The Lord is My Shepherd
By Charles Rush
March 7, 2004
Psalm 23
asked Wayne to have
the choir sing our scripture this morning
before I preached. It is one of those memory-bank passages of scripture that carries a great deal of emotional freight with it because of various tragedies that
have found some remedial succor with its repetition. Many times we actually say this passage when someone dies, when something awful has happened, when we
least feel the affirmation that God is with us. It is a reminder that on the other side of numb is a presence, indeed a presence that exists whether or not
we can actually sense is. It is not a rational affirmation but a transcendent emotional
one. That is why it is better sung than spoken.
It is a good weekly mantra in an age of terror. The New York Times had an awful picture from Iraq of people attacked with bombs while attending the Mosque this week, an attempt to strike a divide between Sunni's and Shiites. The woman on the front page of the paper Wednesday, just numb, bloody from shrapnel,
probably close to death, with that gaze of deadening befuddlement. It seems that we get a
front page photo of some photo of the aftermath of terror at least once a week- whether from Iraq, Riyadh, Jerusalem,
Islamabad, Paris or New York- they are all
so characteristic of our age. Confused, numb,
terrified beyond any single symptom of fear/ yet personifying fear itself, clutching the very
fabric of fragile humanity. That is our time. This is the stamp we
are leaving with our fifteen minutes of fame in the wider march
of world history.
A friend of mine visiting from out of town
commented on the changes at the Newark Airport, the extra security, the parking lot
moved out away from the terminal, the soldiers in Penn Station. "Are you
guys on red alert all the time?" he asked me. One tired commuter,
overhearing the litany of security measures sighed, 'We are waiting for the
other shoe to drop.'
It is difficult to pinpoint exactly how that
sentiment runs through the course of our neighbors and friends but it does
return to us from time to time, an inchoate anxiety. The words of Psalm 23
speak so directly to it, 'Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of
mine enemies. Thou anointest my head with oil." They are talking about
Olive oil, by the way. That is the wonderful, rich image of blessing in the Old
Testament. In the ancient world, they didn't have soap. It hadn't been invented
yet. So after you were real dirty, you went to the bath, got your bowl that you
dipped in heated water, poured it over you, and you have a scraper, a kind of
curved, dull knife. And you scraped a layer of dirt off of you. Rinse, repeat,
Rinse repeat. Rinse. A the end, you were dried and then anointed with a scented
oil. On special occasions, to symbolize the gracious blessing of God, the priest
would drip oil on your foreheard, til it ran down your ears and dripped off
your beard.
Though terror is all about us, God is in the midst
of it all with us, blessing us with a rich, full blessing.
When my children were wee, some nights they just
couldn't seem to fall asleep. Sometimes I would go get in bed with them and
make the sound of the north wind blowing down from the Artic. "Quick"
I would say, "We've got to hide from the howling winter and I would wrap
them up in their covers like a mummy so that only their face was exposed to the
cruel elements like Nanook and I would wrap them up tight in my arms. Together,
we would listen to the howling wind. They were usually out in 5 minutes. We all
want to be wrapped up tight like a baby Wallaby in it's mothers pouch. We want
to be protected in the midst of anxiety in the night.
Terror has focused our minds regularly on the
fragility of human existence and our tenuous place in the world. We are
experiencing what Soren Kierkegaard and Paul Tillich used to call 'existential
angst', the possibility of our non-being. It is one of those questions that Tillich
used to say is of ultimate concern. It is unsettling enough,
threatening enough that we are not capable of reflecting on it for very long or
directly.
I should point out that we need not only come at
this question from the morbid randomness of terror. It is implicit in human
existence itself. Reflective people get it. I've lately been reading The
Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. Aurelius was one of the 4 'good emperors of
Rome.' What strikes me about his
reflections is that they were written at the height of his career, the height
of his power.
Here was a man that made his mark on the Roman Empire through the military. He rose
through the ranks to become General of the Roman Army and then was made
Emperor. After several years as Emperor, the Teutons attacked the northern
Empire and he again donned armor and directed the Army himself. And it is
during this period of his life, when he is arguably the most powerful man in
the world, that he wrote most of the meditations that have come down to us.
He was in the custom of arising early and writing
briefly before the day began, before his assistants came to rain upon him the
list of crises that beset the Republic. He took some time apart for reflection
on the meaning of life and his place in it.
He has certain themes in his reflections. He is
very aware of the world as ever-changing. Nothing stays fixed. Nothing stands
still. He is aware of the fleeting character of our life- we are young, we wax
full of strength, our health gives way, if we are lucky we grow old- but we all
die. Probably because of the breadth of his command and responsibility, he is
aware more than most of us how difficult it really is to determine our fortune-
what is it that we should do that is best for ourselves? What is best for the
Republic in this day and time? Who should we listen to and who should we
ignore? It may be obvious to those out of power but to those who are surrounded
by false friends, manipulative counsel, corrupt spiritual disposition, it is
not a straight forward, easy task to know the most excellent way.
He senses that most of our social existence is a
protracted war, that genuine peace is only an intermittent phenomenon, that
even the most powerful that climb their way to the top are only allowed to
exercise dominion for a short period. However intoxicating command might be, it
is fleeting and insubstantial.
