My Shepherd

“The Lord is my shepherd” wasn’t just personal—it was political. It was a quiet refusal to let any empire, ruler, or system claim ultimate authority over your life.

In 2013, my family and I were visiting Colonsay, Scotland. It’s a small, peaceful island where my ancestors came from. The place has about 125 residents, and thousands upon thousands of free-range sheep.

They’re everywhere. In the fields. On the roads. Near the houses. And always under your feet—if you know what I mean.

There’s only one church on the island. No minister. No regular services. Just an old stone building that’s been standing there for hundreds of years, quietly weathering wind and rain.

​On this trip my mother announced we will be worshiping there. And I would lead service.

Well Sunday came, I noticed the church was locked up with an iron gate blocking the front door. When I pointed this out to my mother, she shrugged it off saying, “That’s just to keep the sheep out.”
 
Apparently, these free-ranged fluffers figured out how to turn the doorknob and get inside whenever the weather turned rough. However, they hadn’t figured out how to remove the lock and chain from the gate, which wasn’t even secured.
 
The sanctuary was literally a place of shelter and rest for these sheep. Which I found ironic because I was preaching from John’s Gospel where Jesus calls himself “the good shepherd.”

As soon as I read the part where Jesus says, “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me,” the sky opened up.
 
A howling gale pounded the old slate roof. And outside the window I saw them. Thirty or so sheep pressed up against the glass, looking for a shepherd to invite them in. Which leads me to the passage I want to talk about today:

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” 
​                                              Psalm 23:1

For the next six weeks, we’re going to walk with these six verses of this well-known psalm. Beginning with this first one. I chose this path for our Lenten journey because this season is more than white knuckling it through chocolate withdrawals or social media fasts, or whatever small pleasure we imagine God might want us to suffer without.

The point of fasting isn’t to prove our spiritual toughness. It’s to find clarity and to grow closer to God. It's about detoxing the soul long enough to ask honest questions, like who is shepherding my life right now?
 
Let’s face it, we’re all chasing after something, or being led by someone promising us safety, success and belonging. More often than not, that voice isn’t God. It’s our ego whispering, “Follow me. Because only I take care of you.”

Psalm 23 shatters that voice. It boldly declares, “The Lord is my Shepherd.”
 
The poet speaks in first person, because it’s personal and relational. It offers us a shepherd who walks with us, providing comfort and courage in difficult times. A shepherd who gives us restoration, nourishment, and a place to belong.

In the ancient world, kings were often called shepherds. To say “God is my shepherd” wasn’t just personal—it was political. It was a quiet refusal to let any empire, ruler, or system claim ultimate authority over your life.
 
When Jesus later stands up and says, “I am the good shepherd,” he’s giving this promise a human face, reminding us that we belong to God, not Caesar.
 
In a commentary of this passage, Nicky Gumble tells a story about two ministers who met a young shepherd deep in the moors of the Welsh highlands. As the story goes, the ministers tell the boy how Jesus wanted to be his shepherd—the one who would watch over him, just as he watched over his sheep.
 
Realizing the shepherd boy was uneducated and couldn’t read, they took his right hand and taught him this verse, using each finger to help him remember these five words: “The Lord is my shepherd.”

When they reached the fourth word—my—they told him to squeeze his finger tightly and pause because this psalm was meant for him.
 
Years later, after a terrible winter storm, the boy was found up in the hills buried beneath the snow. When they discovered his body, his left hand was curled around his fourth finger.
 
Squeeze your finger and say: the Lord is my shepherd. How does that feel? Did you notice it doesn't say the Lord is a shepherd, or the shepherd? It says the Lord is my shepherd. That one word—my—changes everything.

It tells me that my shepherd isn’t family. It’s not my job. Or political tribe, bank account, or reputation. It certainly isn’t my fear or constant anxiety about being enough. “The Lord is my shepherd,” the poet declares, “I shall not want.”
 
We live in a culture built on wanting. Our entire economy depends on it. If we all woke up tomorrow convinced that we had enough, things would fall apart fast.

I spent years in advertising tapping into that deep desire to want more by exploiting an insecurity in us all, that lie we tell ourselves, “I don’t have enough.” So, I can understand why you might hesitate when I tell you trust God’s provision and providence.
 
It’s even hard for me to imagine surviving on only the basic necessities of life: food, drink, shelter, protection. Still, Scripture invites us to: Trust in the Lord with all your heart, lean not into your own understanding, in all your ways acknowledge him and he will direct your path (Prov. 3:5-6).
 
That may sound hopelessly naïve by our greed over need mentality, but let’s not forget it was Jesus who said: “Don’t worry about your life, what you will eat or drink, or wear; isn’t life more than food and drink, and the body more than clothing? Strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” (c.f. Matthew 6:25-33)
 
Both of these passages hold a special place in my heart. They have led me to a place where I can now see how my desire for more is the engine that drives my anxiety and that dreadful feeling of “being less than” when I can’t achieve it. They have helped quiet that voice of my ego saying, “Just a little more and then ...”
 
Have you ever made that plea to God? I did before accepting my call to ministry. “Just two more years of work, of money and security, and then I will go to seminary.”

In another twist of irony, it was in seminary I learned the Hebrew word translated as “want” doesn’t mean desire in the casual sense. It means “to lack” or “to be diminished.” The psalmist isn’t saying, “I don’t want anything.” He’s saying, “I am not less than” to my Shepherd.

Because I belong to God, I am complete.
 
In John’s gospel, Jesus says, “I am the good shepherd.” He finds his wholeness in God’s grace and love. It becomes his being, who he is, and what he offers to us.

In the same way, Jesus describes himself as the bread that satisfies. Water that quenches. Life that’s abundant. He isn’t offering us more stuff. Jesus is giving us his wholeness, his life, his way to find our divine essence.
 
This is good to remember as you move through Lent. Because in the wilderness of life, even the best sheep can wander off and end up in dark ravines. If that’s you—if you struggle to be faithful, if you find yourself lost, or simply feeling overlooked or forgotten, this Good Shepherd is calling you by name inviting you to walk with him through the darkness, guided by his light.
 
I think this matters because it’s not the wilderness God changes, it’s us. We are transformed when lean into Christ and walk in his sacred presence.

But here’s the thing I’ve discovered by following the Way of Jesus. He doesn’t just give us care, he shows us, and calls us, to be caretakers of one another. To be both sheep and shepherds.
 
Standing in that little stone church, with the rain pounding and sheep bleating, I was reminded that the church isn’t supposed to keep sheep out. It exists because sheep need shelter. A sanctuary where God’s providence will always be present.
 
As the Body of Christ, our job is to be very presence of God’s love. Which means we are to be shepherds that lead others to peaceful pastures and gentle waters. We are to open our hearts as refuge, and our hands as a space for healing and rest. And we must refuse to lock the doors and keep others out when the storms come.
 
Today our Lenten journey begins in a time when the world seems fragile. We are sent to walk amid people who are barely holding on by a thread.

But as we go, let us go knowing and trusting that God is using those threads to knit us tightly together in love.

​For it is out of great love that God comes to us, to walk and to care for all who dare to follow.