Psalm 23 | Psalms Reflections

Welcome to Psalms Reflections on Scattered Moments. And today, as we have been walking through the Psalms, we reach Psalm 23, which I must confess provided a little intimidation for me to walk these familiar passages and to have something unique to say. But really, Psalms Meditations is not so much about information as it is about experiencing each Psalm as if it were our first journey down these paths. And so I want to invite you now, before we begin today, to find a place where you can be still. If you're holding something, please put it down. Unclench your hands. Let your shoulders relax and take a slow breath in. And slowly let it go. Again, breathe in. And breathe out. Now for the next few minutes, you don't need to accomplish anything. You don't need to solve anything. You don't need to understand everything. You only need to be here, present. And that's appropriate because the 23rd is ultimately a song about presence. You've probably heard these words before, maybe hundreds of times. You may have memorized them as a child. You may have heard them beside a hospital bed or a graveside of someone you loved. These words are so familiar that sometimes we stop hearing them. And so today, let us try to hear them again, not as words embroidered on a pillow, not as words printed on a funeral program, but as the testimony of someone who discovered that wherever life took him, the shepherd was already there. Listen now. The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. Just sit with that for a moment. The Lord is my shepherd. Not simply a shepherd. Not merely the shepherd of Israel. Not only the shepherd of pastors and missionaries and people who seem to have their spiritual lives together. My shepherd. David begins with relationship because the Lord is his shepherd. David says, I shall not want. That doesn't mean David received everything he wanted. He simply didn't live an easy life. He was disappointed at times. He knew betrayal. He knew family conflict. He knew danger. He knew grief. But beneath all those things was this deepening conviction. The shepherd will give me what I need. Listen again. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. Notice the verbs. He makes. He leads. He restores. David isn't frantically searching for green grass. He's being led to it. He isn't desperately trying to find water. He's being led beside it. He isn't repairing his own soul. The shepherd restores it. Maybe that's what you need today. Not another task. Not another strategy. Not another five-step plan for becoming a better version of yourself. Maybe you need to be shepherded. And maybe there's a tired place inside you that only God can restore. So just for a moment, don't try to fix it. Bring it before the shepherd. He restores my soul. Then David says, He leads me in the path of righteousness. For his name's sake. We assume that if God is leading us, the road should be easier. The grass should remain green. The water should remain still. The sun should keep shining. But then the scenery changes. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. How did we get here? When we were beside still waters just a moment ago. And David hasn't told us that the shepherd stopped leading. That's important. Because sometimes the path of righteousness runs directly through a valley. Sometimes the presence of difficulty doesn't mean you've missed God's direction. Sometimes you can be exactly where the shepherd has led you. And still find yourself walking through darkness. Maybe you are in one of those places right now. A place you never would have chosen. A loss. A fractured relationship. A season of uncertainty. A prayer that seems to remain unanswered. And you've wondered, how did I get here? Maybe you've even wondered, where is God? Listen carefully to what happens next. Something changes in the psalm. Until now, David has been talking about God. He makes me lie down, he leads me, he restores me, he guides me. But when David enters the valley, the grammar changes. David stops talking about the shepherd and starts talking to himself. I will fear no evil, for you are with me. The valley changes the grammar. God is no longer simply He. Now He is you. You are with me. That's one of the strangest gifts hidden inside our valleys. The God we talked about becomes the God we talk to. The theology we've believed becomes the presence we desperately need. He is faithful, becomes you are faithful. He will provide, becomes you will provide. So maybe today you don't need to talk about God. Maybe you need to talk to him. Say those four words quietly in your heart. Again, you are with me. The valley may be dark. You are not walking through it alone. And notice one more word. David says, Though I walk through the valley, not into the valley, not remain forever in the valley through. The valley is real, but it is not home. Keep walking. The shepherd knows the way out. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me. And then, almost unexpectedly, the image changes. The shepherd is a host. The pasture becomes a table. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. I love the audacity of that picture. The enemies haven't disappeared. The threat hasn't necessarily gone away. And God sets the table anyway. It's as though God says, sit down. Eat. Rest. But Lord, my enemies are still there. I know. Eat. We often tell ourselves, I'll have peace when this is over. I'll rest when this problem is solved. I'll breathe again when the diagnosis changes. I'll enjoy life when the conflict disappears. But maybe God is saying you don't have to wait for your enemies to disappear before you experience my peace. There's a table here, right here, in the presence of everything that frightens you. God does not always remove us immediately from threatening circumstances. Sometimes he does something even more mysterious. He feeds us there. You anoint my head with oil. My cup overflows. Not barely enough. Not an empty cup. An overflowing cup. Even here, even now. Even with enemies nearby. Take another slower breath. Consider this. Where has God placed a table in your life that you've been too distracted by your enemies to notice? What grace is sitting in front of you right now? A friendship, a sunset, a meal, a church family, someone who loves you. A moment of laughter you almost felt guilty enjoying because life is difficult. Don't stare so intently at your enemies that you miss the table. And then David looks behind him. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. That word follow is stronger than it sounds. It carries the idea of pursuit. David knew something about being pursued. He had been chased by enemies, hunted by Saul, surrounded by trouble. But now David looks over his shoulder and realizes something else has been pursuing him all along. Goodness. Mercy? Maybe you've spent much of your life wondering what's going to catch up with you? Will my past catch up with me? Will my mistakes catch up with me? Will sickness find me? Will loss find me? Will I have enough? What happens when I grow older? What happens when the people I love are gone? David turns around and he sees what's following him. Goodness, mercy, the faithful love of God. Not occasionally, not merely on your good days, all the days of my life. The sunny ones, the rainy ones, the ordinary ones, the heartbreaking ones, the days when you feel strong, and the days you can barely put one foot in front of the other. Goodness and mercy are still coming after you. And David looks ahead. And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. The psalm begins in a pasture and ends at home. That's the whole journey. The pasture, water, path, valley, table, home. The scenery keeps changing, but the shepherd doesn't. Green pastures will not last forever. Still waters will not last forever. But neither will valleys. Enemies will not last forever. Grief will not last forever. Fear will not last forever. The scenery changes. Not an explanation for everything you're experiencing. Just four words from the center of Psalm 23. You are with me. When the grass is green, you are with me. When the waters are still, you are with me. When I don't understand the path, you are with me. When the valley grows dark, you are with me. When enemies surround me, you are with me. When my cup overflows, you are with me. When I look behind and see goodness and mercy, I know you are with me. And someday, when the final valley has been crossed and the journey is finished, I will discover that the shepherd who walked beside me all the way, he's brought me home. And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Take one final slow breath, and whatever happens today, remember the scenery changes.