Hope for (or is it hope in?) the dark nitty-gritty of the journey (from Sunday, Aug 21 --Psalm 23:3b - 4)

Scripture:  Psalm 23 (New Century Version)

The New Century Version is based on a translation of the Bible called The International Children’s Bible, which was published in the 1980’s for the purpose of simplifying and clarifying the language of the Bible, to make it easily understandable and usable by modern readers of all ages.  In 1991, the age-level of the vocabulary was raised a little bit, to make the translation more acceptable to more mature readers, without losing the simplicity and clarity of the original.  This updated version was named The New Century Version.

In the verses we are focusing on today – the ones about being led on the right path for the sake of God’s name, it’s helpful to note the original meaning of two words in particular.

First, when the psalmist says the LORD “leads” us in paths of righteousness, the word used for “leads” is different than the one used for the LORD’s leading us beside still waters.  When it comes to paths of righteousness, the “leading” of the LORD has the sense of leading in new directions, and guiding into unfamiliar territory – kind of like “breaking new ground” or “carving out new trails” for us to follow.

Alongside this, the word used for “path” in “paths of righteousness” is the word used for circular and winding paths that must be followed through rough and wild terrain, or down a hillside where switchbacks are needed to keep the path from being too steep.  Evidently the paths of righteousness are not simple and straightforward.

The Lord is my shepherd;
    I have everything I need.
He lets me rest in green pastures.
    He leads me to calm water.
He gives me new strength.

He leads me on paths that are right
    for the good of his name.
Even if I walk through a very dark valley,
    I will not be afraid,
because you are with me.
    Your rod and your shepherd’s staff comfort me.

You prepare a meal for me
    in front of my enemies.
You pour oil of blessing on my head;
    you fill my cup to overflowing.

Surely your goodness and love will be with me
    all my life,
and I will live in the house of the Lord forever.

Reflection

A number of years ago I saw a cartoon in the newspaper, picturing a little angel and Old-Man-God on a cloud.  The angel – an innocent little cherub floating by God’s right shoulder, is looking over the edge of the cloud, and says, “God, Protestants and Catholics are fighting one other in your name; Jews and Arabs are at war in your name; Hindus and Muslims are killing each other in your name… What are you going to do?”

Old-Man-God, looking worn and weary, says, “I think I have to change my name.”

We get it.  And that’s even before we add to the list things like the cultural genocide of indigenous and First Nations peoples in God’s name.  Terrible acts of terrorism committed in God’s name.  Continuing acts of violence against gays, blacks, liberals, women – even against democracy, in God’s name. 

It’s because we know the list keeps getting added to in each generation, that we get it.  And I wonder to what extent I am part of that picture – not the little angel, nor Old-Man-God, but part of the human drama the angel sees played out, and that wears God out. 

My first year of preparation for ministry was at a conservative evangelical theology school, and part way through second term another first-year student was talking with me about the kinds of questions I was asking and the theology I was expressing in class, and at the end said, “Whatever makes you think you are called to be a minister with views like that?”  I was taken aback, but looking back on it I have to confess a certain amount of insecure pride, self-righteousness, and a bit of delight in the way I was doing what I was doing, that did not reflect well on any call of God on my life, or any good work God was doing through me.  I was not as pure or holy-minded as I liked to think I was.

And since then, how many times have I troubled the angels and made God weary with my behaviour, my attitudes, even something as simple as a too-poorly-thought-out and too-quickly-sent Facebook post or email or comment … or some act of selfishness … or a failure to show love for another in a meaningful way?  

And isn't that what we prayed this morning in our Prayer for Forgiveness?  That we have sinned against God in thought, word and deed?  That we have not loved God with all our being, and not loved our neighbour as ourself? 

Years ago, when planning the funeral for Jean Jones – mother to Kathy and grand-mother to Hilary, I was told it was often her practice to send her children out from the house and into the world with the words, “Remember whose child you are!”  Partly for their sake, I’m sure.  And for her sake, and the sake of her good name in town. 

Can you imagine God bearing us into the world from the divine womb, with holy Word and Spirit alive in us, shouting out to us as we go, “Remember whose child you are!”  

And why does God do this?  Why does God hang so much of God’s own good name on us, and place so much trust in us? 

The answer can only be that this is the way God is, and the only way really that we will ever come to be what we are to be.  Thank God, though, that we are not left alone and just to our own devices.  At least, not unless we choose to be.

