I was a bit too young to call it a full-blown spiritual crisis, but at the age of seven, it was as traumatic as it could be. It happened in school assembly and it happened more than once. In England, state schools are required to hold a daily act of worship, and so at the morning school assembly, we would have a prayer, a gentle little message about God or morality delivered by a teacher who may or may not have believed in God and who may or may not have had any kind of personal morality.
You should have seen my teachers and we'd sing a hymn, and it was a hymn that caused my spiritual crisis. And we seemed to sing this one every couple of weeks. And in that one troublesome hymn, there was one deeply distressing line that was the cause of my existential crisis. And there is no existential crisis, like the existential crisis of a 7-year-old.
It was a setting of Psalm 23, and the line that gave me my dark night of the soul was the first one. The Lord is my shepherd. I'll not want. Now I'm seven. Right? Uh, I don't know a lot about English grammar. I know even less about the 17th century language of the King James Bible, which of course was the source of these words.
So when I heard the Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want, I failed to notice the semicolon after Shepherd. The tomb didn't help either. Uh, we've just heard it. It was called ReMed. And there is absolutely no musical pause between shepherd and Isle. So the words just run together. The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want.
So in my 7-year-old brain, I thought the meaning of the line was the Lord is my shepherd. That or whom I will not want. I mean, how else could you hear it? Seriously, I can't tell you how this messed me up when other kids were lying awake at night thinking about pop music or football, I'd be trying to fathom the nature of God.
If God is good and kind and loving like the rest of the hymn says he is. Why would I not want God? The Lord is my shepherd. I'll not want, uh, it just doesn't make sense. Why would that be if it is also the God who lay me down in green pastures, made my cup run over and ensure goodness and mercy, mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, the lord's my shepherd.
I'll not want. Seriously. It was years before I read a translation of Psalm 23 that made it clear that because the Lord is my shepherd, I will want for nothing. I'll lack nothing. I'll be complete, satisfied, full. Now we're talking that shepherd. Yes, I'll take that shepherd. That shepherd I really do want, and that shepherd I really do need because I've tried plenty of other things and although they may give me pleasure, they don't make me content, although they give me fun.
They do not give me peace, although they make me laugh. They do not make me safe. Those things don't answer the deep crisis in my soul. They don't tell me that I'm limitlessly, loved and unconditionally desired. They can't be the source of my identity or the cause of my peace. That's not to pour cold water on these things.
All of them are good and right and beautiful. I'm thinking of a meaningful career, warm friendships, true relationships, good health, creative hobbies and pastimes, even money, and the things it can buy. These are God's gifts, but we can't expect them to fill us, satisfy us, complete us, shepherd us the way our creator can.
He is the shepherd who knows me inside and out, who sees my darkest motives and still loves me without limit that shepherd I want and need a shepherd who will forgive me anything out of sheer, dogged, stubborn, unconditional love that shepherd. I want and need a shepherd who will go to any lengths to find me, rescue me and make me safe, that shepherd I want and need.
The last few years have taught humans many things, whole volumes of truth, and much of it unsettling. One of the most important epiphanies is the truth of our sheep likeness. And by that I mean our vulnerability. Sheep are utterly defenseless. They have no defense mechanisms, no claws, no sharp teeth, no armor.
They can't dig holes to escape predators. They don't climb trees to avoid becoming lunch, and their white coats in a lush green field must be the worst camouflage in all of creation. They don't spray noxious substances like skunks. They don't spit chemical weaponry like llamas. They can't prickle like a hedgehog or disappear into a shell like a turtle.
They can't overpower their enemies by their sheer size. The problem with sheep is that they run like sheep, swim like sheep and fly like sheep. The only thing going for them on defense is horns and only half of them have them. And in my experience of walking in the English countryside, even if a ram has horns, it will still run away when you approach it, especially if you are walking a border Collie, which is what I used to do.
