Psalm 94 is not a quiet prayer. It is a storm of words that dares to demand justice from the very Source of justice. “God of vengeance, appear,” the psalmist cries in the opening verse. This is no meek whisper. It is the voice of the brokenhearted who still believe.
With all its intensity, this psalm was chosen by our ancestors to be part of the sacred rhythm of Jewish prayer. Perhaps most radical is that its liturgical recitation begins, as do all of the psalms associated with particular days of the week, with this formula: “Today is Wednesday, on which the Levites recited this in the Holy Temple in Jerusalem.” This situates a demand for divine justice within the worship that existed even before the destruction of the ancient Temple and the exile of 70 CE. The inclusion of Psalm 94 in modern weekly practice demonstrates something profound: Protest is part of Jewish prayer.
I hear in the psalmist’s apparent call for vengeance a plea for moral order in a disordered world. The yearning for God’s appearance is a yearning for meaning, for proof that history bends toward goodness. Still, the psalm’s questions cut deep. How can the wicked flourish while the innocent suffer? “The LORD does not see it; the God of Jacob does not pay heed,” verse seven reads.
Rabbi Abraham ben Meir Ibn Ezra heard in this denial the greatest heresy, the rejection of divine providence itself. Another commentator, Rabbi Meir Leibush ben Yehiel Michel Wisser, better known as the Malbim, saw in it something chillingly modern: a society so corrupted that injustice becomes the law of the land. His insight still burns true. We live in a world that too often excuses violence, rationalizes greed and mistakes silence for peace. Psalm 94 demands that we not only notice this, but name it — in prayer, out loud, to God.
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And yet, amid this moral chaos, the psalmist dares to speak of blessing: “Happy is the one whom You discipline, O Lord.” To the modern ear, this may sound harsh, but parts of Jewish tradition hold that suffering, when held in relationship with God, becomes instruction and demonstrates love. This is not an easy teaching; the rabbis themselves struggled with it. But in Psalm 94, it can be understood as comfort: While the arrogant may see others’ suffering as a sign of abandonment, Psalm 94 upholds an image of a loyal God who sustains justice. Any suffering that visits God’s people must therefore carry a deeper meaning.
The psalm then turns inward: “If the Lord had not been my help, my soul would soon have dwelt in silence.” Here, protest transforms into prayer, and prayer becomes resilience. God’s consolations, the psalmist says, “delight the soul.” Perhaps those consolations are not answers but presence — the awareness that, even in pain, we are not alone.
The final verses reject any alliance between God and corrupt power: “Can a throne of destruction be allied with You?” The psalmist’s answer is clear. This is one of Torah’s boldest affirmations: God and oppression are incompatible; holiness demands fairness.
For modern Jews, Psalm 94 remains a complex element of prayer. It affirms God’s justice but does not erase the reality of unfairness. Its theology lives in the tension between faith and protest. The psalm does not solve the problem of evil; it sanctifies the experience of confronting it.
That may be why this psalm found a home in Jewish liturgy. Those who canonized our prayers knew that faith without room for anguish is incomplete. Psalm 94 gives us permission to include God in our heartbreak, to remind God of divine responsibility, and to remind ourselves that our cries matter. The Levites once sang these words in the Temple, perhaps to help people bring their pain into sacred space. When we recite them today, we inherit that same permission.
Jewish faith is not passive acceptance. It is an active, emotional partnership with God. To pray this psalm is to protest with reverence, to grieve with hope, to invite God into our questions.
Perhaps that is the holiest form of worship: not the silence of submission, but the courage to keep speaking — to God, with God — until justice, at last, appears.
