“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down
his life for the sheep.” (John
10:11)
So
here we are again at the Fourth Sunday of Easter, traditionally known as “Good
Shepherd Sunday.” Why is it called “Good Shepherd” you ask? I never knew the
answer myself, so I did a little research. You can find just about any arcane
fact on the internet, but I have to confess a total failure—even from that font
of all knowledge Wikipedia—in learning why we have this day set aside for
images of ovine husbandry. I guess some early church authorities were really
into raising sheep, and we never had a good reason to change the appointed
readings. I did discover, however, that Good Shepherd Sunday marks the change
in the seven-week celebration of Easter from stories of Jesus’ resurrection to
stories about his ascension. So, we get three weeks of “Jesus is risen!” and
three weeks of “Jesus is leaving and going to the Father,” separated by one
week about sheep. Okay. Why not?
The
Revised Common Lectionary appoints different Gospel passages every year to
commemorate our Good Shepherd, but we always use Psalm 23 as our psalter
responsive reading. The 23rd Psalm is probably—out of the 150 psalms
in the Bible—the most famous. I don’t know how old you are, but if you’re old
enough to remember “memory verses” in Sunday school, you probably committed
this short song to memory—out of the old King James Bible, of course! The psalm
is often used for funeral liturgies, I suspect because it ends with that
wonderful promise, “I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever[i].”
I
think folks like this psalm because it’s supposed to have been composed by King
David. Granted, 3,000 years distant from David’s time, we have no way of
knowing that he really wrote it, but that’s our tradition. We remember
that David started his working life as a shepherd caring for his dad Jesse’s
flock. He began his illustrious career in politics and the military after
visiting the front to bring supplies to his big brothers and discovering King
Saul was afraid to fight the dreaded Philistines. Saul had to sit and endure
the other side’s trash talk until a really, really big dude named
Goliath made the proposal he’d fight any soldier in Israel’s army one-on-one,
winner take all. I think you know the rest: David wasn’t afraid of this guy
because, as a shepherd, he’d had to fight off all manner of sheep-hungry
carnivores. Once you’ve taken on wolves, lions, and other assorted predators, a
loud-mouth Philistine won’t scare you. David may have been young, inexperienced
in war, and small of stature compared to the behemoth Goliath, but we like to
cheer for the underdog, don’t we?
David
did a lot of other good and not-so-good things, but I think many of us may have
this sentimental picture of the shepherd boy facing down an overpowering enemy.
In this song we get a poetic image of one man’s experience of God. God is the
one with the rod and staff who protects us from danger. God provides for us.
God leads us because God knows what’s best for us. You’ll notice, too, that the
psalm gives a second image of God, that of a generous host. Verse 5 says,
“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my
enemies; you anoint my head with oil, and my cup is running over.”
This
might actually be my favorite verse in the psalm. The practice of anointing the
head with oil was an ancient middle eastern form of hospitality. If you visited
a tent in the desert, your host might put olive oil on your head to sooth any
sunburn you might have. This personal, generous act made you part of the host’s
family. That is why we anoint (or “christen” to use the Greek term) a baby at baptism.
We’re welcoming that child into the family.
I
also like the image of the cup running over. It’s like a host who can’t do too
much for you. He refills your wine glass or tops off your coffee mug. “Want
some more?’ he asks. “Let me give you a refill.” He overflows with generosity,
just as our Lord does.
The
line I think is truly significant, of course, is the one about preparing a
table in the presence of enemies. In David’s day, there were lots of
enemies—Philistines and other tribes who took a less than welcoming view of the
Hebrew people. I always think of how this psalm was used by soldiers during the
Christmas truce of 1914 during World War I. Germans and British and French
troops came out of their trenches and greeted one another in “No Man’s Land” to
celebrate Christmas and bury their dead. They exchanged rations with one another,
literally creating a feast in the enemy’s presence.
I
like to interpret this passage as God’s ever-bountiful generosity to us even
when we, ourselves, are surrounded by “enemies.” The enemy could be sickness,
old age, inter-personal or family conflict, money trouble, or just weird stuff
rattling around in your brain. We all have our enemies which lead us away from
ourselves and our love of God. But God continues daily and abundantly to see to
our needs. The lousiest day we’ll ever have will still be filled with God’s
providence. God never stops being good—even when our enemies keep us from
realizing God’s goodness.
After
my father’s death, my mom chose to live the last years of her life in an assisted
living facility. She was suffering from emphysema and could no longer live on
her own. My sisters and I did the best we could for her, but her real help came
from a small platoon of elderly Lutheran widow ladies who were more than
willing to do favors for a member of their congregation. They’d take Mother to
her doctors’ appointments, or take her shopping, or just pick up prescriptions
or other supplies she might need. Mother was deeply grateful for their help and
called them her “Guardian Angels.” The last favor she asked of them was to help
her memorize the 23rd Psalm. I find comfort knowing she exited this
life reciting these 3.000-year-old words of comfort.
The
Psalms were written by believers who needed poetry and music to express their gratitude,
frustration, needs, joys, and praise to God. Our words to God have now become
God’s words to us.
Thanks
again for dropping by this week. Leave me a note, won’t you?
[i]
Actually, the Hebrew literally translates “for length of days.” I guess this
could mean forever, but it could also mean “all my life.” Those poetic
Jacobeans used “forever” in the KJV, and I guess this stuck.
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