All it took was something so small we can't even see it. A virus to show us what little power we human beings actually have. Something you can't even see without a microscope. But it humbled the human race and we actually got off lightly. If the virus had overcome young and healthy people to the same extent, it overpowered older, less healthy populations, then our devastation would've been unimaginable.
We are sheep needing a shepherd. There are other kinds of viruses, of course, that teach us the same humbling lesson that we are not in control, that we need a shepherd. These are the digital kinds of virus with AI and other computerized technology, and they make humanity terrifyingly vulnerable.
I used to love the Hans Christian Anderson story, the Emperor's New Clothes, written in 1837 when I was small. I had a wonderful addition of it. Like all good children's books. It was made memorable by the pictures and like all good children's books, it demanded to be read every night for months. I used to love the humbling of the emperor so full of himself that a little piece of flattery by two con men could persuade him to be believe in a set of clothes that didn't exist.
And how I would giggle at the last picture of the book, the Pompous Emperor Striding Grandly through the streets wearing just his crown and his underwear, and the emperor is all of us and all of our sophisticated, enlightened nations who think we are the masters of our own destiny.
Now along with those vivid viral proofs of our helplessness against outside forces, we are also rocked by a truth, even scarier, a revelation even darker. We have no power over our inner forces, our wayward human natures. The capacity of the human heart to perform acts of evil still shocks us. It shouldn't.
After the blood bath of the 20th century, we should know by now that we have a magical ability to mess things up. All the collected wisdom and innovation of centuries is powerless against our fatal flaws. The love of power, the love of wealth. And the love of self, my do we need a shepherd, a good shepherd, a divine shepherd who laid down his life for his sheep and will be with them all over the green field.
That is this life. We organize our lives to limit the risk of accidents, but we have no power over the laws of nature or the actions of other people. We can predict the weather, but we can't control it. We understand how earthquakes happen, but we cannot prevent them. We can prolong life, but we can't avoid death.
We can create wealth, but we are unable to manage it so that everyone on earth has enough. We can split the atom, but we are powerless to resist the urge to apply that knowledge in a way that can destroy the globe. There is so much we can do, and yet we remain powerless to change ourselves. We can conquer space, but not our hearts.
We tame all kinds of animals, but not our tongues or our thumbs. We perform heroic deeds of sacrifice and love, but also act with unspeakable cruelty.
Let's finish on a lighter note, a note of joy because our frailty is not the last word. The last word is grace. The final message is hope. The ultimate syllable bellowed throughout creation is love. The Lord is our shepherd, and we shall lack nothing, even if we have to be stripped of so much before we can see so clearly what's important.
So let's take a stroll through green pastures besides still waters. Let's have our souls revived and guided along right pathways. We'll discover that God is our provider, protector, healer, and host. There is hope for us. There is a future because of our shepherd. Let us take courage that we can walk through the valley of the shadow of death and fear.
No evil. Let's sit at table, have our heads anointed with oil and watch as our cups are filled to overflowing provider, protector, healer, and host. Let's do this, because the Lord is our shepherd, we shall not be in want. He's with us. His rod and his staff comfort us. Surely, goodness and mercy, like two little dogs will follow us all the days of our life and as if all that were not enough, we will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Provider, protector, healer, host, which aspect of the good shepherd do you need today? The provider. The Shepherd who gives you the vital thing that you need right now, the protector, the shepherd who covers you from danger and anxiety, the healer who pours on you, his oil of health, or the host, the Shepherd, who welcomes you home and treats you like an honored guest.
You see, this is a Psalm of motion. It's about being led in safety to water, to pasture, to shelter. The life in God's flock is a life of journey, of progress, of growth. Everywhere you go, there's goodness and mercy following you. Turn the corner and there's goodness and mercy right in front of you. Get up tomorrow morning and there's goodness and mercy waiting for you by your bedside, sitting with you at breakfast, following you all day, wherever you go.
There's goodness and mercy for the Lord is our shepherd that we will indeed want so that we will not want for any good thing. Amen.