A Psalm for All Seasons

Psalm 23

On the whole we are probably right to be cautious about broad generalizations. ‘Men are no good at emotions.’ ‘Women think with their hearts.’ ‘You can’t trust politicians.’ Such broad brush assertions are almost sure to do many people—men, women, and politicians—an injustice. They often misrepresent more than they illuminate. And yet sometimes, big picture descriptions can be useful.

Take generalizations about life itself. Some descriptions of life, life as a whole—and we can hardly get broader than that—seem not only illuminating, but almost indispensible. Life, we say, is a journey. How deep into the mists of time does that metaphor go? The epic of Gilgamesh from ancient Mesopotamia, the earliest extended written narrative known, is the story of a hazardous journey the hero Gilgamesh undertakes in search of immortality. We meet the same metaphor again and again from then on. The Israelites wandering through the wilderness after the Exodus from Egypt, Cervantes great hero Don Quixote tilting at windmills, Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings with the Hobbits bearing the mysterious ring to the crack of Doom, right down to modern day road movies like Easy Rider or The Road. Life understood as a journey may be a huge generalization. But it hits the mark somehow. We know what is being said. We’ve been there. The relentless movement of days and tasks, the development of life from infancy to old age, unexpected transitions from happiness to grief or vice versa. Life is like a road we walk. And its twists and turns take us to all sorts of unanticipated places.

On the other hand—and here is a second great image—life is about location, a place to be, a home if you will. The longing for dwelling, like the reality of journey, seems deeply etched into human memory. The idea of the Promised Land, the dream of the new world, the struggle for Land Rights for indigenous people, the Ozzie dream of home ownership and the quarter acre block. Life is about the longing to find rest, a home of our own, ‘My Place’, as Sally Morgan called it.

The journey and the place. Both seem fundamental to the human condition. And despite their strongly contrasting implications, they are often deeply intertwined with each other. The prodigal son has to leave home and journey to the far country in order to find himself. The Israelites have to travel through the wilderness to come at last to the place of promise.

Psalm 23 is set down in the lectionary for today, the fourth Sunday of Easter. My guess is that, aside from the Lord’s Prayer, the words of this psalm are better known and loved both inside and outside the church than any others in all scripture. There is a reason for that. These words speak with great power into ordinary life, and especially so when our life is in turmoil or grief or uncertainty. The psalm seems to give voice to deep things that we all experience from time to time.

And one reason that it does, I think, is that in a brief space, six short verses, it makes profound use of these two foundational metaphors for life, the journey and the place. The shepherd Lord ‘leads me beside still waters’, ‘leads me in the right paths’, even when ‘I walk through the darkest valley’. The journey metaphor dominates the first half of the poem. But at verse 5 it changes. Journey gives way to dwelling place, the winding road and the straight path, give way to the set table and the solid home. ‘I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ And these two great images are used by the psalmist to illuminate both our own lives and God’s involvement in our lives. And all this with the wonderful brevity that only poets can muster. Certainly not preachers!

We know the twists of the journey, and how suddenly the terrain can change. We have enjoyed moments of contentment and places of deep nourishment on the way, the green pasture and the still waters. But then the landscape changes. The journey becomes arduous. Waters and pasture give way to harsh rocks and dry sand. A dark valley yawns before us, full of danger and the threat of death. We feel hemmed in and under attack. And there is no exit. Anyone who has been n the road for any length of time knows that such change is what the journey is like. That is life.

The same stark contrast marks the metaphor of dwelling place. The image of house has a sense of security about it. Here is a place of rest from the uncertainties of the road; a place where goodness and kindness dwell; a place where the table is set and the cup overflows. We belong. But here, too, there is ambiguity. Life is mixed in place as well as in journey. ‘You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.’ The valley of the shadow is transferred to the imagery of home. But it’s the same reality. Life is pasture and valley, table and enemy, threaded together.

Now if that were all this poet achieved, it would be impressive enough. We would resonate with the vision and feel the accuracy of the imagery. But that is not all. The most significant move the poet makes is to discern the living God in the journey and at the house. And he interprets God and God’s action in the light of these fundamental pictures.

In the journey segment of the psalm, God appears as the one who leads and protects on the way. God is guide and guard. In the dwelling place segment, God is the householder and host; the one who provides the dwelling, ‘the house of the Lord,’ and the One who prepares the table. The shift of language here is fascinating. While our pathway is in good places, by green pastures and still waters, the poet uses active, initiative-taking language. ‘He makes me to lie down in green pastures.’ ‘He leads me beside still waters’; ‘he leads me in right paths.’ It’s almost as if he is giving a report of something obvious, unmistakable. God leads our way in pleasant times. Okay. It is easy, or easier, to see God’s guidance when we are in green and watered places. This is largely what we mean by God’s blessing: to be in just such places.

But when the journey turns to the valley of the shadow, and when the poet speaks of the enemy that is present at the table, the language switches. He doesn’t speak of leading any more, but of presence, not of God being up front, and out there, but of being alongside and nearby. ‘Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.’ The leader, the one up front, becomes the companion, the one close beside. But even more than that.

God does not lead the poet into this dark valley, he just finds himself walking there. The darkness of life comes upon us, the enemy is there around the table, but, if we follow this poet, it is not God who brings it about. Evil in life is that which God does not choose or will or devise. But when it comes upon us, as it does, we are not alone, we are not abandoned. Even in the darkest valley, ‘You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemy.’ Note the language shift here as well. The poet moves from third person to second in speaking of God. From ‘he’ to ‘you’. In the times of blessing the poet says ‘he’. ‘He’ leads me beside still waters. ‘He’ restores my soul. But in the moment of threat, of darkness, of death, the Psalmist calls to God as ‘Thou’, a personal presence, whose goodness and mercy are unshakeable, and, like a strong shepherd’s crook around us, carry us when we cannot carry ourselves. ‘You are with me,’ now as companion, friend, bearer in time of need.

Life as journey; life as dwelling place. The road as welcoming and pleasant, and the road as rocky and threatening; the house as secure and the table well set; but also the ever present threat of the enemy. This stuff speaks to our humanity. But it also speaks of God. God as guide and guard; God as house builder and host; God as he and God as Thou. These are brilliant images, both anthropological and theological, and they are wonderfully woven together in the Psalm. No wonder it speaks to us. This is a psalm for all seasons, and probably, at some points in life, for all people.

But for Christians these words speak at another depth and with a further resonance. For the 23^rd psalm is taken up in the New Testament to refer to who God is and what God does for us in Jesus Christ. It is not just any old way that we are embarked upon in our journey. Jesus says, ‘I am the way.’ (John 14:6). And it is not just any old house that is our dwelling place. It is the house of the One Jesus calls "Father". ‘In my Father’s house are many rooms,’ he says. ‘I go to prepare a place for you.’ (John 14:2). And it is not just any old pasture that is in question; but a particular kind of nourishment. ‘I am the bread of life,’ says Jesus. (John 6:35). Nor is it any old waters by which we lie down. But the waters of which Jesus speaks to the Samaritan woman by the well, ‘the water that I will give you will become a spring of water welling up to eternal life.’ (John 4:14). And the banquet set in the presence of the enemy is not just any old table. It is this table of Christ. For ‘the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, "This is my body given for you."’ (I Corinthians 11:23-24). And in the valley of the shadow, it is not just any old rod and staff upon which we depend. It is the upright staff and the horizontal rod of the cross. And it is not just any old divine presence that is alongside. It is the presence of the risen Lord who says to us, ‘I am with you always, to the end of the age.’ (Matthew 28:20).

This is a psalm for all seasons; but particularly for this season, the season of Easter.