When God Makes You Lie Down (and Why That’s Good News)

“I think I’m allergic to mornings.”

Not my words (though they could be)—they’re from a Snoopy cartoon. But if you catch me around

9:15am, coffee in hand, after half an hour of wrestling emails, I’m inclined to agree.

Let’s be honest—most of us are knackered.

Parents know the drill: feed the kids, dress the kids, school run, work, pick-up, activities, dinner, homework, bedtime, repeat. And somewhere in all that, you’re meant to nurture your own soul? Good luck.

But it’s not just parents. Maybe you’re working two jobs. Or holding down one job while caring for ageing parents. Or maybe you’re being cared for now—and wondering when it gets easier.

Whatever your season, chances are, you’re carrying something. And you’re tired.

Which is why Psalm 23 lands like water in a desert.

It’s the one we all know:“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”

We hear it at funerals. We sing it in churches. It’s even the soundtrack to The Vicar of Dibley. But the line that jumped out to me this week was this:

“He makes me lie down in green pastures.”

Not invites me .Not suggests I rest. He makes me.

That’s not quite the gentle, pastoral image I had in mind. I always pictured this verse as a sort of holy spa day—God gently coaxing me into a deck chair while a harp plays softly in the distance.

But “makes me lie down” is something else.

It’s God stepping in and saying, “You’re done. That’s enough. Stop now.”

The Gift of Forced Rest

We don’t love that idea. In fact, we’re often suspicious of rest. In our culture, productivity is practically a virtue. We feel guilty if we’re not “doing something useful.” Downtime looks like laziness.

But in the Psalm, the sheep rests not because it’s tired—but because the Shepherd says it’s time.

It’s not a reward for good behaviour. It’s not the treat after the hustle.

It’s grace. It’s care. It’s non-negotiable.

Sometimes, rest doesn’t feel optional because it isn’t. Sometimes God makes us lie down because we’re too stubborn, proud, or frantic to do it ourselves. (Ask anyone who’s had a burnout diagnosis.)

And when He does, it’s not punishment—it’s protection.

Comfort That Doesn’t Always Feel Like Comfort

Later in the Psalm, we read:

“Your rod and your staff—they comfort me.”

That’s a strange kind of comfort, isn’t it? A rod and a staff? Not exactly a duvet and scented candle.

But in ancient shepherding terms, the rod was for defence—fending off predators. And the staff was for guidance—nudging wayward sheep back onto the path, or hauling them out of a ditch.

Both tools say one thing: you’re not alone.

Sometimes God’s comfort isn’t cosy. Sometimes it’s corrective. A closed door. An unplanned sabbatical. A nudge back into alignment.

But it’s comfort nonetheless—because it means He’s close. He sees. He acts.

What’s Chasing You?

Here’s the final kicker from Psalm 23:

“Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.”

But the original Hebrew word for “follow” is radaph—which actually means pursue. As in, chase you down.

We’re used to running—chasing careers, dreams, perfection, approval. Running from past mistakes. Running to prove our worth.

But the Psalm flips it.You’re not being chased by judgment.You’re being pursued by goodness and mercy.

Imagine that.

Imagine waking up not to a to-do list the length of your arm, but to the Shepherd’s voice saying:“Lie down. I’ve got this.”