Psalm 131 is a roadmap to freedom. A freedom born not from inflating the ego but from calming it. It is a path from the pride of the heart to the peace of a child – emphasizes Fr. Piotr Kwiatek, Capuchin, doctor of psychology, initiator of psalm therapy, in the Heschel Center KUL commentary on Psalm 131 sung on Tuesday, November 4.
Fr. Kwiatek reminds us that “we live in a culture of perpetual dissatisfaction.” Moreover, “every day we feed ourselves images of success suggested by the algorithm, and we feel that subtle, unpleasant pressure in our chest – the fear that we are falling behind, or that we are not good enough, productive enough, happy enough.”
A song of trust
Meanwhile, Psalm 131 is “the shortest hymn of trust in the Psalter, and at the same time one of the most radical remedies for contemporary anxieties,” as the Capuchin writes. This psalm by David “is not a treatise on conquering the world but a manifesto on letting it go. It is not a text about resignation but about maturity. About a quiet rebellion against the tyranny of one’s own ego and about the peace that comes when you stop proving anything to anyone.”
A heart that lets go
At the very beginning of the psalm we read: “Lord, my heart is not proud, nor are my eyes haughty.” The famous 19th-century rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch noted that in the original the words say: “my heart has not lifted itself high.” “Hirsch compares such a heart to a balloon – you can inflate it with pride until it bursts under its own pressure, or you can let it settle, return to its natural, human size,” comments Fr. Piotr Kwiatek. The psalmist also warns against “haughty eyes,” which in antiquity were “a symbol of arrogance, a challenge thrown at heaven and people.” Today, too, many behave haughtily.
The words of the psalm – “I do not busy myself with great matters, or with things too extraordinary for me” – are, in Fr. Kwiatek’s view, an act of liberation. “It is the moment when a person consciously lets go of the need to be an expert in everything, to control every situation, to understand every mystery of the universe. It is acceptance of one’s own human measure.” Jesus referred to this as well when he said He is “meek and humble of heart” (Mt 11:29).
Closeness that heals
Particularly striking are the psalmist’s next words: “But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a little child at its mother’s breast; like a child, so is my soul within me.” The word used here can mean an infant nursing at the breast, but also a child who has just been weaned. “In the first interpretation, which one midrash develops, it concerns total helplessness and dependence – writes the psalm commentator for the Heschel Center KUL. – But the second meaning is perhaps even deeper. A child who no longer seeks food but nestles against the mother simply for closeness.”
“It is precisely in this silence, in this embrace, that something happens which can rightly be called therapy of the soul. Modern psychotherapy teaches that what heals most deeply is not technique but relationship. The sense of being seen, heard, and accepted unconditionally,” notes Fr. Kwiatek.
The author of Psalm 131 shows God as a mother. “Someone who embraces not because He must but because He loves. And in that love there is room for the healing of old wounds,” comments the author of Psalm Therapy.
Hope that acts
At the end of the psalm David shifts from the quiet “I” to the communal “we.” “A true encounter with God always spills over onto others. As the great 12th-century commentator Abraham ibn Ezra noted, spirituality locked within the four walls of one’s own heart is only half the truth. How can one remain silent when one has found the way out of the labyrinth of fear?” the Capuchin notes.
“Viktor Frankl, the psychiatrist who survived Auschwitz, once wrote a sentence that etched itself into my memory: a person can endure almost any ‘how,’ if only he has his ‘why.’ When I read his memories, I feel how they resonate with David’s psalm. That ‘why’ for the poet-king was not an abstract idea or philosophical concept. It was a living, breathing presence. God, who holds him like a mother,” we read in the commentary on Psalm 131.
“Unless you become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven” (Mt 18:3), said Christ. As Fr. Piotr Kwiatek emphasizes, in these words “it is not about childishness but about a maturity that has passed through pride, disappointment, and falls.” “Like a child who, during a storm, climbs onto its father’s lap without hesitation. Not because it is unreasonable, but because it instinctively knows where it is safe. And perhaps this is what this hope that ‘does not disappoint’ is about. That it does not rely on our plans and our strength. It relies on relationship. On that inexplicable trust that in the midst of chaos there is a point of peace. That our small, fragile existence rests in hands larger than all our fears. David discovered this for himself, but he could not keep this discovery inside. For true hope is contagious. It jumps from heart to heart like a spark,” comments the Capuchin.
A psalm like an oasis
“In a world obsessively focused on ‘more, faster, higher,’ this short text is like an oasis. It does not propose fleeing life but invites us into its deepest stream. There, where we no longer need to prove anything. Where we are loved for who we are, not for what we achieve. Jesus called this attitude ‘poverty of spirit,’ promising that the kingdom of heaven belongs to such people. Perhaps today is a good day to stop climbing so desperately and finally allow ourselves to be carried?” summarizes the commentator on Psalm 131 for the Heschel Center KUL.
