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I shall not want. Psalm 23:1b

The Christian life is a steep climb.  With every ledge we reach, the view changes. Scripture that once felt like a simple sing-song memory verse suddenly opens like a canyon ~ deeper and wider than we first knew. “I shall not want” is one of those lines.

Right now, I’m doing one of the things I love most. It’s 2:00 a.m. I’m on my porch, the low Corinthian bells are ringing outside my window, rain is whispering on the roof, and I’m talking to Jesus at length. “Come sit with me and listen to the rain,” I say. “I’d hungry for you to teach me something.”

These midnight rendezvous with Him are precious to me. And as I sit there, the familiar words of Psalm 23 come to mind. But they feel different, weightier: I shall not want. How many times have I carried false expectations into that verse? I’ve read it as if God were promising to fix whatever I think I need fixed.

But then I remember the confessions of my spiritual forefathers: Pressed, persecuted, in danger, misunderstood. This is not the fine print. This is the path. 

What, then, is actually promised here—if not a life where every circumstance is neatly repaired?  I must go back to the beginning of the verse.  The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.    

I will not want for a shepherd.   That is the promise.

I will not lack a wise Guide, a strong Protector, a tender Friend. I may carry a “thorn in the flesh,” but I will not lack the grace to bear it. I may weep over losses I do not understand, but I will not be abandoned in them. Life is not “fixed” yet. Hard things remain hard. But my deepest need is already answered. That part is settled.

Life isn’t fixed yet but my need for a Savior and constant Friend is.  No matter what may come – I shall not want.  Amen

The Lord is my shepherd.  Psalm 23:1

Shepherding was a common occupation for those in the Middle East. The Patriarchs were all shepherds, as was Moses and, of course, David. The terrain and geography of the area lent itself to the raising of sheep. Everyone was familiar with shepherding so no wonder God used it so often in the writing of the Scriptures.  The people to whom they were first written had a working knowledge of the concept.

But here’s the thing ~ The motif of shepherds as leaders is not exclusive to the Bible. King Hammurabi of Babylon called himself a shepherd.  Homer, in his writing, refers to Greek chiefs as shepherds of their people. The royal staff, or scepter, a common accessory for kings in the Ancient Near East, was itself a form of shepherd’s rod. Shepherds commonly used long poles such as these to poke around crevices in caves to scare out scorpions and snakes. It came to be a symbol of protection, power and authority. Even in Egypt, a divine symbol of kingship was the shepherd’s crook.

However, God wants us to know, since we understand shepherding, that He is the ultimate Shepherd.  With the perfection of His shepherding, He takes this concept to a level not present in any other cultures.  It makes sense that God would ask this question in Jer. 49:19. 

Who is like me and who can challenge me? And what shepherd can stand against me?”

As righteous a ruler as King David, his shepherding of Israel was imperfect.  As successful a president as Abraham Lincoln, his shepherding was imperfect.  As loving a father as you and I may have had growing up, their shepherding was imperfect.  Shepherds are flawed human beings, products of the fall.  The sting of their failures to guide, protect, and care for us can be devasting.  At some point, they will fail to guide; they will lead us astray.  At some point, they will fail to protect; the result is a loss of innocence.  At some point, they will fail to care for us; our needs will go unnoticed or even worse, they will be ignored.  The result is a rejection so deep that only God can heal it.

The Lord is my shepherd.  The Lord is your shepherd.  One of the great proclamations of the God of Israel is this ~ I am God and there is no other.  Today, I lift up my hands and worship with this prayer ~  

You are my Shepherd and there is no other.  You saved me from wolves. You added me to Your flock.  Now, with Your staff, You guide me to perfect pastures.  Amen

Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst.”  John 6:35

Jesus often speaks of the new birth in terms of coming and believing. Here, He adds two more verbs so I don’t miss the point: coming and believing are like eating and drinking.

• A culinary expert sits before a table overflowing with food. It is a feast—colors, textures, and fragrances all arranged with exquisite care. She circles the table slowly, studying every dish. She leans in to catch the aroma of a steaming platter, letting the herbs and spices tease her imagination. She tears off a corner of warm, multigrain bread, feeling the crisp crust and the soft interior. “Perfect,” she thinks. She analyzes, describes, evaluates. Later, she will write a beautiful article about the experience. But she never actually eats. She leaves with eloquent words and an empty stomach.

Nicodemus came to Jesus like that—curious, respectful, intelligent. He had a fascinating, late–night conversation with the Son of God and left with his mind full… but his heart still empty. I am unsettled by how many people can talk about the Bible in an informed way, but rarely speak of Jesus with the warmth of firsthand love. They master the text but miss the Person ~ kind of like a spiritual food critic. Bible study must be love–driven. Insight is not the main course; it is the byproduct of having actually dined. 

I think back to how many times I sat through the Lord’s Supper and missed its deepest meaning. “Take, eat… drink this cup.” It’s called communion.  A shared life.  A shared table.  Yet, I treated it as ceremony more than encounter. Now I understand a little better: He was never inviting me to analyze the meal. He was inviting me to partake of Himself.

Lord Jesus, I come, I believe, I eat, I drink. Amen

See now that I, I am He, and there is no god besides Me; It is I who put to death and give life. I have wounded and it is I who heal, And there is no one who can deliver from My hand.  Deuteronomy 32:39

What exactly is a life-saving wound? 

