Sermon
4/30/17 Good Shepherd Sunday
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and our Lord, Jesus
Christ. Amen
Several years ago, the good
folks at Luther Seminary investigated the issues surrounding Biblical literacy
and fluency in our culture. As part of this, they surveyed 1500 people, and then
personally interviewed another 200 more.
One of the questions posed
was “Is there a text that is important for you in difficult times?”
Unsurprisingly, the
largest number of respondents said the 23rd Psalm.
What is it about this Psalm?
We hear it every year on Good Shepherd Sunday.
And we hear it at almost
every funeral we go to.
For many, it is the one we
turn to in great times of distress. And for others it is the only (or one of the
only) pieces of scripture we know by heart.
It wasn’t always that way.
There are 149 other Psalms.
Psalm 23 was never designated by God – or David – as the most important one or
as the one meant to be most memorable.
It didn’t even show up in
most funeral liturgies until the 20th century.
The slow move toward the significance
of Psalm 23 in our Christian lives was bolstered during the 19th
century in part thanks to American clergyman and abolitionist, Henry Ward
Beecher, who in 1858 wrote the following about this Psalm:
“It has poured balm and
consolation into the heart of the sick, of captives in dungeons, of widows in
their pinching griefs, of orphans in their loneliness.
Dying soldiers have died
easier as it was read to them; ghastly hospitals have been illuminated;
It has visited the
prisoner, and broken his chains.
It has made the dying
Christian slave freer than his master.
It will go singing to
your children and my children, and to their children, through all the
generations of time; nor will it fold its wings till the last pilgrim is safe,
and time ended; and then it shall fly back to the bosom of God, whence it
issued, and sound on, mingled with all those sounds of celestial joy which make
heaven musical for ever.”
Poetry worthy of a Psalmist.
Some of this seems as if Beecher was being
prophetic: The Civil War had not yet happened, yet during that war, soldiers
would indeed find solace in Psalm 23.
Certainly, Henry Ward Beecher was not solely
responsible for its surge in popularity, but this is when the tide began to
turn and by the beginning of the 20th century it was added to funeral
liturgies in a formal way.
Psalm 23 was officially on the way toward
icon status.
So what is it about it? While Henry Ward
Beecher brings something to the conversation, there has to be more to it than
that.
Maybe part of its popularity has
to do with its happy ending.
“Surely
goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in
the house of the Lord forever.”
Who doesn’t want that?
It is easy to get sentimental about it in fact.
Psalm 23 does strike at our sentimental chords: it brings to life that celestial
joy which makes heaven musical forever that Henry Ward Beecher waxed poetic
about.
But Psalms really aren’t meant to be
sentimental. They are earthy and grounded in real emotion and experience – some
of it gut-wrenching. They sing of joy and lament; reconciliation and revenge;
life and death
And Psalm 23 is no different.
As comforting as many of us may find it, as
familiar as most of us feel it to be, it is a Psalm that, along with all the
others, is part of the always-complex journey of faith in which we are taking
part and in which God is overseeing and leading us.
Just as a shepherd oversees and leads a flock.
And here is where the shepherd metaphor from
the beloved Psalm gets problematic for some. How many of us, if we were really
honest, want to be compared to a sheep?
Sheep have the reputation of having two
qualities that start with “d” which we tend to want avoid characterizing
ourselves as being: “defenseless” and “dumb.” They aren’t known as the brightest bulbs in
the animal world, and other than being able to butt heads with other sheep,
they don’t have much in the way of protection from predators.
Just their shepherds and the gates that keep
them fenced in.
I’ve seen people positively bristle at the
comparison to sheep. I’ve heard atheists hurl the analogy as an insult: “Christians
are dumb as sheep.”
And yet…and yet…
The metaphor still strikes me as beautiful.
And apt.
On Monday afternoons, I drive into
Philadelphia to go to the Synod office for a weekly meeting I have there. The
route I take, brings me by a couple of farms which are located just outside the
city limits.
This past Monday as waited for the light to change, the sheep were out grazing,
and in their midst were the newly born spring lambs.
They were bouncing – almost dancing – amongst
the larger sheep. It was a warm day following several rainy days, and they were
soaking in every drop of joy they could get from it. As I waited for the light
to change, they caught me up in their exuberance.
And I realized that there are worse things
than being compared to a sheep.
There are worse things than being known for
being vulnerable. There are worse things than being known for being trusting.
Psalm 23 is more than mere sentiment to cling
to in times of distress. It in fact lifts up our distress and puts us at odds
with the way the world works.
The world says be strong and independent. The
Psalmist says that we are vulnerable and need our shepherd’s rod and staff to protect us.
The world says “you don’t have enough. You
need more. Buy this. Own that. You aren’t good enough as you are. Get more
stuff!”
The Psalmist says I shall not be in want. I
have everything I need.
The world says “go after what you want. Take
what is yours.”
The Psalmist says: goodness and mercy will
follow me – and actually that’s better translated literally as pursue me …Goodness
and mercy will doggedly pursue me all the days of my life.
The world says: avoid struggle. Numb the pain.
The Psalmist says “I WILL walk through the
Valley of the Shadow of Death. I will go through dark valleys and no matter how
confusing and frightening that darkness may be, trust and hope and mercy won’t
abandon me.
GOD won’t abandon me.
The world says: there’s so much to fear. Economic distress. War. Greed. Terrorism. AIDs. Malaria. Famine. Political
polarization. Racism. Sexism. Environmental calamity. There’s no more room for good news. Death has won.
The Psalmist says, no. The Lord restores my
soul. Literally, meaning, the Lord gives me back my life.
The Lord returns me to life. Death hasn’t won.
Each year our lectionary lifts up this
problematic image of shepherd and sheep. We call it Good Shepherd Sunday
despite the ambivalent place shepherds have in our current daily life and
jargon.
Each year Psalm 23 reminds us of God’s promise
of hope and mercy and reminds us to trust in that.
And each year it is paired with one of three texts
from Jesus’ discourse on being the Good Shepherd from the Gospel of John.
The particular part of that discourse that we
have today comes right before that declaration from Jesus. Before declaring
himself a Good Shepherd, Jesus here compares himself to that other thing really
important in the life of a sheep:
A Gate.
A gate that you both come in to and leave
from. In and out.
A gate that offers protection.
Those bouncing lambs I saw on Monday were
surrounded by their fence with a big black gate you could see from the road. It provided them with salvation from
what might try to cause them harm. No one was going to remove them or steal
them by jumping the fence.
Along with their shepherd, the gate kept them
safe.
“I am the gate.” Jesus says today. And what
does that gate do?
Provides life. And not just ordinary life. But
abundant life.
Life that gives us images of green pastures
and still waters.
Life where a bountiful table is spread even in
the midst of our enemies.
Life where our cup runs overfull, even in the times we feel wanting.
Life where rather than seeing sheep as weak or
dumb creatures, we join them in a joyful trust in God for that abundant life.
Where we can have a bounce in our step in celebration of that life just as
those spring lambs had.
Psalm 23 is not mere sentiment. It is even
more than comfort.
It is promise. The promise that God is going
to relentlessly pursue us even when the worst of our lives seems to unfold.
It is a promise of life. That same abundant
life that Jesus also promises.
That life is not dependent on how the world
defines it, and it will sometimes – many times even – be at odds with how the
world defines it.
But God remains steadfast. God remains with
us. Despite our own shortcomings, our own blindness, our own forgetfulness and
our own lack of trust.
God has still prepared the table for us. All
that is left for us to do is come to it, eat from it, drink from it and trust
in that promise.
Amen.
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