​Of course we were just as surprised as he was because, again, the party wasn't until Friday and it was Tuesday. He was three days early. 

​Since he made the trip, and it was St. Patrick’s Day, we invited him in, poured him a Guinness and fed him a late dinner. That's what good hosts and good friends are supposed to do, right?

Over the last month, Psalm 23 has been our roadmap for Lent. We’ve rested in "green pastures" and navigated the "dark valley." And, of course, leaned on God’s guidance every step of the way. 

Today, the scenery shifts. The metaphor matures. God stops being just a Shepherd, and becomes a Host. We aren't just sheep anymore; we are Honored Guests. Instead of leading us places, God welcomes us home, cracks open a Guinness, and invites us to sit at the table.

But here’s the thing, God’s banquet isn't happening in the back deck with friends. Here's what the fifth verse has to tell us:

As I’ve been saying all along this Psalm is intensely personal. Any one of us could write our name into. It could be talking about the person in the casket or the pews, and the weight of this promise holds true.

I believe the power and beauty of this psalm is that it offers us a bridge of hope when the ground beneath us has completely given way.


Now, some translations call this space, the “valley of the shadow of death” while others call it, “the darkest valley.” Either way the geography is familiar. We’ve all hiked that terrain. The dark night of the soul where the shadows feel more substantial than the shepherd.

The landscape the poet describes is the wadi. This is an Aramaic word for the narrow ravines that cut through the Judean wilderness where the rock walls tower so high they literally squeeze the light out. If you’ve ever hiked "The Narrows" in Zion National Park, you know what I’m talking about.

The Narrows (pictured above)  is a cold, meandering canyon where the shadows are heavy and the footing is treacherous even for a skilled hiker.

That’s the wadi. A dark, narrow, dangerous space the Shepherd takes us to on purpose.  Not as a detour or divine mistake. It’s part of the right path to the next pasture.

So when the shadows are pressing in on you, remember: you’re not lost. You’re exactly where the Shepherd is leading you.

Now, despite the countless times I’ve read this at a funeral, it wasn’t until this week that I noticed a grammatical shift that occurs. The first three verses talk about God.“He makes me lie down…He leads me…He restores my soul…”

When the darkness fall, the grammar shifts. The poet starts talking to God. “For you are with me.”

In the sunny green pasture, God is a caretaker. But in the dark valley, God becomes my closest companion.

The shift from “He” to “You” is the heartbeat of this psalm. You might be tempted to argue this poem was pointing to Jesus. I don’t know about that, but I suspect it was not the intent of the poet.

But there’s something comforting to know that “You” takes on flesh and blood. It becomes incarnate. And walks among us, leading us down the right path, home to where we first came.

That’s what love does. It comes to us, and walks with us. It cares for us, and protects us.

Perhaps that’s why Jesus uses this metaphor. He says,“I am the good shepherd…who has come so you might have life, and have it abundantly.” He tells his disciples, “My sheep know my voice, and they follow me.”

You see, Jesus knows the terrain of human suffering. He knows betrayal. He knows grief. He knows fear. But he also knows the way.

When we walk through the darkest valley, we walk a narrow path worn smooth by the feet of the One who says, “I am the light of the world, whoever walks with me will not walk in darkness.”

Now, here’s the thing about shadows. They only exist because there is a light source nearby. They are created when that light is being blocked by the very thing that scares you.

We can let all the darkness in our world today paralyze us. The fear of war, the fear of gun violence in our schools, the fear of losing all our savings because the lunatics have taken over the asylum.

We can give into the fear. Or we can trust to follow the right path of the Good Shepherd, who is our guiding light, whose rod and staff protect and lead the way.

Which brings up another, more personal reason I have avoided this psalm until now.

When I was young, this particular verse was used against me by teachers who believed corporal punishment was somehow holy. They used it as a license to hit me and other students for simply being kids. It was an abusive 'spare the rod' mentality that twisted a beautiful promise into a source of fear.

For most of my life, this verse didn’t bring comfort; it brought anxiety.

Maybe you know that feeling. Maybe you still carry the scars of a harsh, celestial headmaster waiting for you to mess up. I think it’s time we take back its original intent.

You see, a shepherd’s rod was used for defending the flock from threats. And his staff wasn’t for striking sheep. The curved hook was used to gently pull them back from danger.

The rod protects. The staff guides. These are tools of care, not punishment. They are part of God’s grace, not wrath.

Which means the Shepherd’s power is about protection, guidance, and a love strong enough to keep us safe and close. A love so powerful we can all declare, “I will fear no evil.”

