In Good Hands [Proper 11B - Psalm 23]

The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Psalm 23

 

In Good Hands

Christ Church, Pottersville

 

In the bustle of this hectic age, Psalm 23 seems to slow the world down.  It speaks from another time and place, one now buried under the weight of industrialization and technological sprawl.  It feels utterly, and happily, detached from the persistent demands of the email inbox, the heightened expectations of school and work, from deadlines and task lists.  It feels calm in a way that the world does not; simple in a way that feels lost.  With the opening verses, the psalmist paints for us an idyllic picture: the soft, cool grass of the green pastures; the peaceful still of deep waters. 

 

In a sense, this psalm has come to conjure in its readers the same feelings vacationers hope to find in these mountains, in the Adirondacks.  Urbanites flock here in the summers, drawn by the beautiful green and the refreshing waters, hoping to find a place to rest, hoping to discover an endangered stillness.  They come for something peaceful, a break from the grind and the pressures of modern life.

 

The psalmist, of course, could not imagine the complexities of our times, the speed of our existence.  Obviously, much has changed in 2500 years.  Actually, a lot has changed in even the last twenty-five years.  But the longing at the heart of this psalm is timeless: we are always and forever searching for peace, some reassurance that things can and will be OK.

 

The lovely, vivid imagery of this psalm is why it has long been treasured.  It is a comforting psalm – comforting at the dawn of the day, and in the silence of the night, and even at the end of life.  There is something about it that helps us believe that things really will be OK. 

 

But that is not because the psalm seeks to artificially pacify us or lull us into an unrealistic stupor.  In fact, I think this psalm is starkly honest about the peaks and valleys we all experience in this mortal life.  The psalmist paints a beautiful picture of our possibilities but also refuses to leave us a tepid denial of the harsher realities of this life.  The 23^rd Psalm acknowledges the valley of the shadow of death.  And keeps walking.  Beyond the needlepoint appeal, this psalm is a confident poem of defiance. 

 

The psalmist has no time for mere optimism.  He is not looking on the Brightside; he has, at times, lost the sun in the shadows of the valley.  He is aware of the evils of the world.  He is familiar with the dangers that stalk the creatures of God.  This is not a naïve rendering of reality. 

 

The psalmist has no time for mere optimism.  He is far too aware that sometimes we are surrounded by people who want to trouble us – those folks the old King James Version called “mine enemies.”  He has lived in this world; he has seen things: pain and sorrow, injustice and hatred, loss and death. 

 

The psalmist understands, like we do, that life can be rugged.  We don’t always get the still water walk; sometimes we do, but sometimes the walk goes through the valley of the shadow of death.  We don’t always get to lie down in green pastures; sometimes we do, but sometimes the pit stop is located in the presence of those who trouble us. 

 

The psalmist is not confident that life will be easy or even safe.  But he is confident.  He is confident because even in that valley of the shadow of death, God is with him.

 

The psalmist is not optimistic, but his cup is running over with hope.  And that hope reminds him that it is not only shadows that stalk us.  It is not only evil that stalks us.  It is not only troublesome people who stalk us.  We are stalked, pursued, by goodness and mercy. 

 

Goodness and mercy follow us all the days of our life.  When we lie down in those green pastures, we rest our weary head on God’s goodness and mercy.  When we stroll by those still waters, we breathe in the peaceful air of goodness and mercy.  And when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, in those places of danger and fear, goodness and mercy go with us, keep up with us, relentlessly pursue us. 

 

In 1932, Thomas Dorsey wrote the hymn Precious Lord, Take My Hand.  You might be familiar with the song.  It goes like this: 

Precious Lord, take my hand,
Lead me on, let me stand,
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn;
Through the storm, through the night,
Lead me on to the light:

Take my hand, pre­cious Lord,
Lead me home.

When my way grows drear,
Precious Lord, lin­ger near,
When my life is al­most gone,
Hear my cry, hear my call,
Hold my hand lest I fall:

Take my hand, pre­cious Lord,
Lead me home.

When the dark­ness ap­pears
And the night draws near,
And the day is past and gone,
At the ri­ver I stand,
Guide my feet, hold my hand:

Take my hand, pre­cious Lord,
Lead me home.

It is a song of hope, a song that never doubts the companionship of a God who walks through even the darkest of valleys, who stays when life is unbearable.  Thomas Dorsey wrote that hymn after the death of his wife in childbirth, and the death of that child shortly thereafter.  He wrote the hymn because in that terrible place where optimism ended and the valley of shadows began, God was still with him.  This is our hope. 

 

Life is green pastures and dark valleys; it is abundance and it is loss; it is joy and it is sorrow.  We are stalked by the shadow of death, but it is goodness and mercy that we cannot shake.  The power of evil wants to steal our peace, but God walks this world with us.  And never leaves us.

 

And it is that promise that gives us the defiant hope we need to navigate this world.  We know life will not always be easy.  But we do not walk this life alone.  We sing our songs, and walk our journey, and we make it through the hardest days and the deepest valleys because we are in good, good hands.  And those hands will never let us go.