Just about everybody knows, or at least recognizes, Psalm 23, “The Shepherd’s Psalm.” The words of that Hebrew song have comforted the afflicted, given strength to the weak and hope to the hopeless for centuries. Have you ever considered the radical meaning of its first verse: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want”?

In a world in which our wants far outstrip our needs, the idea of being without want seems almost unreal. Can you imagine ever arriving at that state of mind in which you are totally, completely satisfied? That is why I think this Psalm is downright radical in its message. So many of us tie our happiness to our wants. Happiness, or contentment, is often tied to the satisfaction of our next want. We say, “When I find the love of my life … when I get out of school … when I get married … when I land the right job … when I get that new house … then I’ll be happy. But what would it mean to be without want? 

            We live in a society that teaches us to define happiness, or contentment, by the satisfaction of our wants. Happiness is the carrot, always dangled tantalizingly, just out of our reach. We don’t stop to think that, according to this view, happiness is an unattainable ideal.

            The Bible, however, teaches a very different view of happiness. Contentment, according to the scriptures, is to be found in the midst of our ordinary challenges. Blessedness can be experienced even when the diapers are dirty, the house is a mess, our relationships are complex, and our job is in question. Isn’t it surprising that, when Jesus described blessedness in the Beatitudes, he ascribed that state of mind to those who mourn and those who are persecuted? And the Psalmist found it in the “valley of the shadow.” In other words, true happiness is found in the least likely of places.

            A few years ago, I noticed something in the 23rd Psalm that I had never seen before. The first half of the Psalm talks about God. But then, when it gets to the valley, suddenly the grammar changes, and the Psalmist begins to talk with God: “Thou art with me.” It moves, in other words, from theology to prayer. The change is subtle but remarkable. And it is also remarkable to me that the prayer only begins in the dark shadows of the valley.

            That recognition changed the way I understand the Psalm, and it changed the way I had viewed my life. While I prefer the easy way — the fulfillment of my wants — the truth is that I have always felt God’s presence more keenly in the valleys of my journey. Satisfied or unsatisfied, God has been with me — every step of the way.