I have my shepherd. And I have my flock. These two things matter. They give us hope. And remind us that we are never alone.

When the dark shadows creep over you, it’s easy to feel isolated, like you’re the only one suffering. I know what that’s like. I've walked that wadi more than once.

Remember the parable about the lost sheep?

How the shepherd goes looking for it, even if it means leaving the others on their own, in the wilderness. Jesus reminds us that the Shepherd never leaves a single sheep behind. But the parable also tells us that we have a flock to lean on.

Isn’t that the whole point of church?

You see, when the wadi gets narrow, sheep huddle so closely that one’s strength becomes another’s stability.

When your faith feels thin, someone else’s faith carries you. When I’m tired or my strength gives out, someone else steadies me as “I walk through the valley…”

We don’t walk into the wadi. We walk through it. These long, dark shadows aren’t our final destination. We don’t stay here.

Which is why I chose this psalm for Lent. A season where we willingly enter the valley to examine the parts of ourselves that need healing or transformation.

But we don’t dwell in the wilderness. The shepherd is leading us to where a table and feast await.

So, if you find yourself in a dark valley, whether it’s a personal crisis, spiritual drought, or emotional shadow—don’t fear. You’re not alone. God is with you. And so is this flock.

​So lean into the wool of the person beside you. Let their prayers and presence hold you up when the ground below gives out.

I know this trek is daunting. The walls of the canyon are high. The path can feel restrictive.

​But God isn’t just watching you from a safe distance.

Our Shepherd is right here in the ravine with you, leading you safely home to a table that has been prepared just for you.

As we finally made our way home in the fading twilight, I took notice of the giant redwood that towers beside our house (pictured above). In its silhouette, I noticed a couple of its massive branches had grown outward.

If you squint your eyes a little, the tree seems to be in the shape of a cross. How apropos for a house church! This was another startling reminder that the symbols of our faith are not just cold artifacts. They’re woven into the very fabric of creation.

Moving slowly through the wilderness of Lent, we are able to remember that we are also moving closer to the cross of Good Friday. That cross, considered to be one of the most brutal ways the Roman Empire controlled their subjects, tells us something remarkable about how God, humans, and nature are interconnected.

Think about it, one beam is rooted in the earth as it reaches up to heaven. The other beam stretches outward across the horizon, holding that space between you and me. In the middle is Jesus with his arms wide open, pouring God’s love out upon all of creation.

While you might want to rush through your 40 day fast and feast, I hope that you’ll give yourself permission to slow down a little. Spend some time out in nature, in what I like to call “God’s therapy room.”

​Step outside. Wiggle your feet in the grass. Dig your fingers into the soil. Sit back and notice the sky, the trees, the small holy moments happening all around you. Listen to the birds, the wind, and the sweet, soft voice that whispers, “This is for you.”

Of all the Ten Commandments, taking a day of Sabbath rest is one most of us break with little remorse. We are a culture of workaholics. We tell ourselves if you’re not busy, you’re not important.

I am guilty of working on my days off. We all do, because you got to get things done while you got the time.

I’m not complaining but I actually spent my birthday cleaning the house and doing some serious yard work to get everything ready for our party. It didn’t seem like a lot, until the next morning I woke up with a back ache. I could chalk it up to age. But really, I should’ve jus taken the day off and chill like I had planned.

We live in a world that treats exhaustion as a status symbol. It’s that “No pain, no gain” mentality we’ve built ourselves on.

I think there’s a part of all of us that’s addicted to the grind; even when it’s grinding us into dust. I wonder what this poet was going through to write this psalm about a shepherd whose job is to make sure the sheep are cared for.

Was he inspired by the Belgian Shepherd, a breed used by Navy SEALs … because their drive never shuts off. 

Commonly known as a Malinois, this dog doesn't just "go for a walk"; it patrols. It doesn't "play fetch"; it executes a mission. Left to their own devices, these dogs will run until their heart explodes believing world will collapse if they aren't on high alert.

I have a friend who has a Malinois  named Bree. When she gets too wound up, they have to put her in her crate and cover it with a blanket to calm her down. They call it “enforced rest.” Which feels like what this psalm is talking about.

Notice it doesn’t say God’s sending us a calendar invite to kick it in green pastures. It says God leads us there. And makes us lie down. Enforced rest! Without it, we’d work ourselves to death.

Now there are four conditions that must be met before a sheep will lie down:

• They must be free from fear.
• Free from friction with others in the flock.
• Free from nagging pests and parasites.
• And free from hunger.

If even one of those is off, the sheep will stay on its feet—tense, alert, and eventually exhausted. Does that sound familiar?

