. The Fathers unanimously read the Psalms in voce Christi et Ecclesiae — in the voice of Christ and the Church together. Christ enters the fortified city — sin, death, hell — precisely by being cast out (John 19:17: he suffers "outside the gate"), and in that act of apparent rejection, he becomes the gate itself (John 10:9).
Every serious Catholic will encounter seasons when God seems not merely silent but actively absent — when prayer hits the ceiling, sacraments feel mechanical, and the spiritual city one longs to inhabit appears walled shut. These verses offer something more valuable than consolation: they offer permission and precedent.
The psalmist does not pretend. He does not manufacture enthusiasm for God he does not feel. He lodges his confusion directly before God in the form of a question. Contemporary Catholics tempted to perform spiritual contentment they do not possess — perhaps in parish settings where vulnerability is unwelcome — can find in these verses a divinely sanctioned alternative: honest, persistent, even combative prayer.
Practically, when you face a "fortified city" — a relationship that will not open, a sin that will not yield, a vocation whose doors remain closed — the psalm invites you to make verse 10 your own: Who will bring me in? Not "how do I get in?" but "who?" The shift from technique to person is everything. And when God feels absent from your striving, verse 11 allows you to say so — loudly, directly, by name — trusting that the question itself is a form of clinging.
Commentary
Psalms 108:10 — "Who will bring me into the fortified city?"
The Hebrew 'ir mivtzar ("fortified city") almost certainly refers to Petra, the rock-carved capital of Edom, which appears explicitly in the parallel psalm (Ps 60:9–10, from which Ps 108:7–13 is largely drawn). Petra was considered virtually impregnable — carved into rose-red cliffs, accessible only through narrow gorges, a symbol of human architectural arrogance against divine sovereignty. The question "Who will bring me?" (mi yobiléni) is not rhetorical despair but a genuine cry for a divine guide and conqueror. The first-person singular "me" is significant: even within a communal lament, the individual soul stands alone before the impassable gate.
At the literal level, the king or military leader is asking which power — divine or human — can accomplish what seems impossible. The verse follows a series of confident divine oracles (vv. 7–9) in which God parcels out the land: "Gilead is mine, Manasseh is mine, Moab is my washbasin, upon Edom I cast my sandal." The sandal cast upon Edom (v. 9) was a legal gesture of ownership (cf. Ruth 4:7), implying God has already claimed Edom — and yet the psalmist now cannot enter it. The gap between God's declared sovereignty and present human experience is the wound that bleeds through verse 10.
Psalms 108:11 — "Haven't you rejected us, God? You no longer go out with our armies."
The full verse (the cluster here highlighting its climactic question) continues: "You no longer go out, O God, with our armies." This is the psalm's theological center of gravity. The Hebrew halo' attah elohim zenanttanu uses zanach — a verb meaning to cast off, to spurn, to hurl away — the same verb used when a king dismisses a concubine or a potter smashes a vessel. It is a word of violent finality. Yet the psalmist utters it as a question, not a statement. The interrogative form is itself an act of faith: one does not question a God one believes is absent; one questions a God one believes should be present.
The shift from "me" (v. 10) to "us" (v. 11) is theologically rich: personal desolation expands into corporate lament. This mirrors the structure of Israel's covenant relationship — what one member suffers, the whole body suffers. The clause "you no longer go out with our armies" recalls the Ark of the Covenant processing before Israel's forces (Num 10:35; 1 Sam 4), making divine absence not merely an emotional sensation but a liturgical and military catastrophe.