I Shall Not Want
Psalm 23
In seminary I once took a class called Psalms in Christian Worship. That class is the reason that our call to worship almost always comes from a Psalm. We tend to think of the Psalms as expressing praise of God—and that they do—but that’s not all they do. One of the key learnings of that class was that the Psalms provide a full vocabulary of human experience with relation to God—trust, gratitude, and joy, to be certain, but also doubt, despair, and lament. If it’s a human emotion, the Psalms give voice to it, even forlornness at God’s seeming absence. For example, on Good Friday we heard Jesus quote Psalm 22 while hanging from the cross: “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”
One of our assignments in the class was to choose twenty-five Psalms that expressed a range of emotions with which we would build a worship vocabulary. If we were to tailor a worship service around repentance, for example, we could draw upon Psalm 51, in which David prays, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me” (Ps. 51:10). There are one-hundred and fifty Psalms. We were allowed to select any twenty-four of our choosing, but we were told that Psalm 23 was not optional. It would appear on everyone’s list.
If there is one passage of Scripture that almost everyone recognizes, it’s Psalm 23. Even people who’ve never attended a Sunday worship service in their lives have likely heard Psalm 23 read at a funeral, or they’ve heard an excerpt of it in a movie or TV program. In seminary I was encouraged to commit it to memory so that I would always have it at the ready at a hospital bedside or for any sort of pastoral-care emergency.
Psalm 23 is beloved because of its pastoral imagery and comforting metaphor of God as a shepherd who provides for us and protects us the way shepherds do their sheep. Green pastures, still waters, the rod, the staff, the anointing oil, the banquet table—the Psalm is full of concrete imagery that reinforces the metaphor of God as a good shepherd and benevolent benefactor. But there is more to this Psalm than meets the eye. Beneath the still waters is a reservoir of a deep and defiant trust in God that the psalmist proclaims despite circumstances that threaten their well being.
“The Lord is my shepherd” Right there, in the very first words, we hear the central claim of the Psalm: the Lord, the God of creation, the God of Adam and Eve, the God of Noah and the flood, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the God of the burning bush, the God who parted the Red Sea and liberated the Israelites from captivity and transformed a nation of slaves into God’s people, this God, the Psalmist declares, is their shepherd.
There are lots of metaphors for God found in the Psalms. The psalmist speaks of God as a rock, a fortress, a shield, a lamp, a judge, and a king. A rock, a fortress, and a shield protect; a lamp illuminates, a judge discerns, and a king rules. But a shepherd is tasked with tending to the 24/7 well being of others, not just with rendering a one-time verdict or governing from a distant throne over an abstract population. A shepherd bears a particular responsibility of caring for the needs of their flock, ensuring that they have all that they need not only to survive but to thrive—green pastures for grazing, still waters for drinking, and protection from those who would cause them harm.
Here’s a quick Hebrew lesson to make an important theological point. Biblical Hebrew doesn’t have a strict future tense in the way that English does. But the Hebrew grammar of “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want” and the context of the verse both suggest the future. The psalmist’s declaring “I shall not want” thus becomes a declaration of trust in the shepherd who provides before the needs of the psalmist have even been met. Before lying down in green pastures, before being led to still waters, before walking through the darkest valley, the psalmist has already declared trust in their shepherd.
In other words, the psalmist isn’t taking stock of their inventory and saying, “I have everything I want. Thank you very much.” Rather than celebrating their abundance, the psalmist is actually proclaiming their trust. And in proclaiming their trust before their needs have been met, the psalmist is also refusing to allow concern about not having enough rule the day. Fear of scarcity says, “There isn’t enough to go around. I need to make sure I get mine. I need to defend what’s mine.”
Rather than celebrating their abundance, the psalmist is actually proclaiming their trust.
That is an anxious way to live, always looking over your shoulder, seeing threats around every corner. That kind of fear transforms neighbors into competitors, even enemies, the very opposite direction in which the gospel pulls us.
“I shall not want” pushes back against that fear, not by denying real need but by relocating the source of security, not in ourselves but in the God who is a good shepherd. “I shall not want doesn’t mean “I feel no lack.” It means that “I will not let the fear of lack determine how I live.” I will not treat life as a zero-sum game, where if someone else is winning it therefore means that I’m losing. I will not be governed by that nagging voice within me asking, “Is she getting more praise than I am?” Or by the voices in our society warning that those people are coming to take our jobs.
“I shall not want.” There is a quiet defiance at work here. The psalmist may still face hunger, danger, and uncertainty, but they refuse to let those conditions define reality more than God’s presence does. Fear will not overwhelm their faith. Fear says, “I don’t have enough, therefore I’m not safe,” whereas faith proclaims, “I may not have enough, but scarcity does not get to define my future. My faith is not dependent on my circumstances.”
In high school I once had a conversation with a classmate about God. She told me that she believed in God when things were going her way but tended to doubt God whenever she experienced suffering. While on one level that is understandable—suffering often causes us to question God—it is the very antithesis of the faith of the psalmist who declares, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me.”
Did you hear that? An interesting shift happens in verse 4 when the psalmist descends into the dark valley. In verses 1 to 3 the psalmist addresses God in the third person, as he. “He makes me lie down.” “He leads me.” “He restores.” In other words, the psalmist is talking about God. But in verse 4, the psalmist shifts to the second person you, as if speaking directly to God. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil for you are with me.” In their moment of greatest need, as they enter the valley of the shadow of death, as the light fades and the shadows lengthen, the psalmist draws comfort from God’s presence.
But in verse 4, the psalmist shifts to the second person you, as if speaking directly to God.
Faith doesn’t mean that the road you’re on won’t lead you into some dark valleys. The darkness may, for a time, even obscure God’s presence. It has for me. Nevertheless, we can testify, along with the psalmist, “I fear no evil; for you are with me.” That is not wishful thinking. That is not merely a claim that we assert; it is the truth, because Jesus Christ, who descended into the valley of the shadow of death on the cross, walked this road long before you or I did. His body was sealed in the darkness of the tomb, and yet the grave could not keep him in its grasp.
Jesus, who went before us into that dark valley, now prepares a table before us, even as our enemies still surround us. Even as our bodies grow frail with time. Even as regrets from long ago still haunt us. Even as depression causes us to question our worth. Even as stress from work weighs upon us. Even as political and personal tensions divide our families. Even as a whole host of enemies surround us, Jesus is setting the table and inviting us to take a seat as he pours our cups to overflowing.
This is the irony at the heart of the gospel: the Christian life is not about achieving success, winning the game, or living your best life. The Christian life is about learning to name God’s goodness and mercy while still wandering in the valley, while still surrounded by enemies. For it is there, ironically, that God’s goodness and mercy are most made known to us.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” the psalmist declares. God’s goodness and mercy follow us wherever we go, even down into the darkest valley. And by follow I don’t mean just passively trailing behind us and keeping an eye on us. In many other instances the Hebrew word that’s translated as “follow” here in verse 6 means to pursue, to chase down. Understood in that sense, God’s goodness and mercy are not just passively following us at a safe distance but actively seeking and pursuing us, no matter the distance, no matter the depth or darkness of the valley, no matter how much we’re lost, and no matter the cost. What else would you expect of your Good Shepherd?