Psalm 23
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;
he restores my soul.
He leads me in right paths
for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
my whole life long.
Walk this Way is a sermon series about how our faith changes how we walk through the world.
The first scripture from the Book of Acts describes people so touched by the resurrection of Jesus that they stayed together against all odds. They took care of one another so no one was in need. And now we hear the beloved Psalm 23, the Shepherd’s Psalm, a song that has formed God’s people for nearly 3,000 years.
I led a retreat some years ago, and I invited people to write the opposite of this Psalm as a form of confession. They were so personal and deep and so when we finally read the words of promise from the Psalm itself, people were weeping.
Usually I read from the New Revised Standard Version, but call me old fashioned, I love the King James Version. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Let us pray. O Lord, uphold me that I might uplift thee. Amen.
The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. I memorized Psalm 23 in an old classroom at First Presbyterian in Danville. The room smelled like paint and dust. Our Sunday School teacher, Mr. Vincent, was about 80 years old. When we stood up and recited a verse, squinting our eyes as if that might help us remember, we got a small green Andes mint. We did not gobble those mints down. We saved them. They helped us survive the sermon later. If I am being honest, it all felt old fashioned even then. These words about shepherds and still waters. An old person. An old church.
Meanwhile, the 1980s were trying to sell us something very different. We had some of the most ambitious commercials, especially about gum. I don’t know why. Juicy Fruit gum promised that life would not be still waters at all, but endless water skiing with your hair blowing in the wind. Big Red gum suggested that adults who chewed it would spend their days kissing in the middle of the street. Wrigley’s was probably the most honest with us, promising just a little lift, which somehow meant putting on a necktie with unbridled joy. Gillette told us it was …the best a man could get. Folgers told us the best part of waking up was… Folgers in your cup. And any dark valley could be illuminated right away. Clap on. Clap off. The Clapper. Raise your hand if you are sure.
Those jingles left no room for ambiguity. They were loud and certain and catchy, and they promised that whatever valley you were in, there was a product that could pull you out of it.
And then there was Mr. Vincent, asking us to memorize something quiet. Something ancient. Something slower. And we did not hate it. Because one of the superpowers of an awkward 12 year old is the ability to recognize authenticity on sight. Mr. Vincent’s steady presence, his expectations, his care. Even more than the candy, they shaped me. He was giving me something I did not yet have language for. An internal hymnal. A soundtrack for my spirit. So even as the world told me I was lacking something, I had these words rising up in me. The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.
Thou art with me. It is old English, yes, but it feels like art. It is the line right at the center of the Psalm, the exact same number of Hebrew characters on each side, such symmetry, and it is the hinge that turns everything. Up until that moment, the Psalm speaks about God. And then suddenly, it speaks to God. Not a distant shepherd anymore, but a presence. Not an idea, but a companion. Thou art with me. That is what it means to be well shepherded.
For most of us, Psalm 23 has mostly been part of the land of funerals. Maybe it resides there for you. Those green pastures where a family gathers to bury a beloved human. These holy places where your eyes still water. We stand in the grass in nice shoes, acutely aware of the people we miss most, and these words dare to tell us that somehow we are still shepherded along, that we will have what we need, that the path goes on toward goodness and mercy and forever dwelling with God and not just death valley.
I am reminded of what William Blake , “We become what we behold.” We have so much research to show that what we memorize, where we focus our attention, wires our brains in that direction. So, I want to invite you to pay close attention to what you take in. Many children who grow up at BPC have Godly Play stories etched onto their hearts. Maybe you spend some time this week setting Psalm 23 to memory. Or learn a hymn well enough that you can sing it with your eyes closed. Then, you may start to see it with your eyes open.
