S2 Ep.7-Sheep Are Bad At Relaxing And So Are We

Psalm 23 is everywhere, but we often hear it at the one moment it was never meant to be limited to. I’m Steve Pizzato, and I want to sit with this psalm as a companion for the middle of life, when the road stretches longer than we expected and the next step isn’t always clear.

We start with the first line and slow down long enough to feel its weight: “The Lord is my shepherd.” Not a map. Not a strategy. A presence. We explore what it means that a shepherd leads from the front, how trust reshapes “I shall not want,” and why green pastures are less about comfort and more about safety. If your days are loud and your soul feels like it can’t lie down, we talk about rest as a spiritual practice, not a failure of effort.

From still waters to the valley of the shadow of death, Psalm 23 tells the truth about fear, grief, and uncertainty while insisting that the valley is something we walk through. We notice the prayerful shift from talking about God to talking to God, and we reframe the rod and staff as care, protection, and guidance. Then the setting changes: the Shepherd becomes a host, a table is prepared, and the story moves from survival to welcome and abundance.

We close with the surprising force of the promise that goodness and mercy don’t just follow us, they pursue us, and we connect it to Tolkien’s long road and the gift of being carried when we can’t go on. If this reflection helps you breathe, subscribe, share it with a friend on a hard road, and leave a review. Where do you most need to hear “you are with me” today?

Let's Get Into It!!

