Happy fourth Sunday of Easter, and happy Good Shepherd Sunday!
When my sister and I were children, our parents would drive us on Sunday mornings out of Harrisonburg, north on 81 or Route 11 to New Market, and then we would take the curving road over the mountain at New Market Gap to Page County, where we went to the little country UCC church you may have heard me describe before. After church, we would visit the family farms – my grandparents in one direction, closer to the town of Luray; and my great uncle and aunt in the other direction, toward Stanley and Shenandoah.
There was a long gravel drive to reach my great uncle and aunt’s farmhouse –you turned at their mailboxes, and went past some woods, and then the drive followed the perimeter of one of my great uncle’s cow pastures. It was a bumpy and slow drive, and we’d gradually see the silo appear, and the barn, and then the house, and we’d have lunch and time to play in the yard and chase the barn cats and explore the treasures we would find upstairs in what we called the “junk room” – kind of their attic – while the adults talked about adult things.
Occasionally, it took longer to get to the farmhouse than usual, because we would find our way blocked by cows. Cows don’t move quickly, especially when they don’t see any particularly good reason to – so we would have to honk the horn, or shout at them, and I think sometimes Dad would get out of the vehicle and shoo them back into the field, and eventually they would consent to be herded back to where they were supposed to be.
Sheep, however, are different. The Rev. Barbara Brown Taylor – you may have read some of her books, and if you haven’t I strongly recommend them – learned once from a parishioner of hers that sheep are, despite what many people believe, very smart – perhaps even smarter than cows. If you try to convince them to go in a particular direction by pushing them from behind, they won’t go. They’ll walk around behind you. Sheep, however, will be led – they want to see the shepherd go first, and then they know it’s ok to follow.
Today’s readings as you may have noticed are centered on the image of the good shepherd – a powerful image from both the Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament, and the New Testament. Today’s Psalm, opening with those so-familiar words, “The Lord is my shepherd,” is perhaps one of the most beloved texts in any book, including the Bible. Children memorize it in Sunday School, it’s read at funerals; it’s set to music, such as what we heard the choir sing earlier; chaplains recite it at hospital bedsides or with wounded soldiers, it’s on Hallmark cards and framed on people’s walls. It speaks to us for many reasons – it’s beautiful, and it’s personal. It is part prayer and part proclamation. And its words speak to all of us – acknowledging our fears, and the comfort and peace we seek and find with God.
The 150 Psalms are categorized by scholars in different ways – the 23rd Psalm is described as a Psalm of trust or a Psalm of thanksgiving. And I also discovered that some scholars call it a Psalm of Pilgrimage. Theologian Ellen Davis describes the entire book of Psalms as a sort of atlas – a “set of maps” that help us navigate our spiritual and our human journeys – the 23rd Psalm is in itself a map, a whole journey that wanders through landscapes that are both beautiful and frightening, and ends in the house of God. This Psalm holds together both the beautiful and the frightening, acknowledging that our spiritual journeys, our human journeys, hold both, and that through both, God’s love and guidance are enough.
The words are a prayer. Listen again to that first part of the Psalm:
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall be in not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters.
He revives my soul and guides me along right pathways for his Name’s sake.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I shall fear no evil, for you are with me;
your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
And as with any journey, and as with many prayers, we might be surprised by what we encounter next:
You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me; …
In the King James version, the one many of us probably grew up hearing, that line is translated:
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:…
In years of reading and hearing this Psalm, I didn’t think too hard about that half verse – I guess I had this image in my subconscious of the Psalmist sitting at a table, enjoying a great feast while his enemies stood off to the side, grumbling because they couldn’t do anything to hurt him, or to share in the feast. I shall fear no evil, and all that.
You spread a table before me in the presence of my enemies.
But here is an interesting question.
“What if,” asks Lutheran pastor David Simpson, and others,
“What if ‘in the presence of my enemies’ means that our enemies are also invited to the feast? What if our very enjoyment of God’s feast is meant not to be a rebuke to our enemies, but rather an invitation?”
It’s a really profound question.
What if the 23rd Psalm is not just about restoring our souls as individuals, but about restoring “our” soul as a people? Not just finding peace for ourselves, but seeking and extending that peace to one other?
What if the 23rd Psalm is not just about the Lord being “my” shepherd, but being our shepherd – not just about “me,” but about “we?”
What if the table is not just a table for me, but a table for all of us?
And it doesn’t mean that the 23rd Psalm is any less comforting, any less of an individual and personal prayer for times when we are buried in grief or fear or pain – that is the beauty of the Psalms – they are conversations with God, poems and songs that speak out of our humanness, and so they also speak to our humanness – psalms that lament, that praise, that question, that give thanks. Psalms that travel the way with us, as God does.
Jesus, like us, grew up reading and hearing and reciting this Psalm, and he understood the role of the Good Shepherd well. And he stepped into it from the moment he stepped into our world. He knew that shepherding is no easy job, and it’s often a thankless one and a dangerous one – out in the wilderness, and away from people, and safe shelter, and tables of food, and hot showers. Shepherding sheep means going after the ones who are lost – it means protecting them from wolves – it means always keeping one eye open for the unexpected ahead. It means sharing the rough road in all its challenges and its joys, and caring and loving our fellow travelers.
On that pilgrimage through green pastures, by still waters and through dark valleys, Jesus shows us the way we can follow – as sheep, but also perhaps as shepherds, to each other – to look for the lost sheep, to brave the hard roads, to appreciate the beauty along the way, and at the end of the day act always with a generosity that welcomes everyone to the table, meeting friends and those we might see as enemies, both, equally, not in anger or suspicion or empty words, but with love and mercy everlasting.
Amen.
Preached by The Rev. Cara Ellen Modisett, on April 211, 2024, the Fourth Sunday of Easter, at Trinity Episcopal Church, Staunton, Va.
