I Shall Not Want

April 19, 2024

“I shall not want” the chorus echoes, a refrain I hold like a worn lovey. It is hard explaining this to my children, who cannot fathom a world without the primal fire of wanting, or why that would be a good thing. “Think about everything you want, the things you need, the things you enjoy—and all of those things not being there. We call that absence “wanting.” So, to ‘not want,’ means you aren’t missing anything.” But of course it isn’t that simple. The promise isn’t that nothing will be missing, but that you won’t miss it.

In my eight years at IJM I often felt a storm of conflicting emotion. I generally loved the work. I believed in what we did. I was honored to play even a tangential role in the cosmic drama of newly won freedom, of violence that would never be visited on vulnerable people because of the strengthened systems we had helped usher in.

More, I had clearly been called here, this job an explicit answer to a long whispered prayer. My previous job was comfortable, enjoyable, decent pay—yet I knew it wasn’t my long term home. “Don’t let me miss it,” I would implore. “Don’t let me grow so comfortable that I don’t see when it is time to go.” When the call came, a literal cell phone call I took on the sidewalk outside my towering Manhattan office building so co-workers wouldn’t catch a premature glimpse of an unfolding transition, I knew in a white-hot instant this was the long-sought door. How could I not be grateful, feel the enormity of having been plucked from my ordinary existence and placed into the center of the battle of good vs evil?

Yet the sureness of calling and purpose did not generate non-stop glorious thrill. At many times during my season at IJM I felt darker waters rise: Challenged. Disappointed. Frustrated. Unseen. Unappreciated. Unsure it mattered. To top of this potent mix, in light of the depth of pain our organization was seeking to mend and prevent for the world’s most vulnerable: shame. How could I, so privileged, dare be anything but content with my lot?

When, in these times of frustration, I returned to the central idea of Psalm 23, I found a raft that carried me. When the Lord is my shepherd, when I follow the voice of Jesus and trust his guidance, his provision, his care, I shall not want. In the low points, in uncertainty, in pain, in fear, the promise is that He is with us. In Him we have enough. We are enough. As I struggle to explain to my kids, it doesn’t mean I get what I want. Desires remain unfulfilled. The world’s brokenness isn’t all made right on my watch. But the hope on offer is that in some deeper sense we may be without—but we shall not want.

One thing I am tempted to want most is the affirmation, acclaim and approval of others. I envy those whose work makes them a visible star, results in being publicly honored, set on a stage. In my field, this is often those whose work is closer to the programmatic mission, not those whose technical skills keep the wheels moving forward. You don’t really want the back-end lawyer on your panel on human-trafficking, you don’t remember to applaud the person who drafted a contract when data comes in that shows a program reduced violence. I was mature enough to know my craving for recognition was foolhardy—that the sought-after praise would not forever scratch the itch. And more than that, it was distasteful. Who fixates on getting recognition when there are millions of lives at stake? The unrelenting desire to be seen could be just another thing to feel bad about.

Yet we were made to be seen. The problem is not that a person desires the honor of having done well, and been known for it. The problem is the places we go to meet that desire, the way it can come to rule us. An idol is something we go to in order to receive what is God’s to give, and it is a characteristic of an idol to provide hits of temporary satisfaction with diminishing returns, demanding more and more in exchange for less and less until we are enslaved by our need for what we think it will do for us. To be free of an idol is not to stop desiring, but to bring that desire to the place it was made for.

And we were made to be seen and known first, by God. Instead of suppressing the desire for praise, or beating myself up for the brazenness, what if I brought that desire to the place it was made for? What if I asked God to see me and my work, to acknowledge me, to meet my need for approval?

It was extraordinary. The emergence of pangs of desire became a prompt to turn to God. The discipline grew a new muscle. At times God met my desire directly—no sooner would I pray than an email expressing encouragement would show up in my inbox. At times I wanted for external recognition, but felt an inner release, the reassurance of enough, a gentle nudge toward not-wanting. This freedom grew quietly, bringing increasing contentment with doing the work for God, less dependent on others’ praise.

Over my final month at IJM, a dam seemed to burst open. I was inundated with love and care from colleagues, friends, family. My final day was a Board meeting, where I served as Secretary. I expected a solitary final closing of the laptop as I left them to executive session. Instead, I was deeply honored, toasted and acclaimed as I’d dreamed of.

But here’s the thing: had this been the goal, it would have risen me to a brief euphoria before a crash and desperate search for another round. But received in light of the freedom I’d been granted through my years of practicing seeking my desire in God, it was something else. In the words of affirmation from colleagues I felt, above all, affirmation from my Shepherd, as if God was whispering: your labor was not in vain. Well done.

All the hidden moments where I clumsily offered the best I could, even though too often my envy and ego and crankiness interfere—my Shepherd saw. They matter, in ways I may never fully understand. As I transitioned out, it was as if the curtain was pulled back ever so slightly, giving me a mysterious glimpse of how our little contributions pour into a joyful, glorious whole. The result has been deepening trust in God to use my offering for His Kingdom, in His time. This is a pearl I’ll carry with me.

Psalm 23 concludes, my cup runneth over. The day I left IJM, these words were true for me. Through the care of the many people who walked with me in the transition and marked the change so lovingly, I saw God’s goodness and mercy follow me. They brought me to IJM, they sustained me there, and ultimately called me to something new, following me still as I stepped into a sabbatical season of rest and the unknown beyond.

I shall not want, I shall not want. My cup’s running over, running over, and I shall not want.