Psalms 74:9–11

Psalms 74:9 — "We see no miraculous signs."

The verse opens with a devastating inventory of absence. The Hebrew 'ôtôt ("signs") carries specific weight: it is the word used for the plagues of Egypt (Exod 10:1–2), for the pillars of fire and cloud (Ps 78:14), and for the wonders of the Exodus. The community is not merely lamenting that times are hard — they are saying that the entire grammar of divine communication has gone silent. In the context of the psalm's opening verses (74:1–8), the Temple has been profaned and burned; the mô'adîm (sacred meeting places) have been destroyed. Now even the prophetic voice is absent: the text adds, "there is no longer any prophet, and none among us knows how long." This absence of prophetic mediation is uniquely agonizing for Israel, because the prophet was the living link between the divine Word and the suffering community. To lose prophet, sign, and Temple simultaneously was to lose every institutional channel through which God had previously spoken.

Psalms 74:10 — "How long, God, shall the adversary reproach?"

The cry 'ad-mātay ("how long?") is one of the most theologically charged phrases in the entire Psalter — it appears in Psalms 6, 13, 35, 79, 89, and 94. Here it is addressed directly to God (Elohim), not to the enemy. This is crucial: the psalmist does not ask the enemy to stop. He asks God to act. The "reproach" (ḥārap) of the adversary is not merely an insult to Israel; it is construed as an insult to God Himself, since Israel's God is on trial in the nations' eyes. The enemy's taunt — "Where is your God?" (cf. Ps 42:3, 10; 79:10) — is implicitly a blasphemy against the divine Name. The psalmist weaponizes this logic: "Your own reputation, O God, is at stake."

Psalms 74:11 — "Why do you draw back your hand, even your right hand?"

The image of God's "right hand" (yāmîn) is richly typological. The right hand is the hand of power, victory, and covenant fidelity throughout the Hebrew Bible (Exod 15:6, 12; Ps 118:16). To see that hand "drawn back" — tucked, as the Hebrew kallêh implies, into the bosom or garment — is to see a warrior refusing to draw his sword, a king withholding his scepter. The psalmist's bewilderment is palpable: the very hand that parted the sea and crushed Pharaoh now lies folded and still. The phrase "even your right hand" (we-yemînekā) intensifies the anguish — it is as if the psalmist cannot believe his own words and must repeat them. The verse ends without completing its grammatical thought in the Hebrew, a poetic suspension that itself enacts the feeling of incompletion and unanswered longing.

Typological and Spiritual Senses

Patristically, these verses were read through the lens of Holy Saturday and the cry of dereliction. St. Augustine, in his Enarrationes in Psalmos, identifies the lamenting voice of Psalm 74 with the vox Christi and the vox Ecclesiae simultaneously — the voice of the whole Christ (totus Christus) crying from within history's darkest moments. The "no prophet" of verse 9 prefigures the interTestamental silence between Malachi and John the Baptist, while the "drawn back hand" of verse 11 reaches its ultimate typological fulfillment in the apparent abandonment of Good Friday, when the Father's right hand seemed folded away even as the Son hung upon the Cross.

Catholic tradition brings several distinctive lenses to these verses that enrich their meaning far beyond mere historical lamentation.

The Theology of Divine Hiddenness (Deus Absconditus). The Catechism teaches that "God's ways are not our ways" (CCC §310–311), and that apparent divine silence is itself part of the pedagogy of faith. Far from contradicting divine Providence, moments of felt absence are woven into the very fabric of salvation history. The Catechism, drawing on St. Thomas Aquinas (Summa Theologiae I, q. 22), insists that God permits evil and silence not out of indifference but in order to draw forth a deeper good — a truth Psalm 74:9–11 enacts in real time.

The Totus Christus and Communal Lament. Augustine's concept of the totus Christus — the whole Christ, Head and members, praying as one Body — means that these verses are never merely Israel's ancient words. They become the prayer of the Church in every age of persecution, suppression, or spiritual desolation. The Second Vatican Council (Lumen Gentium §8) speaks of the Church as a pilgrim community that shares in Christ's Passion; Psalm 74:9–11 is among the scriptural warrants for that costly solidarity.

The Prophetic Office and Its Absence. The cry "there is no prophet" anticipates the Catholic theology of prophetic mission. The Catechism (CCC §904) teaches that the laity share in Christ's prophetic office through Baptism. In a culture where authentic prophetic witness is marginalized or mocked, verse 9 resonates with urgent contemporaneity.

St. John of the Cross and the Dark Night. The "drawn back hand" of verse 11 finds its most luminous commentary in St. John of the Cross's Dark Night of the Soul, where God's apparent withdrawal is reframed not as abandonment but as a purification that strips the soul of all lesser consolations so that it may cling to God alone. Mother Teresa's decades-long experience of interior darkness, documented in Come Be My Light, is a modern instantiation of precisely this dynamic.

Contemporary Catholics will recognize the texture of Psalm 74:9–11 in experiences that are both personal and ecclesial. Personally, this passage gives language to the desolation of unanswered prayer — the cancer that did not go into remission, the marriage that collapsed despite years of faithful petition, the child who walked away from the faith. The psalmist does not tell us to feel differently. He models the most faithful response available: keep speaking to the God who seems silent.

At the ecclesial level, Western Catholics live in a moment that rhymes with verse 9's "no prophet." Amid institutional crisis, cultural marginalization, and the erosion of Christian moral consensus, it can feel as though the divine voice has been drowned out. The antidote the psalm implicitly prescribes is not despair but addressed grief — lament that is still, stubbornly, directed toward God. Practically, Catholics may use this passage in the Liturgy of the Hours during times of parish hardship, diocesan scandal, or personal desolation. It also authorizes the practice of lament as a legitimate and deeply Catholic form of prayer — a corrective to any spirituality that equates faith with unfailing cheerfulness.