The Key of Imagination
Using your imagination might be the missing key to going deeper in God's word.
Last week, I had an article come out with TableTalk on how using our imagination when reading Scripture can be the thing God’s Spirit works with to change us. Without an imagination to represent things to ourselves—all those things the “windows” of words show to us—we drift into deadness. We believe the lie that Scripture isn’t all that remarkable. But it IS. You can check out the article here:
I thought it would help to apply that concept to Psalm 23. Imagine with me.
The Journey of Psalm 23
Look down at your legs. They are covered with fibrous wool. Hooves are at the end where feet should be. You’re standing in the grass. The morning light is heavy and gold, turning white the haze that blankets the fields. You look around the sun, into it, beyond it, beside it. You are hungry and thirsty. And then you hear an ancient voice.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
Nothing—you shall be in want of nothing. Want disappears like the haze under the morning sun, burned away in the light of greater glory. You shift your legs and turn towards a path into the wilds. And you trot, slowly, hoof by hoof. But your legs are tight and tired. After an hour, you tilt and fall into a thick bed of green grass. So comes the voice.
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
You settle into sleep like a drop of rainwater beaded on a blade of grass. That is what your eyes see just before you slip into rest.
When you awake, you eat the blades of green around you. The grass is sweet. It seems to bear life throughout your body. Your tiredness turns to a quiet power: joyful resiliency. You are ready to walk on. But your tongue is dry as a rock in the sun. You walk down a hill and begin to hear the playful, birdlike song of a fresh stream. You can tell, just from seeing it, that the water is cold and clean. So comes the voice.
He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.
Your tongue hits the surface of the running water, and it’s like your mouth wants to applaud, to worship the giver of water . . . because you know in your bones that you are restored, raised up, resurrected from weariness.
But for what? Your belly is full and your mouth has mirth. But what will you do with it? You will guide the others. As birds fly above you and rabbits run behind you, you stand as a testament, pointing your nose forward to the grass and water. Others will see you and eat. Others will see you and drink. And they will worship a name far greater than your tiny life—a name that salts the seasons and gives color to rock, river, and robin. Once more comes the voice.
He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
After standing for some time, you turn back to the path. And the way ahead is dark. There is terror in the clouds. Everything inside your body tells you to run in the other direction. Your heart melts like wax. But then the voice:
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me;
Yes, with you . . . because you know what direction you must take—not which one you’d like to take. You have a guide, a path pushing you forward.
your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
So you walk, hoof by hoof, into the valley of shadows.
But something else is in the distance—not the shepherd. It’s a wolf. His silhouette among the trees pushes ice into your blood. Your heart thuds like a drum. This is the moment your instincts tell you to sprint, to seek shelter, to guard your life. Your tendons are tight. But then comes the voice.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
There, between you and the wolf, is a bed of greens, freshly shorn. Your mouth drips. How is it possible that you would feast when fear is so close, that you would rest when a rebel awaits?
But it’s even more than that . . .even better. You are not just going to be fed and celebrated; you have been chosen and blessed with treasure beyond count—ten thousand open fields of grass. You have so much. Too much.
you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
And then it becomes clear: you are surrounded by your shepherd. He has your future, and he paints your present with more colors than you could possibly see.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
As you walk cooly passed the wolf that sought to devour you, as you plod up a hill, out of the valley of shadow, the voice is in the distance.
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
You look down at your hooves in the fading light. Flecks of mud stain your white wool. It has been a long, good journey—impossible without the shepherd, impossible without the voice. You have been led by a kindness, joy, and power that is not your own. And you nod your sheep head in gratitude.
Gratitude: a fitting end to the wonder of stepping forward in a world you did nothing to create. It is good to be a sheep when you have a Good Shepherd.
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