Psalm 23 at Finkenwalde

In the 1930s
power wanted more than politics.
It wanted minds.
It wanted Jesus remade
in the Führer’s image.

So the Confessing Church went underground.
Bonhoeffer opened a seminary at Finkenwalde—
a community of discipleship
with prayer, meditation, shared life—
and across the lake
a Hitler Youth camp shaped leaders
for a different kingdom.

What do you do
when formation is the battleground?
They prayed the Psalms.
Morning: silence and a psalm.
Evening: silence and psalms again.
Day after day—
God’s breath in human lungs,
breathed back to God.

Really?
You think the Psalms will do something?

Yes.
Because the Psalms don’t entertain us—
they form us.
They form us into Jesus
when the world is training us into anything else.

This past year,
I’ve risen early
and prayed Psalm 23
until it begins to feel less like reading
and more like returning.

“The LORD is my shepherd.”
Not just a title—
the Name: YHWH.
The God who spoke to Moses
before he faced the cruelest leader of his time.
Cloud by day. Fire by night.
Sea parted. People led.

And shepherds weren’t polished.
They were overlooked,
out on the edge,
smelling of wilderness.
So when I say “my shepherd,”
I’m not claiming distance.
I’m claiming nearness.
The One who sees me,
knows me better than I know myself,
and still loves me.

And the simplest line
keeps turning out to be the deepest:
“I lack nothing.”
Not because life is easy,
but because God is enough.

He knows where green pasture hides
in an arid world.
He knows still water—
places where the soul can drink
without being interrupted by noise.

And sometimes
He doesn’t suggest rest.
He makes me lie down—
like a child resisting bedtime
until loving arms hold steady
and the body finally yields.

He restores my nephesh—
the whole living self
scraped thin by hurry.
There is so much noise,
so much pursuit,
so much busyness
that replaces devotion
while calling itself necessary.
And still He leads me back.

Then the valley.
Not imaginary.
Not a metaphor you can tidy up.

Chronic illness.
Mental pain.
Trauma that won’t stay in the past.
Broken families.
Infertility.
The long dark corridors
where you don’t pretend you’re fine.

Don’t belittle the weight of it.

But even there
He is present.
Jesus was born low.
He clothed Himself
with our brokenness
all the way to death.
He is the God
who has already walked the valley,
and meets us there
not only with answers
but with Himself.

And then—
a table.

Not after the enemies disappear,
but in their presence.
A feast while threats linger.
A cup that keeps filling
while my eyes keep darting
to the edges of the room—
even to small enemies,
the petty fears that still steal attention.

“Look at Me,” the Host seems to say.
“Eat. Drink. Stay.”

And finally,
the line that won’t loosen its grip:
Goodness and mercy
will follow me.
Not might.
Will.

Relentless as a sheepdog—
not to harm,
to gather.
To refuse my self-escape routes.
To keep coming
until I am safely home.

This is a real psalm.
Not an inspirational poster.
A grounding psalm—
for pastors under pressure,
for sleepers who won’t lie down,
for anxious minds,
for valley-walkers,
for those learning to breathe again.

So here is the question
that won’t let me off the hook:

What will shape you this year?
What will form your thinking,
your instincts,
your inner self?

A thousand loud voices?
Or the quiet, daily gift
of breathed words—
God’s breath in our mouths
morning and evening,
until Christ is what we sound like
when we are pricked anywhere,
and scripture comes out—
not as performance,
but as essence.

What would our life look like
if we let God be the One
who shapes and forms us?

If we let YHWH
be our Shepherd—
and finally,
let ourselves
be led.

Original message by Nick Wood, The Bridge Church Macquarie Park NSW
25 January 2026