I would suggest that the grown up road to finding God begins with the words, “The Lord is my Shepherd,” to which you’d probably continue, “I shall not want.” This is, of course, from the famous 23rd Psalm, but there is also another famous passage in which God is portrayed as a shepherd, and that’s in the Unetaneh Tokef prayer in the machzor.

The problem is that the two images of God as shepherd seem quite different. In the Psalm, God is comforting, in the machzor, God is frightening, or minimally anxiety provoking; the God who decides our fate for the coming year.

So which is it? Which is the real shepherd? The comforting shepherd of Psalm 23 or the awe inspiring, powerful shepherd of Unetaneh Tokef?

I think the answer, and ultimately the path to finding God, can best be found by first taking a walk through Psalm 23. I have been guided in my journey by Rabbi Harold Kushner, whose book, The Lord is My Shepherd, can be found in our library.

The Lord is My Shepherd, I shall not want. You’ve got to be kidding. Who doesn’t want? But that’s not really what it says. The Hebrew is lo echsar, which means I don’t lack anything. I don’t need anything. I might want more, but I don’t need more. Mick Jagger said it best: You can’t always get what you want . . .

The first step in recognizing God in our lives is being grateful for what we have, not frustrated at what we don’t have. You all know that the optimist says the glass is half full, the pessimist says the glass is half empty, and the engineer says the glass is twice as big as it needs to be. And the religious person says: Thank you God for giving me a drink. I am truly grateful.

Let’s go back one step. The Lord is my Shepherd. Why a shepherd. Why not, The Lord is my teacher, I shall not fail, or The Lord is my mother, I shall not go hungry.

The shepherd takes us back to the very beginning of Jewish history, to the Torah. Long before Moses was our leader, he was a caring shepherd for forty years. And when Moses was soon to die, he implored God to name a good successor, so that the Israelites would not be like a flock without a shepherd.

Do you know people who have a job yet they can’t possibly explain to anyone exactly what they do? That will never be true of a shepherd. It’s perfectly clear. There’s no misunderstanding what the author of the psalm thinks about what God does for us.

There’s a beautiful story of a shepherd boy who is unable to pray in a traditional sense, but everyday he says, “Dear God, if I were the shepherd for your flock, I would take extra special care of your sheep, because I love you.”

On the other hand, our patriarch Jacob, when parting from his uncle Laban, tells him that I’ve taken good care of your flock for twenty years, but it’s possible that some of the sheep are missing. Things happen. A shepherd can’t be perfect.

Psalm 23 is not about a relationship with God so perfect that it could never be our own. Rather, the author of the psalm lives with the same uncertainties that we do, only that he chooses to make the best of what he has.

A boy was throwing a baseball into the air and then swinging his bat, declaring, “I am the world’s greatest hitter.” After several unsuccessful attempts, he began to say instead, “I am the world’s greatest pitcher.”

He makes me lie down in green pastures. God encourages me to rest. When I don’t rest, I have only myself to blame. And God makes sure I notice the beauty and wonder of nature. Yesterday, we read that Hagar thought her son, Ishmael, was about to die. Only when she became aware of God’s presence did she also notice the water nearby.

He leads me beside the still waters. Rabbi Kushner points out that this image is in contrast to the ravaging, destructive waters, including those which have devastated the lives of so many in the Gulf Coast, and taken lives of residents of Trenton. God is the source of all water, and it is the peaceful water which is our blessing. Rabbi Kushner also sees these waters as a metaphor for our inner struggles. God helps me find calm, despite the emotions raging within me.

He revives my spirit. For sheep, this merely means the shepherd is the one to make sure they stay alive. For us, it is recognition of God’s gift to us of a resilient spirit. As your rabbi, I have listened to your personal stories, of how you have faced so many challenges–physical, emotional, financial and others–and you say to me, “I’m still in good spirits.” or “My spirit is strong despite it all.”

He guides me in straight paths for His name's sake. This is a strange line–why is God’s guidance for His sake, and not for ours? But just think about it. When sheep walk in a straight line, we give credit to the masterful shepherd. And when we behave righteously, it shows that God is good, and so is God’s Torah. When I act correctly and follow the mitzvot, this is another way to feel God’s presence, and moreover to have pride in my God.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. A brief linguistic explanation is necessary. The correct Hebrew is probably Tzalmut, which means “darkness,” but we read it as Tzal Mavet, thus the translation, “shadow of death.” Either way, this verse brings about a major turning point in the psalm. It is not death that is the problem, but the imposing shadow of death. Something has happened to darken the spirit of the author. Everyone in this room can relate to this moment–it could be the death of a loved one, an illness or surgery, a rift in the family or a friendship, the loss of job, a financial disaster, a depression.

If you haven’t noticed until now, and I hope you have, Psalm 23 does not describe an ideal life. There is great pain, challenge, anxiety.

But the author continues: I will fear no evil. Evil exists. God doesn’t promise us a world free from evil or other problems.

For You are with me. It is at this point that something so simple, yet so remarkable happens in the psalm. God’s presence changes from 3rd person to 2nd person. This is the essence of the psalm. The strength and faith of the author is that not only is God’s presence felt on ordinary days, but that God is even closer during the worst days.

