Shepherd King, Part 3: He Makes Me

 

Hey, Cobblestone,

     For many years I’ve wondered what kind of access the enemy has to our thoughts. To be clear, I should specify the enemy in view: the accuser, deceiver. The father of lies. Satan by name, devil by reputation. I’ll presume you’ve heard of him. Has he ever read your mail? Disconcerting, isn’t it? Though I’m reluctant to give too much credit, it does seem that our emotions, thought processes, and forces of reason are vulnerable to his ugly influence. How does that happen?

     I’ve asked the Father about this numerous times, asked to be granted immunity. The answer has consistently been No. I’ve asked to be happy as a clam and just as clueless, to dig deep into the sand beyond the notice of predators. Nope. Which makes me wonder again: Does the Father have a better plan?

     As we meditate on the Twenty-Third Psalm phrase by phrase, this letter is the third installment. Not to short-circuit the plan, but we’ll take three phrases this time because they’re so closely related – the first two set up the outcome of the third:

     He makes me lie down in green pastures.

            He leads me beside still waters.

                        He restores my soul (verses 2-3a).

     Ask yourself: Where is this heading? The enemy will never lead you to restoration. Never. His game is destruction. If there’s any restoring to do, he’s out. The only thing the enemy fathers is lies. Jesus said so, and you can bank on it. Only the Shepherd King restores souls. He makes. He leads. He restores.

     Does the Father ever discipline? Sure. Does the Holy Spirit ever convict? Absolutely. But where is it going? Along with the restfulness of green pastures and refreshment of still waters come the unpleasant yet needful discipline and conviction. It’s of-a-piece: none are mutually exclusive of the others. That’s the Father’s better plan. He even plunks us down within earshot of the enemy, where we have to decide whose voice we will heed.

     Remember: Only damaged things need restoration. The unused, the untouched, the pristine have no need of it. But your soul and mine have been battered. There’s one path to restoration, and only one who leads in it.

     Turn to the Shepherd King.

     For all the books to his credit, for all his vaunted knowledge and respected papers, the recently departed theologian J.I. Packer had a sweet, simple recitation that was part of his near-daily routine:

    “I am a child of God; God is my Father.

    Heaven is my home, and each day is one day closer.

    My Savior is my brother; all Christians are my brothers and sisters as well.”

     I still don’t know by what means, exactly, the enemy influences my thoughts. May never. I’ve heard theories, none of which have been satisfactory, all of which took time I could’ve spent in green pastures. Meanwhile, the Twenty-Third Psalm makes the uncluttered invitation to be led, to be made, by the one who restores souls.

     Come on.

 Grace and Peace (for what more can we ask?),

 

John

Shepherd King, Part 2: Wanting

 

Hey, Cobblestone,

     It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? Since we started our every-other-week newsletter pattern for the summer, these chats can seem a bit disconnected. To refresh: we had just started looking into the Twenty-Third Psalm, one phrase at a time. We’ve now had a full two weeks to meditate on The Lord is my shepherd from verse 1, and something I’ve noticed (maybe you have too): more than I’ve needed a leader or advisor, more than I’ve needed a counselor or advocate… I’ve needed a shepherd. Do you suppose the Lord knew that already? I haven’t wanted to admit I needed a shepherd, but I have. Reckon the Lord knew that too.

     Brace yourself, Church, because the next phrase is even more humbling: I shall not want (also from verse 1).

     First, a word on semantics: “I shall not want” is a different statement now than it was three or four hundred years ago. Some modern Bible translations put it something like “I shall have no lack.” Feel better? Me too. If to not want meant to not have desires, to not feel short-changed at times, to never give in to the fear-of-not-enough – yeah, good luck with that. If that’s what it meant, we’d all be yelling back down the centuries in our snarkiest tones, “Well, that’s just fine for you, Mr. La-Dee-Dah Psalmist – but I’m stuck here in the real world!” But it doesn’t, so relax.

     But wait, what about “shall”? I shall have no lack? How am I supposed to pull that off? The angst builds. And it gets harder before it gets easier. That word “shall”? There’s no wiggle room in it. This must happen: not wanting, having no lack. Feel better now? Me neither.

     Take a deep breath.

     The Twenty-Third Psalm is a song lyric, and it’s a poem. One of the commonest misunderstandings of poetry is to think of it as fancy speech. It isn’t. Poetry is the simplest of speech, distilled to the essence. Poets and psalmists have neither time nor inclination for extra words, so they make spaces for those to happen at spirit level. As participants in the Twenty-Third Psalm, we have several words and phrases that click in perfectly, right between “shepherd” and “I”:

     The Lord is my shepherd… therefore…  I shall not want.

                                               that’s why… I shall not want.

                                               and so………. I shall not want.

                                           behold……… I shall not want.

     The shepherd certifies the shall. The shepherd guarantees there will be no lack. Shall – and the absence of wiggle room therein – doesn’t bother him in the least. And so it’s settled, right? All the angst that built up earlier has dissipated, no? There will be no lack; we have the shepherd’s word on it. Not a care in the world, have we?

     From where we sit right now, and without trying very hard, you and I could compile a list of approximately 2.2 bajillion things we lack. Lack is every place and every moment. Lack is the rule, contentment the rare exception. All I can figure is: the shepherd must have a different way of calculating lack and not-lack.

     Christians of yore talked of the church as “militant” and “triumphant.” Both terms are easily misunderstood, but in the simplest explanation, the church militant consists of all Christians living at this moment, fighting the good fight and keeping the faith; the church triumphant consists of all Christians who have finished their pilgrimage, and whose souls are now present with the Lord. That part’s easy enough to understand, but what boggles my mind is that the old-timers saw no division between the two. Let that sink in for a minute: no division. One church. Think also on this: the billion-or-two Christians living at this moment are exponentially outnumbered by the uncountable billions who have gone on, who are done with this world until they come back with Jesus to rule it. And remember: no division.

     The hardest space for me to get out of is my own head. Same goes for you; please don’t try to deny it. These skulls of ours, though bashed easily enough from the outside in, are nearly invincible from the inside out. We need the shepherd to draw us out of our own estimations, our own economies, our own way of calculating lack and not-lack, and into his way – if even for a brief moment every once in a while…

     “Jesus, shepherd – help us.”

     The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. And with that, we cruise into another couple of weeks of meditation, especially on I shall not want. Maybe it’ll help to think of the multitudes for whom this statement is utterly undoubtable, made true forever: I shall not want. There is no loss in Christ, and ultimately, no lack either. The math is his to figure out.

 Grace and Peace (as a salve for the wanting),

 

John