Piotr Kwiatek OFMCap – doctor of psychology, priest and friar of the Kraków Province of the Order of Friars Minor Capuchin. He completed a three-year Gestalt therapy program in Philadelphia (USA). He also completed training at the Albert Ellis Institute in New York in Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy (REBT). He teaches courses in positive interventions at SWPS University – studies recommended by the founder of positive psychology, Prof. Martin E.P. Seligman. He is the author of books in the series positive psychology and faith as well as Psalm Therapy and the Psalms Workbook. Creator of the free app “Dobroteka 2.0” supporting well-being, more at: www.piotrkwiatek.com
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Heschel Center KUL
We publish the full text of the commentary
Existential commentary on the psalm
from the liturgy of the day for Tuesday 04.XI.2025 (Psalm 131)
Fr. Piotr Kwiatek OFMCap
Therapy of the soul
We live in a culture of perpetual dissatisfaction. In a world that shouts: “achieve!”, “conquer!”, “be someone!”. Every day we feed ourselves images of success suggested by the algorithm, and we feel that subtle, unpleasant pressure in the chest – the fear that we are falling behind or that we are not good enough, productive enough, happy enough. And then, in the midst of all this noise, you come across Psalm 131. Three short verses. A whisper in the middle of a hurricane.
It is the shortest hymn of trust in the Psalter, and at the same time one of the most radical remedies for contemporary anxieties. Its author is David – a king, a warrior, a man of gigantic ambitions and equally spectacular failures. Someone who knew very well the taste of victory and of humiliation. And yet what he leaves us with is not a treatise on conquering the world but a manifesto on letting it go. It is not a text about resignation but about maturity. About a quiet rebellion against the tyranny of the ego and about the peace that comes when you stop proving anything to anyone.
A heart that lets go
“Lord, my heart is not proud nor are my eyes haughty” – David begins. It sounds like the confession of someone who has walked a long and rugged road. The great 19th-century rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch drew attention to something beautiful in the Hebrew original. The words lo-gabah libbi (לֹא-גָבַהּ לִבִּי) literally mean: “my heart has not lifted itself high.” Hirsch compares such a heart to a balloon – you can inflate it with pride until it bursts under its own pressure, or you can let it settle, return to its natural, human size.
We know that feeling of an inflated heart, don’t we? That moment when success goes to your head, when comparison with someone turns in your favor. It can be subtle, almost unnoticeable – one glance, one thought: “I am above.” And here David – a king anointed by a prophet, the slayer of Goliath – speaks of a heart that did not allow itself to be lifted up. Rabbinic tradition emphasizes that his heart remained calm both when, as a boy, he was chosen to be king and when, as a hero, he returned from battle.
“Haughty eyes” were in antiquity a symbol of arrogance, a challenge thrown at heaven and at people. Today we know that look all too well, when we roll our eyes at someone’s ineptitude, when we look down on others, judge. But what if we looked differently? Straight, at the level of the other person’s heart?
“I do not busy myself with great matters, or with things too extraordinary for me.” This sentence, I admit, long seemed to me like a praise of mediocrity. Today I see something completely different in it: an act of liberation. It is the moment when a person consciously lets go of the need to be an expert in everything, to control every situation, to understand every mystery of the universe. It is acceptance of one’s own human measure. Jesus later says: “Learn from Me, for I am meek and humble of heart” (Mt 11:29). He uses the same language – the language of the heart. For when the heart and the eyes find their proper frame of reference, there is no need to diminish others to feel great oneself. One can finally simply… be.
Closeness that heals
The image that follows is one of the most tender metaphors in all of Scripture. “But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a little child with its mother. Like a child, so is my soul within me.” Rabbis draw attention to the fact that the Hebrew expression gamul alei immo (גָּמֻל עֲלֵי אִמּוֹ) is ambiguous. It can mean an infant nursing at the breast but also a child who has just been weaned.
In the first interpretation, developed by one midrash, it concerns complete helplessness and dependence. The child is not ashamed of its nakedness in the mother’s arms; it is wholly itself, without masks. Thus David says: “God, I am not ashamed before You of my smallness. I am not ashamed to ask for help, to learn from others, to admit that I do not know.” But the second meaning is perhaps even deeper. A child who no longer seeks food but nestles against the mother simply for closeness. For warmth, smell, the beating of her heart. It is no longer about what the child can “get,” but about presence itself. The Babylonian Talmud sees in this the essence of mature love – a bond that is not transactional but pure being together.
