The With-God Life

Psalm 23 is one of those passages we carry with us, almost without realizing it. Many of us memorized it as children. We’ve heard it spoken over hospital beds, read aloud at gravesides, whispered in moments of fear. Its words feel like home.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

With those opening words, we’re drawn into a world of green pastures, still waters, and a guiding presence even through the valley of the shadow of death. It’s no wonder these verses have been called a song of comfort, a promise of peace, a lifeline of trust.

But, have we become so familiar with it that we assume we already know what it’s saying?

What if the first words of this Psalm were uttered last?

What if “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want” isn’t the opening note, but the closing chord?

Not the starting block, but the finish line?

What if "The Lord is my shepherd" is not a triumphalist declaration of someone setting out, but more the posture of someone who has walked the path, endured the valleys, received the Shepherd’s care, and now is in a place of settled trust?

A Sheep's view of life

David, the author of Psalm 23, knew the shepherd’s life well. He understood the demands of leading sheep to good pasture, the vigilance required to guard them from danger, the constant care it took to keep them safe. Naturally, we’ve come to read this psalm through his eyes—as if it were the shepherd’s journal.

But what if it isn’t?

What if this is the sheep’s story?

From a sheep’s perspective, the relationship with the shepherd is nothing short of total dependence. Every need—food, water, safety, direction—comes from the shepherd’s hand.

Read this way, the psalm becomes a journey from fear and neediness to a place of deep rest and trust. At its heart, our hearts log for more than green pastures and still waters as a pleasant scenery—it’s about the struggle we know so well: the longing for security, providence, and above all the the push and pull between grasping for control and learning to let go. Between striving to manage everything ourselves and surrendering to the One who provides. And that raises the question we can’t escape:

What does it look like when we try to control our own lives?

And what might it feel like to, like the sheep, learn to trust— to be peacefully dependent, utterly cared for?

Now, as humans, we might think of lying down when we’re tired or when we want to relax. But from a sheep’s perspective—what kind of sheep truly lies down in green pastures? And what does that tell us about the shepherd?

It’s not the hungry sheep. It’s not the restless one. A sheep that is still hungry and looking for food, or is anxious about predators, or unsettled by its surroundings—won’t lie down. And here’s why this matters so much: fear and anxiety shut down the soul. A frightened sheep won’t eat, no matter how much food is in front of it. In the same way, when we are caught up in striving and grasping for control, we can’t receive what God is already offering. His provision sits before us, but we miss its purpose.

The only sheep that rests is the satisfied one.

Remember the story of the Israelites? God provided manna from heaven—every single day, just enough for that day. But some of them couldn’t resist the urge to take more. They hoarded it, trying to secure tomorrow’s supply for themselves, and it spoiled in their hands.

That’s the striving sheep: anxious, restless, scrambling to manage its own future.

The trusting sheep? It simply receives what is given today. And in that posture of trust, it finds peace.

And this should fundamentally shift our understanding of God’s sufficiency. It’s not simply about meeting a need, as if God only hands out just enough to get by. No—it’s about provision so complete, so abundant, that we are moved to deep, settled contentment. That is what leads to true rest.

A satisfied sheep.

Isn’t that what our souls long for too? Not just to have our immediate needs met, but to know such fullness that rest finally becomes possible?

The Shepherd's vision for life

Green pastures. Still waters. On the surface, they sound like food and drink—basic survival needs. And of course, the shepherd provides those. But Psalm 23 is inviting us to see something much deeper. Being fed isn’t the goal. Being restored is.

This is the heart of the Shepherd’s care. Not simply full bellies or safe shelter, but inner healing.

True rest.

That’s the shepherd’s vision for his sheep. Provision that leads to satisfaction. Satisfaction that quiets restlessness. And in that stillness, a deeper work begins: “He restores my soul.”

Yet here’s where the imagery gets even more profound. The way we picture God matters. Calling him a Shepherd, or a Father—these images shape the way we experience his presence. But for some, those words aren’t comforting. If you’ve known an earthly father who was harsh or absent, imagining God as Father may be painful. If shepherds in ancient times were known to exploit or neglect their flocks, as in Ezekiel 34, then “shepherd” might carry heavy shadows too.

That’s why it’s so striking that Jesus calls himself the Good Shepherd. He isn’t just repeating an old metaphor—he’s redefining it. He contrasts himself with bad shepherds, those who fed themselves at the flock’s expense. And in doing so, he paints a vision of a God who truly cares, who stays close even in the valley of the shadow of death, who promises goodness and mercy all the way home.

But here’s the challenge: if this is the Shepherd’s world, and we are the sheep, then why are we still trying to control? Why do we hoard, or cling to, or plan three steps ahead for—when the Shepherd has already promised provision?

For many of us the desire to control outcome ourselves outweighs the invitation to rest securely in trust in another.

Trust is hard work. The story of manna in the wilderness makes this clear. God gave the people their bread, daily, just enough for each day, with the promise of more for the next day. But, as the people soon found out, the trust required to be content was harder than the toil involved in hoarding extra for themselves. What they hoarded rotted in their hands. It was an illusion of security. They had the ability to gather more—but they didn’t need to, but they did.

That distinction is just as relevant for us: ability isn’t the same as need. We live in a world that prizes control and power as currency. We measure the good life by how much we can secure for ourselves. But that doesn’t look like a well-rested sheep in green pastures. That looks like a frantic sheep, pacing the hills, mapping its own way, clutching at water sources that were never its to claim.

Psalm 23 invites us to live differently. To pause and ask not, “How can I fix this?” but “How is God leading me right now?” Not, “What can I grab to meet my need?” but “What deeper restoration is God offering me in this moment?”

It is an invitaion to yield. As Jesus puts it, come... learn from me ... and you will find rest for your souls (Matt 11:28-30) .As we begin to yield to the Shepherd’s way, the shift begins. From striving to trusting. From controlling to following. And slowly, the sheep learns—through experience—that the

The Good Shepherd really can be trusted. That trust becomes the only foundation strong enough to carry it through dark valleys and uncertain paths.

Goodness that follows us, even through the Valley

Did you notice that fearlessness isn’t where the journey starts. It’s the fruit of restoration. It’s the result of trust learned step by step, day by day, in the care of the Shepherd who proves himself over and over again.

And that leads us to the psalm’s most radical insight—one that turns our idea of the “good life” upside down. We’re taught to chase it. To hustle harder, climb higher, secure more. But Psalm 23 whispers something profoundly countercultural:

Stop chasing.

What if the good life isn’t something to hunt down at all?

What if it’s something that follows you?

Do you feel the difference?

Not chasing.

Not striving.

Not running after a horizon you can never quite reach.

Instead, being followed.

That’s the Shepherd’s vision of the good life. It’s not something you secure by effort or control. It’s something that flows out of relationship.

Out of trust.

Out of simply being with him.

That’s the paradox of Psalm 23. The very things we long for most—peace, wholeness, abundance—don’t come when we strive for it.

They come when we rest.

When we trust.

When we follow.

That’s why the psalm’s opening line is more than a beautiful beginning—it’s the conclusion we grow into as we walk with Jesus. The with-God life, through both shadowed valleys and quiet waters, slowly teaches us this truth. As we release our striving and embrace trust, discovering that yielding is the way to truly live, we arrive at a place where we can finally say with confidence:“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

Shepherd of my soul,

Teach me to yield, to trust your hold.

Quiet my striving.

Calm my fears.

Restore me from the inside out.

Help me to rest today in the truth

that you are with me,

and in your care,

I shall not want.

Amen.