Psalm 106 is a psalm of remembrance and repentance—a holy mirror held before the Church. Like Psalm 105 before it, it recalls the long story of God’s people: their failures, their wanderings, and above all, the mercy that never lets them go. Read together, the two psalms resemble an Easter vigil on Holy Saturday—Psalm 105 celebrating God’s mighty acts of deliverance, and Psalm 106 confessing how quickly His people forgot. The pairing reveals both sides of redemption: God’s faithfulness and humanity’s need for it.
This psalm opens and closes with praise: “Praise the LORD! Oh, give thanks to the LORD, for He is good! For His mercy endures forever” (v. 1). Between these doxological bookends runs a confession that feels painfully familiar. Israel’s story becomes our story, their rebellion our rebellion, and their restoration our hope. It’s a song that dares to look unflinchingly at sin, yet it refuses despair; for even after recounting generations of disobedience, Psalm 106 proclaims: “Nevertheless, He saved them for His name’s sake, that He might make His mighty power known” (v. 8).
For pastors and congregations alike, this psalm becomes a gentle but urgent invitation to those who’ve grown distant from the Church. It holds up a mirror to our collective failings and at the same time announces the Gospel’s steadfast promise: God’s mercy endures longer than our forgetfulness.
The Church’s Shared Confession
Psalm 106 doesn’t isolate one generation’s sins but gathers the memory of the entire people of God. It’s not a historical record to shame the past but a liturgical confession meant to restore the present. The psalmist prays, “We have sinned with our fathers, we have committed iniquity, we have done wickedly” (v. 6). Notice the pronoun: we. There’s no distancing or finger-pointing. The psalmist stands among the guilty, not above them.
This “we” is essential to understanding the Church’s life together. When we confess our sins at the beginning of the Divine Service, we’re doing exactly what Psalm 106 models. We’re admitting not only personal failings but also a shared brokenness that stretches back to Eden. The Church is not a museum for saints but a hospital for sinners, as the saying goes. The same mercy that healed Israel still flows to us in Word and Sacrament.
For those who’ve been away—whether for months, years, or decades—this psalm speaks tenderly: You’re not alone in your wandering. The story of God’s people has always included those who stray and those who return, and it roots hope not in personal effort but in divine grace. God’s covenant mercy endures longer than any absence.
Forgetfulness and Grace
Much of Psalm 106 recounts episodes of forgetfulness: the people grumbled at the Red Sea (vv. 7–12), craved in the wilderness (vv. 13–15), envied Moses and Aaron (vv. 16–18), made the golden calf (vv. 19–23), refused to enter the Promised Land (vv. 24–27), and mingled with pagan nations (vv. 34–39). Each moment tells the same truth: when we forget who God is, we lose sight of who we are.
The psalmist remembers these events not to wallow in failure but to kindle repentance. Israel’s forgetfulness mirrors our own. Inactive members of a congregation often drift not from hatred of God but from a slow forgetting—the joy of worship, the efficacy and comfort of the Sacraments, and the fellowship of believers. Psalm 106 names this spiritual forgetfulness for what it is: sin. Yet by naming it, it makes space for grace.
For those who feel too far gone, the psalm’s opening verse becomes a lifeline: “For His mercy endures forever.” That endurance is not abstract. It takes flesh in Christ, who entered our exile to restore us to Himself. The Church doesn’t recall this history to shame the absent but to invite them: Come and remember with us. Let us confess together. Let us rejoice again in His salvation.
Wrath That Leads to Mercy
Psalm 106 is honest about the seriousness of sin. “Therefore the wrath of the LORD was kindled against His people, so that He abhorred His own inheritance” (v. 40). Such words remind us that sin is no trivial thing, for it ruptures communion with God. Yet even divine wrath is not the last word. God’s anger in this psalm serves a saving purpose: to awaken His people, not to annihilate them. When He “gave them into the hand of the Gentiles” (v. 41), it was to turn their hearts back to Him.
