Easter 4B – 2015 upon returning from Haiti Mission Trip
Acts 4:5-12; Psalm 23; I John 3:16-24; John 10:11-18
Back in 2003 when a massive power outage plunged the eastern United States into total darkness many people saw fear and inconvenience but there was at least one person who saw something different. Before sunset, so his neighbors could see, Dr. Jay Reynolds of the Cleveland Planetarium set up a telescope in his yard. He then invited all his neighbors to come over to see the marvels of the night sky, free of artificial light. Once the sun set and the night turned black, the whole sky came alive—galaxies were in plain view, Mars was brilliant and a meteor shower put on a show. On NPR Jay said: “It was a great night to see the stars as they were meant to be seen.” ( NPR, All Things Considered, 8/ 15/03) What could have been a long night of loneliness and fear became, instead, for one community, a serendipitous and joyful celebration.
I think the author of Psalm 23 would have liked this. David, too, looked out at what life had given him, and while most folks would have seen nothing but darkness and trouble, failure and loss, David saw a wonderful gift—life with God, where he wanted for nothing, a place of goodness and abundance—and, peace. Not that all was perfect. Notice, for David, life with God is still a walk through shadow-filled valleys. Notice the table spread before us also happens to be surrounded by world-wide enemies. All over this pastoral scene of green pastures is cast…life as it really is.
This realism is in our other readings, as well. Peter, healing a lame beggar in Jerusalem and preaching new life through resurrection, is under house arrest in the Acts reading. Echoed in the Gospel, we hear Jesus, along with teaching the gentle ways of the shepherd, also cautions about those who do not care for the sheep, but care only for themselves.
Yes, life is hard. And, even though we graze in God’s pasture, what do we do with life as it is—when life deals us a raw deal; when wells run dry and joy blows away; when enemies have breached the wall and cancer has annihilated our defenses; when love promised forever is cast aside? When we find ourselves on the wrong side of the wall, rejected because of who we are and how we are? What do we do when it’s clear a future dreamed will never be and we’re drowning in tears?
The psalmist, at least, doesn’t entertain simplistic solutions like: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” Or “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle. The psalmist refuses to make light of life’s crises by urging the fearful to “make lemonade out of lemons.” No, for the psalmist, in this life, we need help and in dark times like these if there is to be any hope, it has to come from outside of us.
Walter Brueggemann is one of our best theologians. At one of his lectures, a packed room was expecting a scholarly dissertation. Instead, he asked everyone to put down their pens and recall a time when as a child they were frightened—lying in bed at night, sure the shadows on the bedroom wall were of a burglar or a monster, the creaks on the stairs a warning of something horrible about to happen. Now, Brueggemann continued, “remember calling out to your mother or father, and see him or her appearing and saying, “It’s OK. I’m here. Don’t be afraid.”
That, said Brueggemann, is the fundamental, consistent message of the Bible: “I’m here. Don’t be afraid.” In fact, he says, you can summarize all of scripture in just two words: “Fear not.”
This is the message of Psalm 23: “Fear not.” Even when life goes sour, even when we feel alone, even when we’re lost in darkness: “Fear not.” But when you are…a scientific explanation is useful. Fear, neuroscience tells us, is connected to the amygdala, a small almond-shaped structure in the front center of the brain. The amygdala scouts for trouble and, in detecting it, sounds an alarm. Adrenaline flushes through the body, flooding the brain and riveting attention on the object of our fear. But, according to brain imaging, the amygdala responds powerfully to three things: calm words, gentle touch, and kind faces. All of these calm the amygdala.
(Peter Steinke, Living By The Word, XnC, 2/20/07)
So, says the psalmist, when I’m in trouble and afraid, I remember who my shepherd is. It’s not the government, it’s not the President, not Homeland Security—it’s someone I know. And when I see his face, when I hear his voice, when I feel his touch, fear flees—for, “The Lord is my shepherd.”
Notice how the psalmist describes his shepherd in images of tenderness, gentleness, and attentiveness. While we may think of a shepherd as a man, here the shepherd has maternal qualities, doing what a mother does. And, in doing “what a mother does,” God does not always fix things or get us out of trouble. But, always, God comes, and by her presence, turns situations of fear into occasions of joy. How does the psalmist put it? Like our own mothers setting us down at the kitchen table, drying our tears with milk and cookies, God, our mother, our shepherd, with trouble and danger all around, clears out a space, and sets a table. (see Brueggemann, Theology of the Old Testament: Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy) With such a shepherd, is it any wonder that the psalmist says no need goes lacking? “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want” not only implies that every need is supplied by our God, but also that beyond the presence of our good God, there is no other need.
There’s one other part of the psalm I want to bring to our attention. “He restores my soul” which literally, in Hebrew, reads “He brings me back.” When I’m lost, says the psalmist, alone, far from home, separated from the flock, my shepherd finds me and carries me back. There is reassurance in this psalm that the goodness of the Lord is in every place before we ever arrive.
God’s goodness has already been where we are planning to go. The goodness of God goes ahead of us, clearing out new ground, pulling us to new terrain, lighting a pathway in the dark places of new possibility.
This truth came alive to me while we were in Haiti. It was truly an amazing week and the missioners are very excited about sharing their pictures and stories with you next Sunday during the Adult Forums at 9am and 11:30am. I think you will be astonished by all we did and saw and learned. But I will also tell you that at one point during our time last week in Haiti this sheep (me) felt very lost. It happened on Saturday afternoon. From the guest house I could hear the musicians below us in the church practicing with the choirs. Their music sounded so glorious that I felt compelled to walk down and listen to them practice. As I walk into the nave the presence of the Holy Spirit was palpable. These Haitian choristers—about 40 of them—are singing about Jesus from deep within their hearts. There is nothing tentative about their singing.
They are pouring themselves into songs of praise and thanksgiving.
They who are impoverished by my standards, without much in the way of creature comforts, material goods, much less luxuries are filled with joy. Fear of preaching on Sunday quickly overtakes me. How can I possibly have anything to say to these faithful, joyous Christians who know more about Jesus than I can possibly know? The sermon I had written suddenly feels superfluous. Through my tears I begin to pray and ask the Lord, my shepherd, to lead me to those still waters of confidence and trust.
Standing there in St. Matthias Church in Cherident, Haiti I allow the music I am hearing to seep deep into my soul. Somehow these Haitian singers and musicians are Jesus to me, comforting me, anointing me. As I start back to the guest house, one of the young men sees me leaving and outside the church he shouts to me in English, “Father (which is what they called me) I love you.” With these words, I am completely undone.
One of the missioners happens to be in our room in the guest house when I come in and I tell her the fear I am feeling about preaching. She is loving and encouraging. Climbing on to my mosquito netting draped bed I pull out my sermon and pray some more. I change words to make it more heart-felt. And you know what? When I begin preaching that sermon on Sunday morning I feel so empowered by the Holy Spirit I can hardly contain myself. I know without a doubt that Jesus, my shepherd, is with me. And not just with me but with the missioners as each one of them spoke as well about ways they had seen the hands of Jesus in our Haitian friends that week.
And I felt Jesus, our shepherd, in Father Fred the priest, and the whole congregation of Haitian Christians gathered with us in the house of the Lord.
Once more I have been reassured “surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.” Being in Haiti could have been a dark and fearful time. It wasn’t. For the Lord is my Shepherd, your Shepherd, our Shepherd, the Shepherd of all who listen to his voice and follow.