It is precisely in this silence, in this embrace, that something takes place which can rightly be called therapy of the soul. Modern psychotherapy teaches that what heals most deeply is not technique but relationship. The sense of being seen, heard, and accepted unconditionally. A secure bond in which we can remove the armor. The psalmist describes exactly this experience. The quieting of the soul is not the result of a meditative technique but the fruit of relationship. When the soul rests “with God” like a child with its mother, the inner noises fall silent: ambitions, fears, comparisons. There is no need to fight anymore. It is enough to be.
For many of us who carry wounds from childhood—lack of love, emotional neglect, etc.—God often appears as a strict judge or demanding father. And here the psalmist shows Him as a mother. Someone who embraces not because He must but because He loves. And in that love there is room for the healing of old wounds. Something David knew intuitively, we today confirm in laboratories. Neurobiological research, such as that conducted by Richard Davidson, shows that the practice of mindful silence literally “reprograms” the brain: it quiets the amygdala responsible for fear and strengthens the prefrontal cortex, which helps with self-regulation. Peace of soul is not a luxury. It is a condition for survival.
Hope that acts
The psalm ends with a surprising turn. After this intimate, personal prayer, David suddenly cries out: “O Israel, hope in the Lord now and forever!” He moves from the quiet “I” to the communal “we.” As if he wanted to say: what I discovered in solitude cannot remain only mine. A true encounter with God always spills over onto others. As the great 12th-century commentator Abraham ibn Ezra noted, spirituality locked within the four walls of one’s heart is only half the truth. How can one remain silent when one has found the way out of the labyrinth of fear?
But what does it actually mean “to hope”? The Hebrew word yachel (יָחֵל) comes from a root meaning to wait with tension, in readiness. Imagine a hunter in stillness, eyes fixed on one point. Every muscle tense. This is not passive waiting at a bus stop. It is dynamic, energized expectation.
Viktor Frankl, the psychiatrist who survived Auschwitz, wrote a sentence that etched itself into my memory: a person can endure almost any “how” if only he has his “why.” When I read his memoirs, I feel how they resonate with David’s psalm. That “why” for the poet-king was not an abstract idea or philosophical concept. It was a living, breathing presence. God, who holds him like a mother.
Jesus later said something that sounds like an echo of this psalm: “Unless you become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.” It is easy to reduce these words to naivety. But here it is not about childishness but about maturity that has passed through pride, disappointments, and falls, to finally, without shame, admit: “I am small and I need help.” St. Paul expressed this paradox brilliantly: “Whenever I am weak, then I am strong.” This is not weakness that wallows in self-pity. This is weakness that knows where to find strength. Like a child who, during a storm, climbs onto its father’s lap without hesitation. Not because it is unreasonable but because it instinctively knows where it is safe. And perhaps this is what this hope that “does not disappoint” is about. That it does not rest on our plans and strength. It rests on relationship. On that inexplicable trust that in the midst of chaos there is a point of peace. That our small, fragile existence rests in hands greater than all our fears. David discovered this for himself, but he could not keep this discovery inside. For true hope is contagious. It jumps from heart to heart like a spark.
Questions for personal reflection:
Can I “quiet my soul” when the world demands constant activity and proof of my worth?
When was the last time I allowed myself to be a “child” – vulnerable, trusting, simply present in God’s arms?
What is my hope really based on? On what I can achieve, or on the fact that I am loved?
Practice for today:
Sit comfortably in silence. Place your hand on your heart. Take a few deep, calm breaths. With each exhale imagine releasing tension, the need for control, the fear of judgment. Allow your heart to “settle” into its natural size. Stay in this silence for 5–10 minutes, resting in simple presence.
Summary
Psalm 131 is a roadmap to freedom. A freedom that is born not by inflating the ego but by calming it. It is a path from the pride of the heart to the peace of a child. In a world obsessively focused on “more, faster, higher,” this short text is like an oasis. It does not propose fleeing life but invites us into its deepest stream. There, where we no longer need to prove anything. Where we are loved for who we are, not for what we achieve. Jesus called this attitude “poverty of spirit,” promising that the kingdom of heaven belongs to such people. Perhaps today is a good day to stop climbing so desperately and finally allow ourselves to be carried?
Bibliography:
Davidson, R. J., Kabat-Zinn, J., et al. (2003). Alterations in brain and immune function produced by mindfulness meditation. Psychosomatic Medicine, 65(4), 564–570.
Feuer, A. C. (1985). Tehillim: A New Translation with a Commentary Anthologized from Talmudic, Midrashic, and Rabbinic Sources. Mesorah Publications.
Frankl, V. E. (2006). Man’s Search for Meaning. Beacon Press.
Hirsch, S. R. (1973). The Psalms (G. Hirschler, trans.). Feldheim Publishers. (Orig. 1882).
Holy Bible, Old and New Testament (Millennium Bible). (2018). Pallottinum Publishing House.