Transcript

Lent Journey To Psalm 23

Speaker 0:08

Welcome friends to Ancient Truth for the Modern Heart. I'm Steve Pozzato, and as always, I am glad that you are here spending this time with me. So we have been walking through Lent together. First, we walked through the wilderness. Then we walked with Nicodemus in the dark, asking questions that we didn't know how to frame. And then we walked to meet a woman who Jesus was meeting at a well at noon, discovering that the deepest thirst in life is not always the one that we first notice. Each of those moments is about a journey, a spiritual road. And today we step into one of the most familiar passages in all of Scripture. Today we're going to look at Psalm 23. Many people hear Psalm 23 at funerals, but it was really never meant for only the end of life. It was written for the middle of life, for those who are in the middle of it, for travelers, for people on the road. He wrote, The road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began. Anyone who has lived even a little while knows how true that is. That life keeps unfolding. The road stretches further than we expected. Sometimes it leads through beautiful places, sometimes it leads through shadow. But Psalm twenty-three is a psalm for the road. So before we reflect on it, let's hear it together. He makes me to lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside quiet waters. He refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil, and my cup runs over. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Psalm twenty-three begins with a single sentence, The Lord is my shepherd. It is such a familiar line that we sometimes rush past it. But in the ancient world, this image would have landed with weight. A shepherd lived with the flock. The shepherd walked with them, watched for danger, searched for water and for grass. And one detail matters more than most people realize that shepherds in that world did not drive sheep from behind, but that they led them from the front. The flock followed because they knew the shepherd's voice. So when the Psalm says, The Lord is my shepherd, it is not just describing authority, it is describing relationship, trust. And so Psalm 23 does not begin with a place, it begins with a person. Before the green pastures, before the still waters, before the valley, there is a shepherd. And that matters because the rest of the road of life is rarely as predictable as we hope it is. We love maps, clear directions, and we love straight lines. But most of us discover fairly quickly that life feels less like a highway and more like a winding road. Which brings us back to that line from Tolkien. The road goes ever on and on. The travelers in Tolkien's story rarely know exactly where the road will lead. They only know that they must keep walking. Right? And Psalm 23 begins with the quiet assurance that we are not wandering on that road by ourselves. That there is someone who knows the path. There is someone walking ahead, someone guiding the journey. And the Psalm says something that is actually pretty easy to miss. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. And that doesn't mean that life will give us everything that we desire, but rather I think it means that the shepherd knows what the flock actually needs. And that kind of trust, friends, is the beginning of faith. It's a gentle reminder that the promise of Psalm twenty-three is not that the road avoids the valley, it's that the shepherd walks through the valley with us, ahead of us. The next image in the Psalm is quiet, but it is powerful. He makes me to lie down in green pastures. The line sounds peaceful, but if you know anything about sheep, you discover something interesting. Sheep will not lie down unless they feel safe. And if they sense danger, if they're anxious, or if the flock is restless, they remain standing. Which means this image isn't really about the grass at all. It's about safety. And again, it's about trust. The shepherd has brought the flock to a place where they can finally rest. And if we're really honest, that is something that many of us struggle with. We live in a world that very rarely slows down. There is always some other task to perform, another notification, another piece of news, another thing demanding our attention. Our souls rarely get a chance to lie down. But Psalm twenty three reminds us that rest is not actually laziness. Rest is a part of the journey. The shepherd doesn't only lead the flock to work or to movement. Sometimes the shepherd leads them to stop moving, to breathe, to remember that their worth is not measured by how much they produce. And the psalm continues then, He restores my soul. The word restore carries the idea of bringing something back, returning something that has wandered, putting something back in its proper place. Which means that this is not just about physical rest, it is about spiritual renewal. The shepherd is not only guiding the journey, the shepherd is restoring the traveler. And then the psalm moves from the pasture to water. He leads me beside still waters. And again, there's a detail here that matters. The noise and the movement frightens them. And so they panic. And so shepherds would guide their flocks to quiet pools or slow streams where the water was more calm, where it was still and safe and drinkable. And that makes this image very deeply spiritual. Because the human soul does get thirsty, as we spoke about last week, not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, relationally. And many of us spend our lives drawing from wells that promise satisfaction but never quite deliver. Approval, right? Achievement, control, distraction. Even good things can become wells we depend on too heavily. And eventually we discover what the woman at the well discovered is that we keep coming back because we are still thirsty. But Psalm twenty-three offers a different picture. The shepherd does not shame the thirst. The shepherd leads us to the water, to still water, the kind that can actually restore the soul. And that's a big deal. Because then the psalm turns. The peaceful imagery changes some. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, the psalm does not pretend that life is always green pastures and still waters. It acknowledges something that we all eventually learn. That the road sometimes leads through valleys, through dark places, through moments of grief or moments of fear, moments when the path ahead feels uncertain. But there is something important in that sentence. Even though I walk through. Through. My friends, the valley is not the destination. It is just a part of the journey. And there's another subtle shift that happens here. Up until this point, the psalm speaks about God or to God. But now it says He leads me, He restores my soul, and we hear once again that voice of God. And yet, when we get to the valley, the language becomes personal. For you are with me. Suddenly the psalmist is no longer talking about God. He is talking to God. And sometimes the deepest prayers are not born in green pastures. Sometimes they're born in valleys. Because valleys strip away our illusions of control. They remind us how much we need guidance and how much we need presence. From there the Psalm continues, Your rod and your staff they comfort me. Which sounds kind of strange to modern ears if we're honest about it, because rods and staffs sound like tools of correction or even punishment. But in shepherding, they were tools of care. The rod was used to protect the flock from danger, from wild animals and threats in the wilderness, and the staff was used to guide the sheep, to pull them back from dangerous edges, to keep them on the path. And both were expressions of the shepherd's responsibility, which means that this line is not about punishment, but rather it is about protection, about guidance, about care. That the shepherd is not distant, but is attentive, watching the path, guarding the flock, and that brings us back once again to the idea of the road. In the Lord of the Rings, the travelers rarely know the full path ahead. They only know that they must keep walking. And they depend on one another along the way. Psalm twenty-three suggests something even deeper. That there is someone guiding the journey, someone protecting the travelers, even in places where we cannot see clearly. And then something surprising happens in the Psalm. Speaking of not seeing clearly, the setting changes. We move from pasture and valley to something else entirely. Prepare the table for me. Suddenly the shepherd becomes a host. The journey ends not in the wilderness, but at a table. A place of welcome, a place of provision, a place where the traveler is no longer wandering, but is received. And the image becomes even more powerful when we remember how often Jesus gathered around tables. How often he gathered other people around tables, people of all kinds, not just the righteous. In fact, seldom was it the righteous. Meals in the Gospels are rarely just about food because of that. They are about belonging and about grace and about the surprising generosity of God, which means that Psalm 23 does not end with survival, it ends with abundance. My cup overflows. Goodness and mercy shall follow me. That psalm then ends with a promise. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me for all the days of my life. And at first glance, that sounds gentle and comforting, but the word follow here carries a stronger meaning than we often realize. In Hebrew, the word that we translate to follow can also mean pursue, chase after, run after, which means that the image is not passive. Goodness and mercy are not quietly trailing behind us somewhere, they're actively moving toward us, keeping pace with us on the road. Even when we wander, even when we feel lost, even when the journey feels longer than we expected. And that brings me back to the line from Tolkien. The road goes ever on and on. In The Lord of the Rings, there comes a moment when the road has taken Frodo and Sam farther than they had ever imagined. The land has grown dark. The journey has become exhausting, and every step feels heavier than the last. And at one point, Frodo simply cannot go any further. The weight he carries in the ring is too much. The road has become too hard, and Sam looks at him and says something simple but powerful. Come on, Mr. Frodo, I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you. And he lifts Frodo onto his back, and together they keep going. For me, that's one of the most beautiful pieces of that entire story. Because it reminds us that the journey is not only about the road, it is about companionship, about not being left alone when the path becomes difficult. And Psalm 23 tells us something even deeper. The shepherd does not simply walk beside us, the shepherd pursues us with goodness and mercy every step of the way. And even when the road becomes heavy, grace keeps moving toward us. So here are quiet questions that Psalm twenty three asks us. What roads are you walking right now? Where does the journey feel longest? Where does it feel uncertain? Maybe you find yourself in a season of green pastures, moments where life feels steady and peaceful and clear. Or maybe the road has taken you somewhere more difficult. Through a valley, a place where the next step feels uncertain. A place where you feel tired in ways that are hard to explain if you can explain them at all. Psalm 23 does not pretend that those valleys do not exist, friends. It simply reminds us of something deeper. That the shepherd is still there, still guiding, still protecting, still restoring, and still walking the road with us, ahead of us. And the psalm ends with a promise: I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long, which means that the road does not wander aimlessly. The road is leading somewhere, toward belonging and welcome. My friends, it leads us toward home. So wherever the road has taken you today, whether it feels peaceful or uncertain or somewhere in between, remember this. The shepherd knows the path. The shepherd walks before the flock, and the road, however long it may feel, is not leading nowhere. It is leading toward grace, toward restoration, toward a table that has already been prepared. And the road goes ever on and on, but we never walk it alone. My friends, let us pray together. Shepherd of our souls, you know the roads we walk and the valleys that we fear and the burdens that we carry. Lead us beside still waters where our spirits are restless. Restore our souls when we are weary. Walk with us through the shadows that we cannot avoid, and remind us that goodness and mercy pursue us, even and especially on the hardest roads. Give us the courage to keep watching. And guide us, Lord, step by step toward the home that you have prepared for us. Amen. My friends, we are traveling through Lenten lands together. We are on this road together, being led by the shepherd. Let us do that without fear. So go now with joy in every step. Go to be the inspiration and to be inspired. Go to speak hope from your lips and feel the love in your heart. Because wherever you carry the light of love, there will you go in peace. Until next time, my friends, thank you so much for spending this time with me. Farewell.