Many of us have trouble sleeping because the news has you constantly on-edge. Maybe there’s unresolved anger keeping your up at night. Or maybe you’re being eaten alive by those small but relentless pests; like the constant buzzing of notifications, the biting fear of missing out. Maybe you’re physically hungry because food is becoming too expensive.

The Shepherd knows an exhausted sheep is a vulnerable sheep. So, God makes us lie down. Enforced rest.

I’m starting to believe God uses our “stressors" to bring us to the end of ourselves, until the only thing left to do is collapse into the pasture of God’s peace. And be refreshed in the still waters of God’s grace.

In Hebrew, that phrase, still waters, literally means, "waters of rest." Growing up around water, I learned to swim at an early age. Part of that training was learning not to panic if you accidently fall in. Not so with sheep. If you’ve ever gone swimming fully dressed, you’d know why. Wool soaks up water like a sponge. So sheep avoid the rapids and fast moving water, because if they accidentally fell in, they could drown within minutes.

Sheep know their limits. They need the water to be calm and the space to still before they will kneel down to drink. We, on the other hand, are always trying to drink from a firehose. And we wonder why we’re always thirsty!

Here’s the thing, there will always be strong rapids and white-water trying to pull us down. God doesn’t promise us a storm-free life. Even Jesus faced the wilderness, temptation, and chaos.

But when we find ourselves at the end of our rope, when we can no longer keep our heads above the white-water, our Shepherd leads us to rest, makes us lie down by the quiet pools where we can safely be refreshed without being swept away.

Now, there’s one more thing I want to mention about sheep. A danger they face called “casting.”

This happens when they nestle into a little hollow in the ground. As they move around to relax, their center of gravity shifts. And it’s common for them to roll onto their backs and unable to get up. The weight of their own wool traps them. If the shepherd doesn't find them and physically flip them over, they will  suffocate themselves and die.

Have you ever felt spiritually cast? We settle into our hollows of achievements, approval, or addictions then suddenly find ourselves stuck, looking at the sky, paralyzed. And like sheep, all we can do is cry out for help, hoping the Shepherd hears us before it’s too late.

Maybe you’re in one right now, wondering if God hears you, or  paying attention to your distress.

Jesus tells a parable about a shepherd who owns a hundred sheep. When one goes astray, this shepherd leaves the 99 to find it. Upon finding it, he rejoices.

Like Psalm 23, this parable highlights God’s immense love, care, and willingness to seek us out and bring us home. But there’s something more amazing hidden in this parable. The shepherd leaves the others in the wilderness, on their own,  trusting the sheep are exactly where they need to be.

The wilderness is where God leads those who dare to follow. It’s a time we spend in the grace and mercy of the Shepherd. That is the season of Lent, the 40 days we spend being refreshed and renewed.

Now the Judean wilderness isn’t like the lush, rolling green pastures of Scotland. The place is more like small patches of grass hidden in rocky shadows. The only way a sheep will know how to find them is to follow someone who knows where they are.

Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd. My sheep know my voice. They follow me.” This is still true today. To follow Jesus, is to learn to trust the One who went before us, who knows how God provides for us, and where true rest actually exist.

So, if you’re in a season of distress right now, feeling the weight of all that you carry, if your heart is pounding and your soul feels waterlogged, remember this: God isn’t asking you to "tough it out." God is inviting you to lie down. And when we ignore that invitation, God will find ways to make us rest.

We might think we can keep pushing ourselves to achieve more, to keep moving and keep straying out on our own until we drop. When we are only focused on proving our worth to others, we can’t hear God saying, "Stop. Rest. You’re just a thirsty sheep in a wet sweater. Lie down before you fall down and never get up."

Now one last thing about rest that is important for us to remember. When you allow yourself to be refreshed and restored by God, you become someone who can lead others to these green pastures and still waters. We become living testimonies to God’s goodness and glory. That’s the goal.

The Church shouldn't be another rushing torrent of noise or busyness. We are meant to be a place where people can come and actually lie down and find rest for their souls.

To quote Henri Nouwen, “Without solitude it is virtually impossible to live a spiritual life.” We need it. And we the church should be the first place to provide an oasis in the wilderness that God leads others to.

This week, I invite you to identify one area in your life where you are overwhelmed or anxious. Then imagine the Shepherd’s hand on your shoulder, gently pushing you down into the grass.

Don't fight or resist it or make an excuse to stay busy. Just accept God’s tender embrace, and lean into mercy and grace.

I think this is what Jesus means when he says, “Come to me, all who are weary, and you will find rest.”

​May you go to him, our Good Shepherd, The one who lays down his life for his sheep.