Luther once wrote that “God wounds to heal.” The pain of conviction and the emptiness felt in spiritual exile are not signs of rejection but of divine pursuit. For anyone who’s grown cold or distant from church life, that quiet ache of conscience may well be the Spirit’s invitation to return.
Then, at the psalm’s heart, comes a beautiful transition: “Nevertheless, He regarded their affliction when He heard their cry; and for their sake He remembered His covenant and relented according to the multitude of His mercies” (vv. 44–45). Nevertheless! After rebellion and idolatry, God still hears. He still remembers. He still saves. This single word that turns the whole story from despair to hope.
This same “nevertheless” echoes through the Gospel: though we forget, God remembers; though we fall, Christ stands; though we wander, the Shepherd seeks. “If we are faithless, He remains faithful; He cannot deny Himself” (2 Timothy 2:13). The mercy described in Psalm 106 is covenantal, not sentimental. It is mercy secured by the cross, where wrath and grace meet. “But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).
To return to the Church, then, is not to prove one’s worthiness or to join a country club, but to receive what Christ has already done. The “nevertheless” of God is written in blood and spoken anew in every sermon, every Baptism, and every Supper.
Returning for the Sake of the Body
The psalmist’s prayer in verse 4 is profoundly communal: “Remember me, O LORD, with the favor You have toward Your people; oh, visit me with Your salvation.” The longing is for physical community, “that I may see the benefit of Your chosen ones, that I may rejoice in the gladness of Your nation, that I may glory with Your inheritance” (v. 5). This is the language of restoration to the community of faith.
Christianity was never meant to be lived in isolation. The word “church” in Greek (ekklesia) means “gathered ones.” The Augsburg Confession describes the Church as “the congregation of saints in which the Gospel is purely taught and the Sacraments are rightly administered.” The Church is both invisible and visible: she exists wherever the Spirit dwells in the hearts of believers, and she gathers visibly wherever Word and Sacrament are present.
To miss church is not merely to skip a sermon; it’s to miss Christ present in His gifts. The Lord’s Supper is not a metaphor or livestream; it is real food for real sinners, given in a real place. Faith is not only belief but belonging. When we gather at the altar, we join not just those in the pews around us but the whole communion of saints as well.
For that reason, every absence matters. As Paul writes, “If one member suffers, all the members suffer with it” (1 Corinthians 12:26). When even one baptized believer drifts away, the Body feels the loss. The pastor’s call to the inactive is not about boosting attendance; it’s about healing the Body of Christ, like a limb that was chopped off. To the one who’s stayed away, the Church doesn’t say, “Where have you been,” but “We’re not the same without you.”
This is ecclesiology, not flattery. Christ’s Body is incomplete when any part is missing. Psalm 106’s cry, “Save us, O LORD our God, and gather us from among the nations” (v. 47), becomes the Church’s own prayer for the scattered. Every time a member returns, even the angels rejoice (Luke 15:10).
Practical Ways to Use this Psalm in Pastoral Care
Use Psalm 106 in pastoral visits or letters. Print the psalm and include a handwritten note or brief reflection. Tell the person you miss them. Remind them that Psalm 106 is our story—one of failure and mercy, of wandering and homecoming. Let them hear that God still remembers His covenant with them.
Preach it liturgically. Although Psalm 106 doesn’t appear in either lectionary, it fits beautifully with Confession and Absolution. Consider using it for a special “homecoming” service, or during Lent or Eastertide, when repentance and renewal stand in focus.
Include it in an Easter Vigil. Psalms 105 and 106 together form a sweeping retelling of salvation history—from Abraham’s call to the people’s rebellion and God’s faithfulness through it all (even include Psalm 107 if you’re feeling ambitious). Reading them on Holy Saturday allows the congregation to rehearse God’s long patience and His decisive redemption in Christ’s resurrection. For those who’ve wandered, the story may strike a deeply personal chord: the God who delivered Israel also delivers them.
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