I like listening to
music while pondering texts, and what better than “My Shepherd Will Supply My
Need,” and “The King
of Love my Shepherd Is”?
What were Jesse’s
feelings when he learned one of his sons would be king? Pride? Shock? A
fearful trembling? The preacher can
depict the lineup of sons, tallest on down, the strapping Eliab, the burly
Abinadab, the chiseled Shammah, all 7 – but not one of them was the one. The Lord’s word to Samuel – and us? “Do not look on his appearance or on the
height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the Lord does not see
as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the
heart” (1 Sam 16:7).
Even in church, we look to ability,
strength, IQ, savvy – but it’s the “heart,” although it’s really God choosing
whom God chooses. Puzzled, Samuel shrugs
– and only then acknowledges, “Well, yes, there remains yet the youngest, but
he is keeping the sheep.” The obvious deduction is that Jesse didn’t even
consider the possibility that this little one might be the one. But could it be
that Jesse actually feared David might be the one, that he saw unprecedented
potential in him – or perhaps he was simply the one he loved the most, the
unexpected child of old age, the apple of his eye? The writer does take note
that David “was ruddy, and had beautiful eyes, and was handsome” (1 Sam 16:12).
Perhaps Jesse wanted to keep this small but handsome one home, to shelter him
for himself, and from the perils of kingship.
Christian history features so many stories
of parents blocking their children’s calling to sainthood. Francis of Assisi’s
father, Pietro, was so mortified when his son began giving to the poor with
total abandon that he took him to court and disowned him. Pope Francis’s mother
was crushed when he reported he was headed into the priesthood instead of to
medical school, and she would not speak to him or forgive him for some time.
How many women and men never became great heroes of the Church because parents
restrained them, and wouldn’t let go?
This story is about a different kind of
seeing. The verb “see” (ra’ah) occurs six times in the story of
David’s anointing; “the Lord does not see as mortals see” (1 Sam 16:7). How
does God see? How can we see as God sees? Can we see things as they really are
instead of being deceived by what is only superficially visible? As Gandalf
wrote in a letter to Frodo in The Lord of
the Rings, “All that is gold does not glitter.” Or that Native American
saying: “We teach our children to see when there is nothing to see, and to
listen where there is nothing to hear.” Preaching is not seeing for others, but
showing them how to see.
This brings us to Psalm 23. The Hebrew word for “see,” ra’ah, is one barely distinguishable
sound away from ra‘ah, the word for
“shepherd.” We might think of shepherds as lowly and despised, poor laborers of
no account. Yet there is always an ambiguity to the image of a “shepherd.” Yes,
they spent their days and nights out of doors with smelly animals who tended to
nibble themselves lost. Mothers didn’t fantasize that their daughters would
marry shepherds one day. And yet in the agrarian, pastoral culture of the world
in those days, where sheep were everywhere and they mattered for survival, even
the mightiest kings of Sumer, Babylon, Assyria and Egypt were often dubbed the
“shepherds” of their people.
The Lord is my shepherd. Lest we get sappy about the image, as so much
kitschy church art does, I will recall the first shepherd I saw in Israel: Elvis t-shirt, green rubber golashes, with a
stick, swatting sheep, hollering expletives at them. The Lord is like that? Or we are like such
dumb sheep?
Most of us have heard the Hebrew of verse
1 means “I shall lack no good thing.” I
shall not want? Our whole life is about
wanting, even in prayer. Maybe we are
asked here to learn to want the one good thing:
God. Psalm 27 says “One thing have
I asked… to behold the beauty of the Lord.”
And Psalm 73 similarly says “For me, it is good to be near God.” Clearly all this requires a focused
re-understanding of what is genuinely good, and what doesn’t really count…
In our church, we read Psalm 23 aloud at
funerals. “Read” – but really people say
it from memory, and are clearly moved.
And we use the King James Version, rightly I think… Regardless, I’m struck by one four letter
word in verse four: thou.
This is fascinating: in the original Hebrew of
Psalm 23, there are exactly 26 words before “Thou art with me,” and exactly 26
words after “Thou art with me.” Could be chance – but perhaps the poet was
boldly declaring that God being with us is at the very center of our lives, the
apogee of all that transpires, the focal point of the universe? God is with us.
We are not alone down here.
The whole Gospel is that God is with us; Jesus was
called “Emmanuel,” which means “God with us.” John Wesley’s dying words were
“The best of all is, God is with us.” God doesn’t shelter us from trouble, God
doesn’t magically manipulate everything to suit us. But the glorious With is unassailable, unchangeable, the
only fact that matters.
This marvelous news draws our attention again to the Thou. For the first 3 verses of the Psalm, God is spoken of in the third person: “The Lord is my shepherd… he leads me… he restores my soul.” But with the Thou, the third person shifts to second person: “for Thou art with me, thy rod… thou preparest a table…” Instead of talking about God, the Psalmist begins to talk to God; instead of God in the head, God is a friend in the heart, a conversation happens, a relationship grows. This is faith. This is the only true comfort.
And the with isn’t just me-with-God.
It is me-with-others – and especially those with whom I’ve been
estranged. Reconciliation is our burden –
and joy. This “table” is set “in the
presence of my enemies.” Jesus said
Before you come to the altar, make peace with your enemies (Matthew 5:23f) –
and When you have dinner, don’t invite your friends, but the outsiders, the
outcast (Luke 14). In our day of intense
rancor and derision, we are asked, invited and empowered by God not merely to
think about others more happily and in light of God’s grace, but actually to
break bread with them. How do we urge
our people to engage in this difficult but life-giving discipline???
How interesting is it that Psalm 23 says “though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death” – the key word being “through.” We don’t move into the valley and camp there; we get through it, not by dint of will, but by God’s mercy. And then the climax: “And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever” (Psalm 23:6). Perhaps T.S. Eliot was right: “The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” Or consider this: if you are lucky like me, you have fond memories of summertime junkets to the home of your grandparents. For me, it was a house that is factually small now when I drive by as a grownup – but as a child it was large, large in love, large in special treats, large in cousins and fun, another home, one without problems or homework or chores, a special place of a more unconditional kind of love. Does God give us such places in our memory so that we will learn to desire the home for which God destines us when this life is over?
Isaac Watts, as he wrote marvelous
hymns, often recast Psalms into slightly different language. His metric version
of the 23rd Psalm is eloquent, elegant, moving: “The sure provisions of my God
attend me all my days; O may Your House be my abode, and all my work be praise.
There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come; no more a stranger
or a guest, but like a child at home.”
Like a child at home. Yes,
some children bear the misfortune of a home that is more warfare than peace,
more division than love. But the very fact that we recoil at the idea of any
child anywhere not enjoying peace and love at home is evidence that God has
wired into our hearts a keen sense of a proper destiny – which looks like me as
a boy at my grandmother’s table or on my grandfather’s lap (yes, that's me in 1956). Various happenings
in the life we know here strike us as urgent, they make us anxious, or perhaps
we have some fun or face trials. But it is all a preparation for a grand homecoming,
when we will “find a settled rest… no more a stranger or a guest, but like a
child at home.” Or as the Psalmist sang, “And I shall dwell in the house of the
Lord forever.”
** I have now posted for Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter, if you are working ahead.
** I have now posted for Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter, if you are working ahead.
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