Surely Goodness & Mercy

Psalm 23

The 23rd psalm is not recognized and known only in the church. People who could not quote another scripture to save their lives can at least stumble their way through the 23rd Psalm, even if they don’t know it’s the 23rd. It has been called “An American secular icon.”

But it is not a secular piece of writing. “In a mere 57 words of Hebrew and just about twice that number in the English translation, the author of the Twenty-third Psalm gives us an entire theology, a more practical theology than we can find in many books. If we are anxious, the psalm gives us courage and we overcome our fears. If we are grieving, it offers comfort. If the world threatens to wear us down, the psalm guides us to replenish our souls. If we are obsessed with what we lack, it teaches us gratitude for what we have. And most of all, if we feel alone and adrift in a friendless world, it offers us the priceless reassurance that ‘Thou art with me.’”[1]

Rabbi Harold Kushner knows a thing or two about finding comfort in tragedy. Rabbi Kushner is most known for his bestselling book When Bad Things Happen to Good People. He says he was inspired to write that book, and every one since, by the death of his son, who was born with an incurable illness and died at fourteen years of age. In 2003 Rabbi Kushner released a new book called The Lord Is My Shepherd. He believes that the 23rd Psalm is the answer to the question, “How do you live in a dangerous, unpredictable, frightening world?”

The author of this psalm has enemies and has known failure. He has lost people he loved. He has learned that life isn’t easy. The psalmist says “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” “The psalmist is not saying, ‘I will fear no evil because evil only happens to people who deserve it.’ He is saying, ‘This is a scary, out-of-control world, but it doesn’t scare me, because I know that God is on my side . . . not on the side of the illness, or the accident, or the terrible thing that happened. And that’s enough to give me the confidence.’”[2]

Years ago, a Christian minister serving in Rochester, New York, often went to the Jewish Community Center to work out. He developed a friendship with some of the old Jewish men he met in the steam room after their workouts. They often asked him questions about his religion and faith practices—about everything “from papal pronouncements to wacko evangelists.”[3] He asked them questions, too, though for a long time he refrained from asking something he had long wondered about: whether Psalm 23 is as important for Jewish devotional practice as it is for Christians. It seems like an innocuous question; why would he be hesitant to ask that? Because there was one major difference between him and the old Jewish men, and it wasn’t simply a difference of faith. They had numbers tattooed on their arms. He was reluctant to ask survivors of Nazi death camps if they treasured the psalm that promised, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” But when he finally asked, they recited it by heart—in Hebrew or in Yiddish—every single word. They knew how it felt to walk through the shadow of death. They knew how it felt to face evil. They knew, better than anyone, that God’s love does not guarantee God’s protection.

“The 23rd Psalm is not a sentimental cliché but instead a brazen declaration of faith sung into the teeth of despair.”[4]

But there’s one part of the psalm that has always bothered me: “You spread a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” Why? Is this a taunting? like a child sticking his tongue out at his older brother, but only from behind his mother’s skirt? (“Ha ha! You can’t get me!”) That doesn’t really seem consistent with the tone of the psalm! But it does seem consistent with our foreign policy at times.

Timothy Simpson, Editor Emeritus of the forum Political Theology, has this to say about our approach to our enemies since the 9/11 terrorist attacks: “Our reaction to terror over the last twelve years has been a disaster. A hard-hitting, world-remaking, ‘shock-and-awe’ response was widely thought to be the tonic for getting us over our fear and punishing our enemies. Even the church cowered in the shadows, mostly afraid to speak up in the face of widespread public clamor that something be done. Yet after all the application of force, the abridgment of human rights, and the shortcuts with the Constitution, there is now widespread dissatisfaction with all those efforts, as well as widespread awareness that, not only are we not any safer, we’ve actually made things worse in the world.[5]

The psalmist does not deny the reality of evil, and he doesn’t ignore the fact that he had enemies who wished to harm him. “Crucially, however, the Psalmist’s mention of the enemy is subordinated to his primary confession about the goodness of God and the bounty with which he has been blessed. The impulse to vengeance, in other words, is short-circuited by the deep awareness of grace, which re-directs the energy that would have been drained to exact retribution and is instead harnessed to render joyful thanksgiving.”[6]

But what if the enemy isn’t outside of us? “What if the enemy is within? What if the enemy is my own apathy? I’ve walked by pain, turned a blind eye to the suffering of my neighbor. What if the enemy is my own comfort? I’ve chosen to settle for the inertia of inaction over disrupting the status quo. What if the enemy is my own pride? I’ve avoided the one that hurt me. I’ve held onto bitterness, even when the taste in my mouth was too much to bear. What if the enemy is my own fear? I’ve walked away from persecution, and participated in unjust systems for fear of the wrath that could be turned onto me.