The psalmist reflects on this in Psalm 23.  The psalmist begins with an affirmation of the LORD as his shepherd in life, and of his commitment to be one of the flock of this shepherd’s leading.  The psalmist then recalls that God leads him to oases along the way to help him rest, be nourished, and be reminded over and over that he is not alone, not self-contained, but by the grace and good will of God, living in communion with a sacred and secular reality bigger and better than just himself. 

And then comes the journey itself – the life-long walk with God that the times of nourishing and strengthening are for.  The journey that the green pastures, quiet waters and soul-restoring times are meant to help us make.  And when it comes to the journey – our actual life-walk with God, it’s interesting how the psalmist pictures it. 

In the translation this morning: “He leads me on paths that are right / for the good of his name. / Even if I walk through a very dark valley, / I will not be afraid, / because you are with me. / Your rod and your shepherd’s staff comfort me.”

The Hebrew word translated here as “leads” is not the same word used for “leads” in the verse before, about being led to still waters and green pastures.  That word has the sense of being led over familiar paths, and in ways we already know.  This time, though, in being led on right paths, the word has a different sense of being guided to an unfamiliar place.  Being led in ways we’re not sure of, into new territory where without being closely guided, we could easily get lost.  It seems the right paths are not familiar to us.  They’re not the way we’re used to following.

Even the word “path” is quite unique as well.  It’s a word that refers to the kind of circular paths and paths with switch-backs built into them that a shepherd uses to help his flock find a way down a steep hill.  Or to guide them through unfamiliar, rocky and uneven terrain, where this just isn’t a simple, fast, straightforward way, where a way through is hard to find. 

Does that sound at all like the journey of life?  Like what it’s like to walk with God?  Beyond the welcome routine of spiritual nurture and encouragement, being led into unfamiliar places and new experiences, that demand constantly and closely following the shepherd if you’re going to make it through and not be lost along the way?

It makes me realize we do not know in advance what life will bring us and what the right path through will be.  What surprises there will be.  What new things or issues to consider.  And that as we follow, make us wonder sometimes if we’re even still on the right path.

From his experience, the psalmist offers a picture of what the right path looks like and feels like when we’re on it.  “Even if I walk through a very dark valley, [some call it the valley of the shadow of death] / I will not be afraid, / because you are with me. / Your rod and your shepherd’s staff comfort me.”

The right path – God’s path, often – maybe always, involves some kind of dying, some kind of letting go, some kind of walking through deep and dark not-knowingness. 

Dying at times to our own wants and needs, saying, “No, not this time” to our own comfort, out of love for someone else.  Letting go of familiar ways of doing things, and of habitual privilege and power over other – again, for the good and well-being of others.  Learning sometimes to question and let go of particular certainties and beliefs that no longer speak well of God – or that maybe never spoke of well, except now we know it.  In all these ways and so many more, being guided and called by the shepherd to lay down parts of our selves – even our whole self, for others. 

Even with all of this, though, do we ever really know for sure what is the guiding of God, and what is the inclination of our own heart?  A really new path God is guiding us into – or the same old way, just dressed up a little differently to make it look new?

In really finding God’s new way, I wonder if it helps to read the psalmist’s words in a slightly different way, and to see the hard pathway into which God guides us for the sake of God’s good name, as the pathway into someone else’s dark valley, into the depths of someone else’s shadowed time, into the terrible anxiety of someone else’s suffering? 

Not rushing into other people’s situations of distress with ready answers and tried-and-true solutions, thinking we know how to fix whatever their sorrow is.  But actually walking with them in their valley, sitting with them in their darkness, letting myself really feel the emptiness and anxiety that life in this world has brought them.

Getting back to my preparation and life as a minister, one of the jobs I’ve had was campus chaplain at McMaster University.  Working there, I offered pastoral counselling to students who were in distress over all variety of things.  Being on campus, both they and I had a finely tuned internal clock geared to one-hour intervals.  And often, as they sat in my office, opened up their sorrows and questions and I listened to them, 40 or 45 minutes I would find myself thinking, “Oh my goodness, this is only getting darker and deeper.  How on earth will we ever find our way out of this darkness and despair?” (Or, maybe more honestly, “how on earth can I prove myself a good minister in the next 10 or 15 minutes?”)