“We become what we behold.” I find myself scanning the world for people who are well shepherded. Like scientists who study blue zones, those places where people live to be 100. People who live with a kind of groundedness. A kind of peace that does not depend on circumstances. People whose lives look like this Psalm. Contentment. Rest. Courage even in the presence of enemies. A quiet confidence that they are being pursued not by fear, but by goodness and mercy. Like Mr. Vincent, I hope we become those people. People formed by the grace of Christ, the Good Shepherd.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. I imagine most of us hear that line and picture God giving us a kind of place of honor right in front of our enemies—a moment where we can stand a little taller and think, “See? God’s on my side.”
But stay with me for a moment. What if it’s something else entirely? What if God sets a table and invites everyone to sit down, us and the people we struggle with? What if that table isn’t high ground at all, not a place to prop up our assumptions or prove we’re right, but common ground instead – a place where God draws us toward one another, where healing might actually begin, even in those deepest valleys where relationships so often fall apart?
A week ago, I was part of a small lunch conversation with Pastor Vernon Walton, Rabbi Michael Holzman, and Imam Magid, who leads the largest mosque in the country. But it was also God’s beautiful artwork. We were talking about faith250, our hope to bring the country together around faith and hope and love, and the conversation turned to the war in Iran. Imam Majid shared that his mosque has quite a few Iranian families who are shocked and devastated. Rabbi Holzman and Imam Majid wondered if they might be among the few rabbis and imams who could still share a table in the wake of October 7 th . They discussed that day too. Holzman’s synagogue has given space to Majid’s mosque for Friday prayers for decades, and when that awful day came, Majid called Holzman and said, “I would understand completely if – given all the suffering – we need to not have this prayer service. Let me know if we should cancel.” Holzman said, “Asbolutely not. I think this world needs as much prayer as possible.” Since then, Holzman has called Majid to offer prayers, a shared iftar meal, or what that day was a Panera sandwich, to make sure they remain at the table to together even though the relationship to Israel is fraught. With gratitude to Rev. Jarrett McLaughlin for this idea Majid said. “I think what is lacking is that people fail to see each other’s suffering. It is tempting when the shadow of suffering falls to see only our own. But all of us teach stories of a God who is close to those who are suffering, a God who knows what it means to suffer, and who brings people through it together. I mean that is what Jesus did, right?” Pastor Walton and I nodded. Walton said, “the good shepherd… lays down his life for the sheep.”
Their commitment to peace and reconciliation is as strong as ever. They continue to hold and behold each other. I got to thinking about the beautiful symmetry of this friendship. Before the war began – a commitment to mutual understanding and peace. Three years after wars continued to do their worst – still, a commitment to mutual understanding and peace. All of it forged at a table set in the midst of “mine enemies.”
We call Psalm 23 the Shepherd’s Psalm – yes because of the peaceful, serene imagery…but perhaps we call it the Shepherd’s Psalm because God so desperately wants to lead us to the places and spaces where reconciliation is possible. Perhaps the goodness and mercy that follow us all our days are not the comforting companions we imagine them to be. Maybe they are more like a couple of sheep dogs nipping at our heels, forcefully herding us back onto the paths of this fearless and life-giving Shepherd who would sooner lay down his life than deny someone access to that Table.
That table of reconciliation – it probably feels miles away from the green pastures and the still waters made famous by this Psalm, but I still have hope that we can do this – that it is not too late – that we can heal our deepest divides.
But to be clear – I don’t have this confidence because us humans are brave enough or righteous enough to pull it off. This confidence is anchored in one thing and one thing only. God. This good Shepherd of a God who leads us in paths of righteousness – even when they lead not to the shiny images of commercials but through the valley of the shadow of so much death. (and to borrow a page from the 23rd Psalm – allow me to switch from describing God to speaking to God directly)
We anchor our hope in you alone, God, for you are with us – unto the end of the age – you are with us. Everything out there tells us we ought to be at war with one another. I pray we can listen to the voice of the good Shepherd who is even now preparing a table of reconciliation for us and our so-called enemies. As we are herded – perhaps even against our will – remember that this same Shepherd God is with us through dark valleys – through the scariest environments imaginable.
May that Shepherd God be the goodness and mercy following behind you now and forevermore. Amen.