In The Valley

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

Now that we’re deep into this Lenten series, perhaps it’s a good time to confess why I hardly ever preach on this particular, popular psalm.


The reason is simple. It seems like whenever it shows up in church life, it’s at a funeral.

I guess you could say that the 23rd psalm is the official "go-to" for people who learned scripture from movies and television shows.

The first time I was asked to read it just so happened to be the first funeral I officiated. It was for a women whose children described her, quite joyfully, as a "hedonist." Having survived the horrors of Hitler’s Germany, she decided life was too fragile and short for anything but pleasure.

My second funeral, I got the same request. Psalm 23. Only this woman had it written into her will that it be read because held such deep meaning in her life. Two different women. Same reading.

But here’s the thing. Psalm 23 wasn’t written for the dead. It was written to the living. It’s not a farewell poem. It’s a survival guide.

​Which makes it perfect for getting through a funeral. Or a long, boring sermon. And we see why in today’s passage:

Even though I walked through the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comforted me.
                                                                                                 ​Psalm 23:4

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.