More often than not, though, as they shared what they were honestly struggling with, and I resisted the urge to leap to some tried-and-true answer, to offer them some easy assurance, or just pray with them in some kind of way to get them off my hands and into God’s (and still look good), before the hour was up – often in the last few minutes, a glimmer of light totally new to both of us would appear from somewhere, in my words or the student’s, suggesting a new way of looking at something – a way we’d not thought of before, and a particular next, newly-found at that moment, good step that could be taken – by them and sometimes by me along with them, to help continue the journey, one step at a time.

I can only attribute that glimmer of light and the surprising revelation of a next good step, to the presence of the shepherd walking with us, as we honestly gave ourselves – and only as we honestly gave ourselves together to the darkness of the journey.

So, I wonder, is there some darkness, some deep valley and anxiety in your life, that you have yet to open up and face, and share with others?   

For His name’s sake.

And is there maybe some darkness, some deep sorrow, some terrible suffering felt by someone else, that you – maybe that all of us, could be taking more seriously?   

For His name’s sake.

You'll never walk alone ... at least not if you follow the Shepherd -- Psalm 23:2,3 (from Sunday, Aug 14, 2022)

Scripture:  Psalm 23

Today, Psalm 23 is read from the English Standard Version.  This English translation of the Bible was published in 2001, and was the work of more than 100 evangelical Christian scholars.  Their goal was to be as faithful to the original text as possible, with as much literal word-for-word accuracy as possible. 

 In some cases, especially when translating gender-specific words like “mankind” or the simple word “man” or “he” to refer to any human person, some people prefer a more inclusive use of language.  In the case of Psalm 23, the more difficult task may be for us to translate the ancient experience of being shepherded, into images and experiences that are meaningful to us as twenty-first-century urban people.

Listen to this translation of the psalm with open hearts, questioning minds, and willing spirits.

 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
    He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.
    He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness
    for his name's sake.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

    I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
    your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me
    in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
    all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

 

Reflection 

I don’t fish.  But when I was still living in Winnipeg, a friend from church asked if I’d like to join him for a few days of fishing and relaxation at our church camp.  I said yes.  So, on the appointed day Gary – we’ll call him Gary, because that’s his name – picked me up and we hit the road.  Hwy 44 E from the city, and then near the end of the trip, a little further north. 

After an hour-and-a-half or so n the road, we pulled into Lake Nutimik Baptist Camp.  We parked by one of the cabins, and got out of the car.  It was still just late spring and no programs were running there yet, so we had the place to ourselves and permission to be there.  We stretched the kinks out of our legs, and walked down to the lake.

The business and busy-ness, and demands and distractions of the city were already far behind us.  The hum of the highway was still in our ears, but after a minute or so that passed as well.  As we stood with the cool green of the campground and of the surrounding forest behind us, and the stillness of the lake ahead of us, Gary turned to me and said, “I always do this first thing every time I come here.  Just stand at the edge of the lake until the ringing leaves my ears, and I can hear the Silence.”

Silence with a capital S.  Not just a physical quiet, but something deeply spiritual.  Not just the absence of human noise, but the presence of a holy whisper.  Not just the stilling of the chaos swirling around in the world, but the stirring of something deep within, a divine flow at the heart of all things and at the deep centre of our hearts.

“The LORD is my shepherd, and I shall not want.  For he makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside still waters, and he restores my soul.”

The word translated “soul” here is the Hebrew word “nepesh” and it means something more than just our private, individual soul.  “Nepesh” refers to the life-force, the breath, the vitality, the spirit that is God and is of God, and which is breathed into all people and all creatures (yes, creatures … like, animals!) in their coming to life in the world. 

It's more than just something we have; “nephesh” or “soul” is something we are.  And more than being something we are by ourselves, “soul” is something in which and by which we are connected with God, with other people, with all creatures, really with all life that God has brought into being.  Our soul-ness is our relatedness and connectedness with all that is.  Rather than being what makes us one, our soul-ness makes us one with all else.  Which means that restoring our soul is not just a private pep-talk in a one-on-one with God, but is about restoring our sense and experience of being one and in communion for good with God, with other people, and with all that is.

And isn’t that good news – that there can be moments like this?  Especially when we live in a time and in situations that seem ready-made to separate and isolate us, and to wear us down rather than build us up?  And I don’t mean just the pandemic.  I mean all life.

