What Do We Want?

The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want [Psalm 23:1].

I have a push-pull relationship with the Twenty-Third Psalm. Oh, I recognize that if one asks 100 people which Psalm is their favorite, 97 will say “the 23rd.” Acknowledging its popularity, the Revised Common Lectionary includes the Psalm six times in its three-year cycle.

As I have shared before, my most long-lived recollection of the Psalm is drawn from a Monday evening in 1957, when Todd and I stood on the Robinson School stage with our first-grade classmates and, having memorized the Psalm—King James Version, I’ll have you know—recited it more or less in unison before an assembly of parents and teachers. All the adults were proud. Try getting away with that in public schools today.

Over the years, I’ve read the Psalm countless times within my private devotionals. I’ve read it publicly more than 60 times at funerals and memorial services. And so, as I approached this week’s appointed readings, I sighed to myself. It’s the Fourth Sunday of Easter; the 23rd is on deck again. My “push-pull” feelings reminded me that if I chose the Psalm as the basis for this meditation, I’d have to stretch hard to find something fresh to say since the words are so familiar.

I’ve found that one way to “stretch” is to use an age-old spirituality technique known as Lectio Divina—a practice familiar to many of you—in which a slow, repetitive, thoughtful reading of a short passage is interspersed with prayer. As I did so, my heart kept returning to the second portion of the Psalm’s initial verse: “I shall not want.” The sentence virtually throbbed each time I read it. The Psalm kept telling me, “Don’t be side-tracked by familiarity; there’s more here than you think.”

“I shall not want.”

My familiarity with the text quickly reminded me that with the Lord as my shepherd, all my needs are met. Like manna each morning in the wilderness, God will provide—in one form or another—daily bread for me and my family. He always has! Likewise, God will provide us with adequate shelter and other provisioning. Also caught up within these familiar words is a powerful promise: that I will continue to enjoy the assurance of God’s presence in my life. As the Psalm later affirms, “my cup runneth over.” And yet, my prayers kept taking me back to the last words of the first verse:

I shall not want.

“This is old news,” I thought. Contained herein, within the familiar 23rd, are the promises—the assurances—that you have relied upon your entire life. But then, as I continued to contemplate and pray over the first verse in the Psalm, an additional thought began to crystalize. It isn’t easy to articulate.

Through repetitive reading and prayer, I came to understand that for me, “I shall not want” had always meant that there is no need for me to want. That, of course, is true. But now, however, the text was saying something altogether different. The “I shall not want” had morphed over into: “I’m not allowed to want.” I thought of important moments within Holy Scripture where wanting had caused the “want-er” to go astray.

There was that time Cain wanted Yahweh to “regard his offering” with the same fervor as Yahweh had regarded the offering of Abel [Genesis 4:6]. Cain wanted divine praise and recognition. That “wanting” led to murder.

Sarah desperately wanted fulfillment of Yahweh’s promise. Her “want” caused her to intervene. Instead of “Thy will be done,” she thought, “My will be done.” And so, she gave Hagar to her husband and, well, we all know how that worked out [Genesis 16:3].

The wanting continued. Jacob, even before his birth, was “grabbing at his brother’s heel [Genesis 25:26]. A mama’s boy, Jacob later wanted his brother’s birthright. That led to some bread and lentil stew [Genesis 25:33] …, and a lot of heartache. Jacob wanted his father’s primary blessing, a blessing that was not rightly his. With Mother’s help, he got what he wanted.

“I shall not want.” The long list continues. The Israelites wouldn’t trust that Yahweh would provide for their needs, as a shepherd would provide for His sheep. They wanted a sure supply of food, just like the Egyptians. And so, Yahweh gave them manna. But they got bored with that. Later, noting that all their neighbors had kings, they wanted one too. They got Saul.

Much later, after the king thing hadn’t really worked out, the children of Israel wanted a Messiah. But He turned out to be different than the type of Messiah they wanted. Shortly after Jesus fed “the five thousand” [John 6], folks nevertheless came to Jesus and said that they wanted a sign [John 6:30]. If they could just get a sign. Jesus wondered, “How was supper last night?”

Closer to our own times, Janis Joplin would sing a snappy refrain,

Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz, my friends all drive Porches; I must make amends.

In all seriousness, folks in our days do spend significant time wanting. We want million-dollar portfolios. We want season tickets to Cameron Indoor. I hear that Apple is coming out with the new Studio Macs in late summer. “They’ll have the newest M4 chips. I really want one.” You may have a friend whose Camry auto lease is about to expire. He wants a proper replacement, something that not only runs, but sends a message.

“I shall not want.”

Within my Lectio Divina exercise, I turn back to Psalm 23:1. It continues to shout, “I’m not allowed to want.” And yet, is it always wrong to want?

Is it wrong for the young woman to want her husband to stop his physical abuse? Is it wrong for us all to want peace in the Middle East? Is my niece wrong to want the tumor in her daughter’s head to disappear? Is a young father in his 40s wrong when he wants a healthy outcome to his recent cancer surgery? Am I wrong to want a culture and a Protestant Church that isn’t content with the death each year of one million innocent, vulnerable, and powerless unborn children?

No; it would certainly seem that these sorts of wants are entirely consistent with our Lord as a shepherd. These sorts of wants do not conflict with a loving God who creates a beautiful world, gives it to us, and then forgives us when we mess things up. World peace, cures for cancer, an end to violence—these sorts of wants seem pure. They seem admirable. They seem true. A “catch-me-speeding” red sports car is another. There’s a whole lot of territory between. When, if at all, are we allowed to want?

As I went through the Lectio Divina the eighth or ninth time, it occurred to me that the Psalm writer had perhaps picked up on part of an Old Testament theme. Perhaps, I’m not allowed to want when or where my wants run afoul of the 10th commandment, the one that forbids me to covet my neighbor’s house, his wife, one of his servants/employees, or anything else that is his and not mine. I think the 10th commandment is broad enough not only to require that I not covet my neighbor’s car, but that I also not covet having one just like it.

Moreover, I’m not allowed to want where my wants are really just another way of saying I don’t trust God. God assures that He will supply what I need. Can I live with that?

Discerning the difference between a covetous want and a sincere, heartfelt desire for peace, health, happiness, warmth, and community is not always easy. Remember, however, that Christ did not leave us alone to figure it out. He sent us the Paraclete, the Counselor, the Holy Spirit—the third Person of the Holy Trinity.

What more could we want?