on Psalm 23

 

What we call the Book of Psalms is in fact a compendium of five collections of in total 150 songs. Many are associated with (written by, or in honour of) David, though some are older and many more were composed after David’s time. Unarguably, the most famous of all is the twenty-third psalm.

The theologian Walter Brueggemann notes that many of the Psalms either ground us in the dependable goodness of God (psalms of orientation) or express lament in times of suffering or distress (psalms of disorientation) or give thanks for deliverance through such times (psalms of reorientation). The twenty-third psalm works its way through all three.

David lived about three thousand years ago. As a boy he was a shepherd, overseeing his father’s sheep. As a man he became an army general, then outlaw, and eventually a king. The twenty-third psalm draws on the experience of both shepherd and sheep, and general and troops.

Psalm 23

A Psalm of David.

1 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2 He makes me lie down in green pastures;

he leads me beside still waters;

3 he restores my soul.

He leads me in right paths

for his name’s sake.

The psalm begins by grounding us in the dependable goodness of God, who brings us again and again to rest—bringing us back to ourselves, when we have become scattered, pulled in every-which-way by fear or competing demands. (We engage with this through habitual practices such as Sabbath, one day in every seven to simply be and to enjoy the goodness of life.) It is interesting to note that rest is the state the shepherd-general wants for us, knows we need. It is in rest that we find comfort.This rest is not ‘doing nothing,’ but in fact essential for our lives to flow, to dance with vitality—with a contrast, lost in translation, between slow-moving waters and sparkling sheep (soldiers) flowing after their shepherd (general). The imagery continues, depicting sheep being led, to rest, along familiar trails, but the choice of words in the Hebrew the psalm was written in also describes the perimeter encircling an army camp, within which soldiers are able to rest. This is multilayered imagery, connecting to David’s varied life experience; but every layer is another way of describing coming to rest in God’s dependable goodness.

The psalm continues,

4 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.

Here the scene narrows right down from a spacious pasture to a narrow gorge whose high sides block out the sun. If you are a sheep, this is the perfect place for predators. If you are a soldier, this is the perfect place for enemy soldiers to set an ambush. And yet, the sheep follows her shepherd and the soldier follows his general, because they trust them. The shepherd carries a club for driving back predators, and the pastoral staff we are familiar with shepherds (and bishops) holding. The primary thing a shepherd does with this staff is, lean on it: it enables the shepherd to rest, and also to walk without losing her footing; and because the sheep knows that the shepherd is secure, the sheep may also experience rest, confidence and sure-footedness even in the dark passage.

This dark and narrow place is where we find ourselves in bereavement, at the death of a loved one, or the loss of a job, the breakdown of a friendship, or all manner of transitional seasons. It is the experience of mid-life, where our choices narrow, where we may move from being a generalist to a specialist; where, if we have them, our children leave home while our parents face old age and dying. The dark and narrow place is not one we can avoid, retreat from back to the spaciousness of younger years, or rush through. It is inevitable, and difficult, and formative; and even here we can experience rest in the dependable goodness of God.

The psalm continues,

5 You prepare a table before me

in the presence of my enemies;

you anoint my head with oil;

my cup overflows.

6 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.

If you are a sheep, the table prepared is a pasture that opens out from the narrow gorge, bejewelled with wild flowers. But the word choice of preparing also refers to the arranging of his troops for battle by a general. And the way the Shepherd prepares for us to come face-to-face with our enemies is to invite them, and us, to sit down together. That, over a shared meal, enmity might be transformed into friendship. Here, too, the pouring out of oil, which—whether a sheep who has picked up snicks along the way or a soldier who has been wounded in battle—is a medical image.

There are those who live in war zones, whose enemies are flesh and blood. But my own enemies are for the most part internal: my anxieties and fears; my catastrophising; the way my own physical body lets me down as it ages; shame. These are invited to the table, so that I might make peace with them. With myself, my whole being. That I might experience healing for my wounds.

The psalm concludes with goodness and kindness (the most underrated thing in the whole universe) and rest, in the sheep pen or in the great hall prepared for those who have come through the strife. Ends, where we began, with resting in the dependable goodness of God. Here, life is not what it was, but is still good: reconfigured, experiencing the love of God in a new season of life. That life has its changing seasons is inevitable: whether we experience rest in this, or fight it—becoming a ridiculous caricature of our younger selves, or resentful and bitter, in older age—is a matter of choice. To rest, or not to rest: that is the question.

Christians are aware that Jesus claims this psalm, the imagery of the Good Shepherd, for himself; and Christians also see Jesus as the Captain of our Souls, the one who leads us through suffering to glory—in this world and beyond. May we always return to rest in him, in every season.