Not Even One

God has looked down from heaven upon the sons of men
To see if there is anyone who understands,
Who seeks after God.
Every one of them has turned aside; together they have become corrupt;
There is no one who does good, not even one.
—Psalm 53:2–3

There is no one who does good, not even one.

I tend to get pretty impressed with myself.

When I write, or teach, or preach, or sing…
or even after a conversation with a friend when I have shared some new insight.
I mean, I just did something out of the ordinary.
Something that caused others to stop and listen.
God should be impressed, shouldn’t He?

And for a moment, I forget the Psalm.

I forget that God is not scanning the earth for brilliance, originality, or eloquence.
He is not pausing over my clever phrasing or nodding at my theological precision.
He is not impressed by what makes others lean in.

He is looking for understanding.
And understanding, according to Scripture, is not insight—it is surrender.
It is not articulation—it is dependence.
It is not being right—it is being honest.

The problem is not that I speak about God.
The problem is how quickly I begin to believe that I am doing something good.

Psalm 53 is not an insult to humanity; it is a diagnosis.
Left to myself, even my best moments carry the scent of self-reliance.
Even my “holy” efforts quietly ask to be noticed.
Even my obedience wants credit.

“There is no one who does good, not even one.”
Not because we never do outwardly good things,
but because goodness, in God’s economy, is never self-generated.
It does not rise from insight or effort or sincerity.
It flows only from union.

The moment I am impressed with myself
is the moment I have stopped seeking Him.

And this is the mercy hidden inside the Psalm:
God does not come looking for impressive people.
He comes looking for those who know they are not.

Those who have stopped trying to be seen as good
and have begun to be content with being known.

And yet, the Psalm does not end with despair.

If no one does good—
if no one understands,
if no one truly seeks God—
then the only hope left is that God seeks us.

Which He does.

Grace begins not where effort improves,
but where self-confidence finally collapses.
It begins when I stop mistaking awareness for righteousness
and insight for obedience.

Christ does not enter the story as an example to admire
or a standard to aspire toward.
He enters as the only truly good One—
the One the Psalm was waiting for.

Where I turn aside, He remains faithful.
Where I grasp for credit, He empties Himself.
Where I confuse speaking about God with knowing Him,
He comes near in flesh and blood and silence.

My hope is not that I will someday do good consistently enough
to contradict the Psalm.
My hope is that Christ has already done good completely enough
to fulfill it.

Dependence, then, is not weakness to be overcome.
It is the posture that finally tells the truth.
“I can do nothing apart from You”
is not a spiritual slogan—it is a confession of reality.

And in that confession, grace is no longer theoretical.
It becomes daily bread.
Unearned.
Sustaining.
Enough.

I do not need to impress God.
I need to abide.

That is where goodness begins.

A Closing Prayer

Father,
You know how easily I am impressed with myself,
and how quickly I forget that every good thing flows from You.
Strip away my illusions of self-sufficiency.
Teach me to abide rather than perform,
to depend rather than impress,
to be known rather than admired.

Thank You for Jesus—
the only truly good One—
and for grace that meets me not at my best,
but at my most honest.

Amen.