Midweek Musing-October 29, 2025

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.”

As we’ve spent time with and struggled through each line of the 23rd Psalm, I hope we’ve realized that it’s more than a poem—it’s (to put it in religious terms) a pilgrimage. We’ve wandered the hills and valleys, followed the Shepherd beside still waters, and sat down at the table of grace. Now the psalmist ends not in exhaustion but in confidence: ‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me…’”

“It’s like the closing scene of a film when the camera slowly rises and the landscape comes into view. What once looked like random turns and detours now reveals a single, steady path of love. At last, we see it: the Shepherd has been leading us home all along.”

Now I have already mentioned that the writer makes a rather unusual statement when he talks about goodness and mercy following us or perhaps better stated - being in pursuit of us.

The Hebrew verb here for follow is radaph. It doesn’t mean a slow trailing behind from a polite distance. No, it means to pursue or chase down like our modern version of a police chase.

This part of the Psalms text is not only poetic but direct.

Friends, God’s goodness, and mercy aren’t politely strolling after us; they’re chasing us down in hard pursuit.

You could say that God’s grace is the world’s most faithful “tailgater.” No matter how many wrong turns we take, goodness and mercy stay right on our bumper, refusing to let us go.

There’s something wonderfully comforting about that image. We spend so much of life chasing after things like success or power. Sometimes we seek out our purpose and every once in a while, we try to find peace. But Psalm 23 flips that around: it’s God who’s chasing after us—with kindness that won’t quit, grace that is relentless, and love that will not let us go no matter where we are on our journey.

When I was in college, after long weeks of classes and exams, I’d sometimes call Mema (my dad’s mom) at the last minute on a Friday and ask if I could come visit and stay the night. I knew the answer would be yes. I also knew I would be well taken care of to say the very least. Actually, I would be doted upon because in my own mind I was the greatest of the nine grandchildren she had.

Anyway, Mema’s home in Elberton was less than half the distance from my heading back to Woodstock. Thus, it was the perfect getaway. She would ask what time I might be there, and I would give a general time frame.

She’d say, “Drive safe—I’ll have dinner ready to go on the table.”

That sentence was like a compass pointing me towards home. The trip always ended not in arrival of a small shotgun house on 17 Oak Street, but in the warmth of belonging.

That’s the spirit of this verse. The psalmist isn’t picturing the grand temple in Jerusalem made of carved stone and massive cut timbers but of a promised home, made of love where we each of us will experience in full the everlasting welcome of God.

This place - “the house of the Lord” - is both a present reality and a future promise. Theologians call it the “already and not yet” of God’s kingdom. We already dwell in God’s presence through the Holy Spirit, and yet we still long for the day when that presence will fill every corner of creation.

The Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann reminds us that the Psalms do more than describe what is—they speak the world God is bringing to be.

As he writes, “The use of language in the Psalms does not describe what is. It takes what has not yet been spoken and evokes it into being.”

In other words, when the psalmist declares that goodness and mercy will follow us, he isn’t simply observing reality, he’s proclaiming hope. The words themselves are acts of faith that call God’s promised future into the present.

Right now, goodness and mercy accompany us through time; one day, in the kingdom to come, they will complete their pursuit in eternity. The Shepherd who leads us today will one day raise us up to dwell forever in that promised day where there are no more valleys, no more enemies, no more darkness or fear—only light, love, and the eternal presence of God.

The Shepherd who leads us today will one day raise us up to dwell forever in that promised day where there are no more valleys, no more enemies, no more darkness and fear but only light and love.

In the New Testament, Jesus calls himself the Good Shepherd who lays down his life for the sheep. Through the cross and resurrection, he turns this psalm’s closing line into a promise that reaches beyond death itself.

When we say, “I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever,” we are proclaiming an Easter faith. This faith gives us the assurance that love gets the final word. It reminds us that even the valley of the shadow cannot hide the Shepherd’s sunrise.

It is essential to notice how the psalm ends: not with a question mark but with a surely.

It’s the language of trust. The journey of faith doesn’t guarantee clarity, but it does promise companionship. From the first “The Lord is my shepherd” to this final “surely,” the psalm moves from provision to presence to promise.

Maybe that’s what it means to live lives as resurrection people even now. Maybe it means to keep walking no matter where we are on our journey in this world with confident joy, trusting that goodness and mercy are still on our trail and that home is closer than we think.

As this psalm closes, we don’t stop walking—we keep moving toward God’s tomorrow. The Shepherd is still ahead of us, the Host is still preparing the feast, and the Spirit is still chasing after us with mercy.

One day, we’ll see the full picture: the road, the table, the house—each part of a single, grace-filled journey into God’s eternal love.

In the end, as Theologian James L. Mays declares, “The final word of the psalm is not about the sheep or the journey, but about the shepherd whose goodness makes every path, every valley, every table a way home.”

And when that day comes, when the long journey gives way to joy, we will discover that every step, every valley, every table was already part of the way home to resurrection life.

Thanks be to God for such love.

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

Reflection Question:

Where do you sense God’s goodness and mercy pursuing you right now, and how might you join in that pursuit by offering goodness and mercy to others?

Prayer:

Ever Loving and Ever Faithful God,

Thank you for following me with love I cannot outrun. Let your goodness and mercy shape my steps each day until I dwell fully in your house. Strengthen my hope in the kingdom that is already breaking in and still yet to come, where Christ reigns and love never ends. Amen.