Some of us, for instance, find our resilience being tested and worn down in our personal lives as our parents age and we became their caregivers, as partners grow ill and need our care, and as we ourselves suffer the breaking-down of our bodies.  For many people, family – traditionally seen as a source of support, isn’t what they thought it would be, and it becomes one more concern and problem.  School and education, and the impact of social media are making the world less secure, less predictable and less supportive for our kids and grandkids than we remember it being for us. 

And what does it do to us all, to be hearing every day about pandemic exhaustion, compassion fatigue, climate anxiety (now nearly a diagnosable disorder in children), cracks and holes in the health care system, the breakdown of society, the need many parts of our society now suffer to atone for sins of the past, lack of trust in our leaders, and the renewed  pre-eminence of terrorist and neo-fascist groups and of bully nations taking over the public landscape and the global schoolyard, leading to a more insecure and scarier world for us all?

It wears us down, doesn’t it? It tries the soul and tests our faith.  It makes us question sometimes if there really is a promise worth living towards, of life being good for all, and of the well-being of all the world.  It can make us just want to find a safe place to hunker down and ride it out.  Create a private refuge away from the fray.  Find a god who guarantees private comfort and blessing.

Except that only makes it worse, doesn’t it?  And that’s not the way of life and of being that God has made us for.

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.  He makes me lie down in green pastures – to get the rest and nourishment I need, like at an oasis along the way, so I can carry on in the journey.  He leads me beside still waters – so I can calmly drink in God’s love, and be filled again with God’s freshness and vitality for the sake of others.  He restores my soul – helps me know I am not alone, but connected in deep, unbreakable, essential ways with God, with other people, with all creatures, and with the well-being of all that God has brought into being.

And it’s surprising when and how this restoring of our soul-ness can happen.  Even though the image is of green pastures and still waters, the visible reality is often quite different. 

Some years ago, I was attending a week-long spiritual retreat at a Jesuit college at the heart of downtown Toronto – on the U of T campus on the north side of Queen’s Park Circle, the south side of which is dominated by provincial government buildings, hospitals and financial institutions.  One of the retreatants was anxious at the start of the week.  She had been on retreat before, but only in peaceful rural settings.  She couldn’t see how she would come to feel closer to God and to her own higher Self in the midst of all the concrete, the stone, and the constant traffic and din of downtown Toronto.

After a few days, though, she had this to report.  Every morning and at set times through the day, she would take to the path around the outside edge of Queen’s Park.  Almost at her elbow, traffic whizzed by, sometimes with horns blaring.  The noise of the city filled her ears.  At times she had to dodge around other walkers. 

But as she walked, she prayed the Lord’s Prayer over and over, quietly and meditatively.  And she realized that with each step she took around and around the park, and with each word and each phrase that she prayed into her walking, what she was doing was beating a holy path over and over into the heart of the city, and experiencing herself as a vessel and a channel of God’s love at work in the world, in exactly the place she most doubted she would be renewed in that soul-ness.  She felt renewed to move on to whatever new stage of life and whatever new challenges there would be for her after the retreat. 

The LORD of the journey makes me lie down in green pastures … and you never know just where they may be.  He leads me beside still waters … helps me feel the flow of his Spirit in the strangest places.  He restores my soul … helps me know I am not alone, not cut off from God and from others, even when and where I think I might be.

I assume that by being here Sunday after Sunday in worship, this is one of the places you count on to be fed, to feel connected with God and with others, and to be encouraged for another week of living in the way of the LORD.  I’m glad you do, because I do, too, and it’s nice not to be alone.  It’s good to be part of a flock.  It’s a big part of what it means to be one of God’s sheep.

And there are other places, too – both for you, and for those who can’t come here as often and as readily as we do.  Other places that may not look like it, but are in their own way a green pasture and still water for your soul.

I wonder: where are those places for you?  Where else in your life are you able to rest in God’s care and in the promise of God’s love in your life?  When else do you feel the flow of God’s Spirit both in you and around you?  What else helps you remember your essential, unbreakable connectedness with God, with others, and with all that is – helps you know deep down in your heart what we all long and need to know, that you are not alone?  And not meant to be alone?

Let God lead you there.  And when you’re there, stay long enough, for it to do the good that it’s meant to do.  And then get on with the journey the LORD has for us.