Mary Stevenson’s poem, Footprints in the Sand, helps us to visualize this comforting thought:

Footprints in the Sand One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord. Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky. In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was one only. This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat, I could see only one set of footprints, so I said to the Lord, “You promised me Lord, that if I followed you, you would walk with me always. But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there has only been one set of footprints in the sand. Why, when I needed you most, have you not been there for me?” The Lord replied, “The years when you have seen only one set of footprints, my child, is when I carried you.”

At first glance it looked like the shepherd of Psalm 23 is too good to be true, and the shepherd of Unetaneh Tokef is too frightening to face. Now, look where we are. This psalm isn’t about perfection. It is about learning to find comfort, even when life is difficult. Psalm 23 gives me the courage to face the shepherd of Unetaneh Tokef, knowing that its real message is not whether I am chosen to live or die, but that whatever happens, having God with me is a blessing.

Your rod and staff comfort me. This is another strange, mixed message. The rod is a source of chastisement, the staff, a source of guidance. I am not only comforted by God who helps lead me out of the darkness back to life, but I am also comforted by the Rod, the knowledge that there is still order in the world, still a God who points out the errors of our ways.

You set a table before me in the presence of my foes. Our enemies refers to whatever afflicts us–illness, loss, etc–and the message is that though we might feel less whole in our state of affliction, we nonetheless merit the reward of sitting at God’s table, feeling special.

In case we didn’t notice it yet, the psalm is recited in the first person singular. I might be sitting in a room filled with other people, but this moment is about my personal relationship with God, and mine alone. The people sitting around the table might as well be my enemies.

On the other hand, in times of grief, God’s presence is also made known to us in the form of our family and friends, and even in the kindness of strangers.

You annoint my head with oil. This is a biblical ritual usually reserved for royalty. Even in difficult times, there is the possibility that I will nonetheless have a moment to feel special, to be king or queen for the day. It’s also a reference that I, or anyone here, could indeed be the Mashiach.

Here is a story about how the mashiach comes in the form of ordinary people. It is a story of how affliction might even pave the way to see God’s blessing more clearly. This is the story of a father and son, named Dick and Rick Hoyt (Rick Reilly, Sports Illustrated, June 20, 2005). When Rick was born 43 years ago, he was strangled by the umbilical cord, resulting in his inability to control his limbs. He appeared to have suffered such extensive brain damage that the doctors said there was no hope. Rick’s parents, Dick and Judy Hoyt, were optimistic. They noticed the way Rick's eyes followed them around the room. When Rick was 11 they took him to specialists to see if there was anything to help the boy communicate. The experts said there was nothing going on his brain. Rick's father, Dick, countered: "Tell him a joke." They did and Rick laughed. Turns out a lot was going on in his brain.

So experts rigged up a computer that allowed Rick to control the cursor by touching a switch with the side of his head, finally enabling him to communicate. Rick’s first words? "Go Bruins!" (The family lives in the Boston area). And after a high school classmate was paralyzed in an accident and the school organized a charity run for him, Rick pecked out, "Dad, I want to do that."

Dick Hoyt, out of shape, never having run more than a mile at a time, nonetheless pushed his son in a wheelchair five miles. He was sore for two weeks. That day changed Rick's (and Dick's) life. He typed, "When we were running, if felt like I wasn't disabled anymore!"

Dick became obsessed with giving Rick that feeling as often as he could. Eventually he was ready for the 1979 Boston Marathon. This year, at ages 65 and 43, Dick and Rick finished their 24th Boston Marathon, in 5,083rd place out of more than 20,000 starters. Their best time? Two hours, 40 minutes in 1992 -- only 35 minutes off the world record, which, in case you don't keep track of these things, happens to be held by a guy who was not pushing another man in a wheelchair at the time.

Altogether they've been in 85 marathons, but have also competed in the triathlon 212 times. In the triathlon there is the usual 26.2 miles of running, plus 2.4 miles of Dick’s swimming, while towing Rick in a dinghy, and pedaling 112 miles, with Rick in a seat on the handlebars--all in the same day.

And Dick got something else out of all this too. Two years ago he had a mild heart attack during a race. Doctors found that one of his arteries was 95% clogged. "If you hadn't been in such great shape," one doctor told him, "you probably would've died 15 years ago."

So, in a way, Dick and Rick saved each other's life.

"The thing I'd most like," Rick types, "is that my dad sit in the chair and I push him once."

You annoint my head with oil, my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. As Rabbi Kushner puts it--Life is hard work--school, job, marriage, taking care of parents and/or children. But feeling good about ourselves doesn't require much effort. Feeling good, feeling loved, treated with kindness--it's out there, it's in pursuit of us, available for the taking more often than we realize. But when we do, they too are signs of God's place in this world.

I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Notice the progression in the psalm. In the beginning there is calm and peace, a sense of satisfaction, the biggest challenge is walking in a straight path. Then crisis arrives, and if I survive the crisis, I feel closer to God than ever before, more thankful, more aware of the blessings in my life, God with me in the 2nd person, not the 3rd, and I dare say it, I am comfortable enough with God's presence, that I feel as if I live in God's house.

But with comfort and security comes responsibility. If I live in God's house, I must play by God's rules, and therefore I emerge from this psalm charged with the job of being an ambassador of God's word to His people.