Midweek Musing-October 15, 2025 The Darkest Valley

The Darkest Valley

“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff—they comfort me.”

So, in this line of the 23^rd Psalm, we have a remarkable change in direction. The path turns downhill at a steep angle, and we end up in the valley. In fact, the writer says it is the darkest valley.

There is also a change in the writer’s tone and even word usage here that’s easy to miss but impossible to overstate.

You see up until now, the psalmist has talked about God in the third person— He makes me lie down, He leads me beside still waters, He restores my soul.

But now, in the valley, the psalmist stops talking about God and starts talking to God declaring boldly that “You are with me.”

It’s a powerful turn. When the path was bright and the fields are green and the cool bubbling mountain stream flowing into the still waters, we can speak of God in the third person.

But when the shadows of life fall on us like when the doctor calls with the bad test results or when grief shows up uninvited, we stop talking about God and start talking to God.

Years ago, I was called to a hospice bedside late one evening. One of our church members — a dear kind man of faith — was nearing the end of his life. When I walked in, the family had gathered around the bed, whispering, holding hands. His daughter looked up and said, “We were hoping you’d come read some scripture.”

So, I did. Slowly. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

When I reached this line — “Even though I walk through the darkest valley” — his eyes just ever so slightly opened. He didn’t speak, but his hand tightened around mine.

That’s when I realized: he wasn’t afraid. The valley was real, but so was his Shepherd, his God. He knew he wasn’t walking it alone. I have thought about that moment often.

Friends, we all have valleys: grief, uncertainty, a diagnosis that changes life overnight, a broken relationship, a call we didn’t want to receive. Valleys are the places we’d rather not walk, yet they are part of the terrain of life and of faith.

When I was a kid. my parents would send me every summer to a Presbytery Church camp – Camp Eva Good for a week in nature doing all of the campy sort of things: canoeing, swimming in the lake, archery, capture the flag, campfires with smores, and of course the detached bathhouse.

Now I was not, shall we say, an “outdoorsman.” I went and had a good enough time but was equally glad to get home to civilization and my own bathroom that did not require me to cross through the bear infested 40 feet between the cabin door and the pavilion.

Anyway, one year someone thought it would be a good idea to hike by moonlight down into the valley to the waterfall without flashlights to “trust our senses.” My senses told me to go back to the cabin.

The thing about valleys — literal or spiritual — is that shadows make everything look bigger and scarier than they are. Every sound echoes. Every movement feels threatening. But light, even a small one, changes everything. Like when we finally headed back and a counselor finally turned on his flashlight to help us return to our cabin and bunkbeds.

So, in this psalm, the light isn’t a flashlight we carry — it’s the presence of the Shepherd. “You are with me.” That’s the lamp that keeps the shadows from overwhelming us.

The psalmist then names two shepherd’s tools: the rod and the staff.

The rod was for defense — a sturdy club to drive away predators.

The staff, with its curved hook, was for rescue — to pull a sheep out of a ravine or back from danger.

Together they paint a picture of both protection and correction — strength and care.

Scholars have long noted this shift as Walter Brueggemann notes, “in the valley the language of faith changes from recitation to address.” The Shepherd isn’t an idea to be recited but a presence to be encountered.

And Dr. James Luther Mays adds, “The psalmist’s confidence in God’s presence does not come from escaping danger, but from experiencing God’s companionship within it.”

Folks, I believe that is the essential difference between optimism and faith.

Optimism says, “It’ll all work out.”

Faith says, “Even if it doesn’t, You are with me.”

I think of all the “valley people” I’ve met in my life — the ones who have walked through grief, loss, or fear and somehow still shine with peace. They’ve learned what you can only learn in the shadows: that the Shepherd is never closer than when the path grows dark.

And sometimes, that’s when we grow closest to each other too. Shepherding is communal work. Sheep aren’t meant to walk alone. Maybe that’s why, when we’re hurting, the prayers of others, the casseroles left on porches, the handwritten notes in the mail, the unexpected text mean so much — they’re small signs that we’re not walking through the valley alone.

When I was at Presbyterian College, I would regularly visit my grandmother Mema in Elberton, Georgia on the weekend. It was only about 90 minutes away. Once after a rather trying period in my life which over the course of the weekend I fully shared with her she said to me, “God doesn’t promise a bridge over every valley, but He does promise to walk beside you through it.” Then she’d added as she held the 1970’s green Tupperware full of homemade ginger-cakes in front me, “And if you can’t walk, He’ll drag you if He has to.”

It makes me smile now, but I think she was right. Sometimes faith is nothing more than letting yourself be carried — trusting that the Shepherd knows the way out when we don’t.

One of the other things it is important for us to remember is that the valley doesn’t last forever. The same Shepherd who entered into it with us is the one who will lead us out. And when we come through — maybe limping, maybe tear-stained, and maybe a little bruised despite that still held by our loving Creator— we find that the darkness was never empty after all. God was there the whole time.

The valleys may shape us more than the mountaintops ever could. So, when you find yourself in a valley — fear not. You are not alone. The Shepherd walks beside you, rod in hand, staff at the ready, whispering through the shadows: “I am with you always – even to the end of the age.”

Thanks be to God.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Alleluia Amen.

Reflection Question:

Where are the “valleys” in your life right now, and what does it mean for you to trust that the Shepherd is walking beside you through them?

Prayer:

Ever-Present God, thank you for walking with me through the valleys. When shadows grow long and fear takes hold, remind me that your light is near and your love never leaves. Use your rod to protect me, your staff to guide me, and your presence to comfort me until I see daylight again. Amen.