The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want. Psalm 23:1
What would you guess is the only chapter of the Bible that most people know by heart? My guess is chapter twenty-three of the Book of Psalms, the 23rd Psalm, the one that begins: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want….” We just sang it together between the first and second readings.
Why do we love this particular one so much, more than any of the other 149 psalms? Why do we turn to it in times of crisis, particularly when serious illness, death, or other tragedy strikes? Certainly its beautiful language comforts and inspires us, but other inspirational writings do too and they don’t capture our hearts like this psalm does.
The answer, I think, is that in just a few short lines, the 23rd Psalm offers a view of the world that makes it less frightening and less chaotic than it can appear at times, teaching a way to deal with that part of life which English philosopher Thomas Hobbes characterized as “nasty, brutish and short.” No one, after all, sails through life problem free and no one escapes suffering or death, not even the Son of God. In short, this Psalm offers a framework within which to make sense of the seemingly senseless aspects of life.
Science can tell us a lot about the universe – how old it is, how vast it is, what laws of physics control it. But science can’t answer the most important question of all: Is the universe a friendly place, a place that supports human hopes and aspirations?
The 23rd Psalm, with its familiar image of the Lord as our shepherd, answers that important question, not in theological language often difficult to understand, but in beautiful poetry and imagery that resonates in the very core of our being. It shows us how to recognize God’s presence at times and in places where God seems absent. It comforts us with the promise of a better, safer world beyond this one, a place of green pastures and still waters. It teaches us to look at the world without illusion, but at the same time to see it as a world in which we can live purposefully, hopefully, courageously, trusting in God despite painful and frightening circumstances. The world may not be perfect, but it is nonetheless God’s creation and so are we. And because ours is a loving God, when the world’s a scary place, God’s there to take care of us, just as a shepherd cares for his sheep, protecting them from harm.
Among the Psalm’s valuable lessons is this one: much of the time we can’t control what happens to us, but we can always control how we respond to what happens to us. We can, for example, when misfortune strikes choose to think and act like a believer.
In 1995 when I was in formation to be ordained a deacon, I did my summer field ministry assignment at Isaiah House, a two bed hospice located on Prince Street in Rochester. Never before having encountered the terminally ill in the last days of life and more than a little squeamish at the prospect, I began my assignment with some anxiety. My anxiety, however, soon evaporated because caring for people approaching death turned out to be among the most grace filled and spiritual moments I have ever experienced. What I discovered was that hospice residents who submitted to the healing wisdom of the 23rd Psalm were able to accept death in a truly remarkable manner – peacefully and with dignity. That’s how Pope John Paul II accepted his a few short weeks ago.
In August, 1979, my mother, who is the single most important influence on who I am as a person, died suddenly and unexpectedly, alone in a hospital emergency cubicle late at night, after family members had been sent home. I’ve always regretted not being at my mother’s bedside that night, and after my Isaiah House experience, regretted not having had the opportunity to care for her as death approached. But my Isaiah House experience also eased my regret, because my mom was a deeply faith filled woman, and I know that if she knew death was imminent, she would have greeted it without fear, confident that she wasn’t leaving home, but going home.
In today’s gospel from John, Jesus, drawing from the rich storehouse of Hebrew tradition, invokes the image of “The Good Shepherd,” referring to himself as both shepherd and “gateway” of the sheepfold. “Whoever enters through me,” he says, “will be saved and will come in and go out and find pasture.”
Easter Sunday demonstrates spectacularly what Jesus means when he refers to himself as “gateway.” In conquering death, he becomes our gateway to eternal life. That’s the core tenet of our faith; the reason why believers need not fear “the valley of the shadow of death.” Life’s supposed to be temporary, after all, only a millisecond in eternity, so why cling to life when death is at the door? Believers know that there’s far more to life than the few years we live on this planet and that waiting for us beyond the horizon is a dwelling place “in the house of the Lord forever.”
St. Francis of Assisi on his deathbed said this: “Welcome sister death. I’m not afraid to let go of life, because I have life. I am life. I know life is somehow eternal…” He’s another example of someone who thought and acted like a believer.
John Todd was born in Rutland, Vermont in October of 1800, and shortly afterward his family moved to Connecticut. When John was six years old, both parents died, and a kindly aunt agreed to give John a home. There he lived until he left to study for the ministry. Eventually his aunt became seriously ill and feared she would die. In her alarm, she wrote her nephew with questions about death. Here’s a portion of his reply:
It is now thirty-five years since I, as a little boy of six, was left quite alone in the world. You sent me word that you would give me a home and be a kind mother to me. I will never forget the day when I made the long journey to your house in North Killingworth. I can still remember my disappointment when instead of coming for me yourself, you sent Caesar to fetch me.
I well remember my tears and anxiety as, perched high on your horse and clinging tight to Caesar, I rode off to my new home. Night fell before we finished the journey, and, as it grew dark, I became lonely and afraid. “Do you think she’ll go to bed before we get there?” I asked Caesar anxiously. “Oh, no,” he said reassuringly. “She’ll stay up for you. When we get out of these here woods, you’ll see her candle shinin’ in the window.”
Presently we did ride out into the clearing, and there, sure enough, was your candle. I remember you were waiting at the door, that you put your arms close about me and that you lifted me – a tired and bewildered little boy – down from the horse. You had a fire burning on the hearth, a hot supper waiting on the stove. After supper you took me to my room, heard me say my prayers and then sat beside me till I fell asleep.
You probably realize why I am recalling all of this to your memory. Someday soon God will send for you to take you to a new home. Don’t fear the summons, the strange journey or the dark messenger of death. God can be trusted to do as much for you as you were kind enough to do for me many years ago. At the end of the road you will find love and a welcome awaiting, and you will be safe in God’s care. I shall watch you and pray for you till you are out of sight and then wait for the day when I shall make the journey myself and find my Savior and you waiting at the end of the road to greet me.
Clearly, John Todd was a believer whose letter to his fearful aunt was an expression of faith, much like the words on Frank Sinatra’s tombstone: “The best is yet to come.” Believers know that the best is, indeed, yet to come, which helps explain why the Twenty-third psalm is the only chapter of the bible most people know by heart.
Anthony J. Sciolino
Fourth Sunday of Easter
April 17, 2005. (Cycle A).
Acts 2:14a, 36-41/49
Psalm 23; 1-3a, 3b-4, 5, 6
Peter 2:20b-25
John 10:1-10.