“So Jesus, what then? You tell me to love me enemies. Am I to love my enemy when the enemy is looking back at me in the mirror? I know the answer. I’ve sat at that table before. Still, God meets me there. I sit at the table in the presence of my enemy, and can only confess to my God and myself the times I have fallen short. I sit with myself and have no choice but to forgive, so I may be forgiven. I sit at my table for one and am confronted with the profound absurdity of the gospel. There is good news in sitting at the table for one. There is confession. There is forgiveness. There is grace. There is bread for me to eat, and a cup overflowing. There is oil being poured out on my head with such exuberance and abundance it seems shocking. There at the table for one I learn that goodness and mercy are following me. No, they are doing more than following me. They are pursuing me.”[7]

That is the true translation: not “surely goodness and mercy shall follow me,” but “surely goodness and mercy will pursue me.” And when you are pursued by mercy, the best course of action . . . is to let yourself get caught.

Choral Anthem: “The 23^rd Psalm [Dedicated to My Mother]” by Bobby McFerrin

I know that some of us may still be a little uncomfortable with the use of feminine language for God. Not shocked, because we’ve been using inclusive language for years, but it still feels a little jarring, maybe. We are more accustomed to male language. Yes, our hymnal avoids it, and our liturgies and sermons always use inclusive language. But the scripture readings we hear each week often use male language for God. More significantly, those of us who have been in the church for 40 or more years grew up with the idea that it was somehow insulting to call God anything but He.

Others of us welcome the change. It is still far from balanced. One anthem with female language does not compensate for weekly scripture readings with male language. But for us it feels like a warm blanket on a cold evening, or like the first day it’s warm enough to open the windows and let in fresh air.

Regardless of which “us” camp you’re in—whether you are bothered by female language for God, or whether you treasure it—it is important for us. Men need to know that they are not expected to be perfect, God-like, because God is male. Women need to know that men don’t have something in common with God that they can never achieve. Transgender people need to know that God is both genders and neither gender and cannot be forced into categories that don’t fit.

But there is an even more important reason we need a little “jarring” in our language for God. All the names we have for God are metaphors, and metaphors by their very nature are limited. “Our love is like a red, red, rose.” Yes, our love is beautiful and fragrant, but does this also mean it has thorns and it dies quickly? The same limitation is in our names for God. Yes, God is a rock. But rocks are unfeeling. God is called the Lion of Judah. But lions can be terrifying. Yes, God is our Comforter. But sometimes we need a kick in the pants.

Every time we use a new name for God, our image of God widens. Every time we use a new metaphor for God, we are reminded that God is more than we know. And God is always more. Yes, the Lord is my shepherd, but I don’t know much about shepherds. I’ve never wanted to be one, and my college didn’t have an undergraduate degree in shepherding.

So let’s make it more relevant. What might other occupations tell us about God? Here is a psalm called “The Lord Is My Counselor”

The Lord is my counselor, I shall not despair.
You make me feel safe enough to speak; you lead me to a quiet center.
You restore my confidence; you encourage me toward wholeness for my own sake.
When I face the darkest corners of my soul, I will be afraid—
but I will not give up, for I am not alone.
Your insight and correction, they comfort me.
You set before me a banquet of awareness in the midst of my anxiety.
You anoint my spirit with hope; my cup overflows.
Surely hope and healing will guide me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

[Bruce and Betsy will share two others.]

The Lord is my director, I sing for joy.
He helps me to sing on key; he teaches me how to follow;
He restores my pitch.
He leads me in phrases of mercy for the sake of the song.
Even when the music is silent, I will not be afraid, for I know my soul will sing again.
When voices are strident, when life is discordant and a cacophony of fear,
still I will hope, for God brings harmony from despair. The music never ends.
Surely goodness and mercy shall accompany me through all the measures of my life
and I will sing in the hall of the Lord forever.

The Divine is my massage therapist. She has created a warm, safe space for me to be seen and touched. On her table and in her presence, I lay my body down and know that it is ok to let go, relax, and rest for she is taking care of me. She holds my head and silently sets an intention of love and comfort and healing; I feel my breath and attention soften and move deeper inward. Her hands move and glide over my body with a certain rhythm and pressure that grounds me and connects me to my soul and all my body parts. I realize how thirsty for touch I am, as the cells of my body drink in her compassionate touch. We share an awareness of tensions releasing and of the pains and hurts of my body and soul that hold on. She sees me and touches me in my wholeness and broken places and does not judge; she meets me where I am. As my time with her comes to a close, she holds me gently; she silently expresses gratitude for our time together and offers a blessing of love and good health. As I walk back into my daily life knowing that I have been deeply touched by the Divine, I feel restored and at peace.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
The Lord is my counselor; I shall not despair.
The Lord is my director; I sing for joy.
The Divine is my massage therapist; I am restored and at peace.
God is all things, and I am whole.

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