It is a wound that comes wrapped in a loving purpose. A wound allowed by a Friend, not an enemy. A wounding that, when redeemed, will one day yield a joy so deep it dwarfs the agony that once felt unbearable.

The tragedy is that so many children of God never see their past this way. They name their wounds only as tragedies. “Victim” hardens into a permanent label. Deprivation carves out a defeated mindset. And the God who was—and is—sovereign over their story becomes, in their eyes, more adversary than Ally. They reason that only an enemy would inflict a wound.  But enemies mean to kill or maim.  God wounds to save and bless.  Never do I suffer anything that is not an installment to something glorious. 

• A child who is never chosen, never the object of anyone’s affection, grows up carrying the heavy cloak of rejection. They move through the world assuming they are forgettable. But the wound can be lifesaving when he discovers that God is a pursuer. He tracks them through the years, draws them to the cross, adopts them into His family, and pours favor over their once-unwanted life.
• A teenager who has been mocked and bullied because he is “different” grows into an adult unsure of his voice. He believes his distinctiveness is a defect. Yet that wound can be life-saving when he realizes that God set him apart on purpose. The very traits that made him a target are the markings of leadership.
• A woman blindsided by divorce papers feels ripped in two. Betrayal echoes through her body. She is sure she will never again feel whole. But that wound can be life-saving when, driven to God, she finds Him not only as Father but as Bridegroom. Day after day He meets her in the quiet, loves her without flinching, whispers comfort, provides faithfully, and proves that she is not abandoned but cherished.

What is the nature of your unhealed wound?  And what is the need that rages as a result?  Are you willing to consider that the need you’ve just isolated is life-saving if it takes you into the arms of a God who does not trivialize what you suffered, but refuses to let it have the final word?  Look up. Believe. Live in the promises.

Revive my faith. Reinterpret my wounds.  Amen

Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us.  Psalm 62:8 

How many people do I really have with whom I can speak unfiltered—no careful spin, no guarding, no editing? With whom can I empty my heart and know that perfect wisdom is listening, sifting, and answering? If I’m honest, it’s a very short list. To speak that freely is a rare gift.       

The Hebrew phrase “pour out” is as vivid as it sounds: to empty, to spill, to let what is inside come out. I’m struck by how often Scripture uses it. Dependent prayer is described as “pouring out one’s soul.” God Himself “pours out his wrath” on hardened rebellion. And then there is this: “I will pour out on the house of David… a spirit of grace and pleas for mercy, so that, when they look on me, on him whom they have pierced, they shall mourn.” (Zechariah 12:10). Judgment poured out, mercy poured out, the Spirit poured out—Scripture is heavy with this language.

There are times I pour out my heart to a few trusted friends. But do I feel that free with God? Do I censor myself in prayer, weighing every word, trying to sound composed and mature? Do I sit on my anger, my disappointment, my confusion and call it “faith”? Or is prayer, for me, a place where I can truly tip my soul and let everything come—knowing my heart is landing in utterly safe hands? God invites that kind of honesty, and I am held in a Love that is not threatened by my mess.

Two images grip me.

First, I see myself lifting my heart to God, like a cup, and gently tipping it, letting the contents run out before Him.
Second, I see Him, in response, pouring out His own Spirit over me; washing, filling, softening what has grown hard.

Both are beautiful, but they are not equal. Pouring out my heart will bring some relief, yes. But the real transformation comes when He pours out His Spirit. When that happens, nothing in my inner world can stay quite the same.

So, with confidence and without restraint, I pour out my heart to You, Lord. And I ask—pour out Your Spirit upon me. Where I am fractured, make me whole; where I am numb, make me alive; where I am afraid, make me steadfast in You. Amen

By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down and wept, when we remembered Zion. On the willows there we hung up our lyres.  For there our captors required of us songs, and our tormentors, mirth, saying, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”  How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?    Psalm 137:1-3

Not all Psalms were written by David.  This one was written by a Jewish exile living in Babylon.  Having seen his homeland destroyed and then taken as a captive into the foreign culture of the Babylonian Empire, he struggled to get his spiritual bearings.  His new homeland was corrupt and excessive, and the people of God stuck out like sore thumbs. 

They were invited to sing their simple songs of faith to the taunts of the crowd, not unlike the Jews who were made to perform in the camps for Nazi soldiers.  Brilliant violinists, violists, cellists, and bass violin players formed string quartets to pacify the military tyrants who despised them. 

The song of the redeemed is being rendered just as peculiar against the backdrop of these unsettling days.  As we continue to witness rapid decline into the abyss of godlessness, we must not conform.  God’s grace will enable us to stand and to sing.  Our allegiance is to the kingdom of heaven and His culture of holiness.     

There is an ongoing emotional and spiritual adjustment for what we’re witnessing and what we know will come next.  In our grief, God invites us to sing the songs of the exiles. We are clearly outsiders and the brunt of society’s jokes, but our voices must not be silenced.  The noise of evil must not prevail over the praise of God’s people.  It’s not time to close the piano lid.  It’s not time to retire the pen of the poet.  It’s not time to put away the instruments.  Never has the music of faith been more important and never are the songs sweeter than when saints raise their joyful voices with tear stained faces. 

You are my joy.  Let my hope sing.  In Jesus’ name, Amen