Likewise, pleasure. Here is a man that could
indulge himself in any carnal desire that he had, and no doubt he did indulge
some of them. But, just on the other side of mid-life, he was immediately aware
that pleasure has a diminishing return over time. It is less fulfilling. Likewise,
he has seen people indulge themselves in pleasure earlier in their lives only
to become unraveled by it- the complexity of mistresses, the chaotic morass of
drugs. He has seen people follow down paths that undermine their lives… and
for what? Not enough. And he knows how hard it is to develop the power of
pleasure towards ends that are virtuous, yet how important that is.
Even reputation, which outlives us, is ephemeral.
Homer used to say that the 'great deeds' of the past inspire the future
generations and through them mortals participate in immortality. And that is
true to some extent. Socrates will never completely die as long as people read
his dialogues. Great thoughts, great deeds, live longer than we do. Aurelius
understood that our reputation is probably our most important spiritual asset
existentially. It stands against the corrosion of time. But even the life of
reputation has limits. He would say that even Socrates only lives a few
centuries. For us Socrates has lived 2300 years but then our conception of time
is much vaster than that of Aurelius and the point is still the same. What is even
a 10,000 year reputation in a 15 billion year old universe? It is a mere moment
in time.
Aurelius was a man that was surrounded by a level
of material prosperity that few people in history have every seen and he
understood that it was all just rented, all just ephemeral.
Or power. He had very nearly
unilateral command, yet he understood that it was only good if it was exercised
for the benefit of all. He was probably the most popular person in the world
when he was alive, yet he understood that he too would soon die and be buried
with all memory in the sinking sands of time.
All this, he noted, without being the
least bit morbid. He was just articulate about the contingent character of
human existence.[1]
Really, thinking people at the height of their careers, their dominion and
influence, ought to be aware in just the same way.
This awareness of our contingency ought to do two
things for us at once. First, it ought to fill us with a certain healthy
existential angst. From the most basic biological autonomic functions right up
through our higher ways of integrating our psyche, through all our social
interactions, we are continually reinforcing to ourselves our essential
integration. We want to be in our skin tight. Reflection on that dissolution
fills us with anxiety.
And second, it ought to focus our
spiritual quest on matters eternal. What is it that really lasts? What is it
that is intrinsically worth while?
I had a seminary student that one time asked me if
it was any easier to face my own mortality after helping other people face
theirs over a period of many years. Short answer: No. I've just gotten a little
bit better helping other people face theirs.
None of us gets a pass on our personal existential
anxiety. We may not be very reflective about it, but we feel it in here. And
with that comes the feeling, for some people, of Psalm 23. "He restoreth
my soul…" "She maketh me to lie down in green pastures, She leadeth
me beside the still waters… He restores my soul." That is peace in the
midst of flux, anxiety. Spiritually, it can settle over us. "Yeah, though
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou
art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."
That was the dramatic testimony of the early
Christians. The resurrection faith that they encountered really changed them,
it poured over them and filled them spiritually, so that in the midst of fear,
they were no longer afraid. "My cup runneth over."
Unfortunately, they lived in the age of giants and
legends, so the stories that are handed down to us about them are mythic in
proportion. But I think of Felicity and Perpetua who were fed to the lions at
the Roman ampitheatre in ancient Carthage. When I was on sabbatical, I went to the collesium that is in remarkably
good shape because it is so rarely visited. There is a small plaque over the
gated entrance from the underground up to the center of the collesium, the gate
they passed through before their death.
In the legends that we have about them, their faith
was so strong that the lions wouldn't attack them but laid down in peace in
their presence. It is said that the miracle was so substantial that members of
the Governor's household converted to Christianity shortly after seeing them
die. They gave supernatural evidence of peace in the face of the anxiety of
death.
Personally, I would prefer the human story, the one
where they are not protected from the ravages of nature, where no miracle
singles them out for special treatment. Instead, we have to read between the
lines in the legend. Whatever actually happened to them, people who
witnessed it were visibly moved. They wanted secretly to convert. They
wanted even a smidgen of whatever these women had. They had the equanimity that
comes from God's presence being with you in the presence of your enemies, God's
presence with you in the shadow of the valley of death… And when you have that,
regardless of what happens to you from the outside, regardless of the threat or
torture… you can say, 'surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days
of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord, forever.'
It is real and it can happen to you. The blessing
of the Spirit is around us even this day. We come together to partake of it, to
gather strength for the journey, to encourage one another, and build one
another up. Collectively as we come to the table together, the Spirit, the
presence, the blessing of God is in and amongst us.
My brothers and sisters, I invite you
to come to the table all of us together.
The Spirit of God is all around us together. Today, as we pray together over
the elements, I want you to say to yourself, "Lord,
make me an instrument of your peace. Take me and use me." As the children join us in just a
few moments,
let the peace of God's presence fill you and flow through you into them. "The Lord is your Shepherd. You shall
not want… surely goodness and mercy shall
follow you…" Amen.
[1]
See particularly, Book III, reflection 17 which gives a nice summary of the
ephemeral character of human existence.
© 2004
Charles Rush.
All rights reserved.
