For those standing in the hall…
I Shall Not Want
I find myself sitting quietly in a pasture today.
The grass moves gently beneath the wind, and somewhere beyond me I can hear the soft sounds of life carrying on. There is no hurry here. No noise demanding my attention.
And in the quiet, I remember the words of David, the shepherd who became a king:
“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.”
I have read those words countless times.
But today they feel different.
Perhaps David had learned something in those lonely fields that I am still learning.
When the Shepherd becomes enough, our wanting begins to change.
Not because we suddenly have everything we ever desired, but because the Shepherd knows what we truly need.
He leads us to green pastures.
He brings us beside quiet waters.
He restores what has become weary within us.
And slowly, almost without noticing, some of the things we once thought we could not live without begin to lose their hold on us.
Fear loosens its grip.
Anxiety becomes quieter.
The desperate need to control tomorrow begins to fade.
Like wolves circling at the edge of the pasture, fear and worry may still be out there.
But the Shepherd is here.
And because He is here, I can eat.
David said,
“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”
Notice—He does not always remove the enemies before setting the table.
Sometimes the wolves are still watching from the edge of the field.
Sometimes trouble is still near.
Sometimes tomorrow is still uncertain.
And yet the Shepherd spreads the table.
“Sit down,” He seems to say.
“Eat.”
“I am here.”
Perhaps peace is not the absence of wolves.
Perhaps peace is being able to eat while the Shepherd stands nearby.
And yet…
as I sit here with these ancient words,
I have to confess something.
My heart still wants.
I want.
I want to hear His voice more clearly.
I want a fire in my heart that cannot be explained by personality, emotion, or circumstance.
I want to worship until my voice is gone and somehow discover that my chains are gone with it.
I want to see His face.
I want these blind eyes of mine to finally see the One my heart has been searching for all these years.
I want to know Him.
Not merely know about Him.
I want to know Him.
And more than anything else,
I want to love Him more.
There is a kind of wanting that the Shepherd takes away.
But perhaps there is another kind of wanting that He awakens.
A holy hunger.
A longing that grows as we draw nearer.
The strange hunger of a soul that has tasted God and discovers that the taste has only made it hungrier.
And when I think about that kind of love, I think about Mary.
I see her entering the room carrying an alabaster jar.
She knows what is inside.
She knows what it is worth.
Perhaps her hands tremble as she holds it.
Others in the room see perfume.
They see money.
They see waste.
But Mary sees Jesus.
And suddenly the value of the jar does not seem quite so great anymore.
She breaks it open.
There is no careful pouring.
No saving a little for tomorrow.
No keeping something back in case she needs it later.
She breaks it.
And the fragrance fills the room.
She pours it upon the feet of the One she loves.
Her hair falls across His feet.
Her tears mingle with the perfume.
And for a few sacred moments, Mary does not care who is watching.
She has found the One she loves.
That is enough.
And perhaps that is where this pasture has brought me today.
To a hallway.
I can hear the voices inside.
Jesus is there.
Mary is already at His feet.
The fragrance of her surrender has reached even out here.
And I find myself standing just beyond the doorway.
Holding my own alabaster box.
I know what is inside it.
My fears.
My dreams.
My plans.
My reputation.
My disappointments.
My need to understand.
My need to control.
The things I love.
The things I fear losing.
The things I have kept back because somewhere inside me I wondered whether Jesus could really be trusted with all of me.
And I am clutching that box so tightly.
I can hear Him inside.
I know He is there.
I know what Mary discovered when she let go.
And still…
I stand in the hallway.
Perhaps that is the deepest wanting of my heart.
Not for Him to give me something else.
Not for Him to make the road easier.
Not even for Him to silence every wolf at the edge of the pasture.
I simply want the courage to loosen my hands.
To step through the doorway.
To break the box.
To pour everything at His feet
And to discover that when Jesus becomes the treasure,
nothing surrendered to Him
was ever truly lost.
The Lord is my Shepherd.
I shall not want.
And yet there is one desire I pray He never takes from me:
I want Him.
I want to love Him more.
And here I stand,
at the doorway,
still holding my alabaster box…
wanting to go in…
Selah.
