Psalm 23
John 10: 11–18
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May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be
acceptable in thy sight, O Lord our strength and our redeemer. Amen.
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This morning, on this fourth Sunday after Easter, all of our readings
and most of our hymns revolve around the single image of the Lord as
Good Shepherd, the shepherd who cares for the sheep of his flock with
tenderness and strength and power. And though most of us know
very little about the care and feeding of sheep we can all appreciate
that sense of being cared for gently, thoughtfully, patiently — day
in and day out. And so have all of God’s people over
thousands of years – people of the Old Testament and people of
the New Testament, too. In fact, in the early centuries of
Christianity, before the cross became the dominant symbol of our faith,
the image of a strong young shepherd, bringing a wayward sheep slung
over his shoulders back to safety, was the image early artists used
to represent the Christian faith.
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So probably like most of you, the first bit of scripture I memorized
as a child was the 23rd Psalm. And at the end of that Sunday
School year I was thrilled to find on the awards table a white silk
ribbon with the words of the psalm woven into it in blue letters. I
thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. But
as I reached out my hand to claim it, I felt someone pull me back from
behind by the sash of my dress. It was my older brother, always
jealous, who was saying unctuously to the Sunday School teachers,
“Oh, she can’t have that award. We weren’t here
that often this year.” But Oh! there is a God in heaven,
a wise and faithful shepherd. And a few weeks later, maybe
because he had figured out the family dynamic, Fred Stowe, the Sunday
School teacher, sent me that ribbon in an envelope through the
mail. In fact, I have it still – the first memory I have of
experiencing God’s love through his written word.
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Even better, though, than our childish memories of a wise and tender
shepherd – in lullabies or Sunday School classes — is the
shepherd who meets us as adults, the one who begins to guide us through
our life’s rough patches. And here again I have a vivid
memory of the day – or rather the night — when my Shepherd
met me as a young adult.
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In fact, the encounter took place in a dream, a dream so bright and
vivid I remember it to this day, though it must have happened
forty–some years ago. We had just moved from Guilford,
Connecticut to Austin, Texas – and I was finding the transition
difficult. To my way of thinking, Connecticut was green and lush
and hilly — while Texas was brown and dry and flat. Connecticut
was steeped in history, a history I knew and appreciated. Texas
was either modern and plastic – built ten years ago — or
prehistoric, covered in ancient fossils. And last but certainly
not least, Texas was hot, really hot, and we simply hadn’t
acclimatized yet.
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But then came the dream. In the dream my husband and I had gone
to a party one night near the home of one of his brothers in upper New
York state, an area that’s remote and heavily wooded. Realizing
I had forgotten something back at my brother–in–law’s
house, I borrowed someone’s car to go back and get it. But
the car I’d borrowed turned out to be a very large one, an old
black Packard — and I was instantly in trouble trying to drive
it. In fact, I could barely see over the steering wheel to gaze
through the windshield. And then, worse yet, I realized I had no
idea how to find my brother–in–law’s house. I
was lost and I knew it.
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But at just that point in the dream a figure in white appeared at the
driver’s side window. I didn’t even have to
look. I knew it was Jesus. He said, “Would you like
me to drive?” Relieved, I slid over to the passenger
seat. And suddenly we were driving through the most beautiful
countryside I’d ever seen – lush greens and blues and
yellows in bright watercolor shades. While I had my face pressed
to the window, enjoying this glorious panorama, Jesus spoke.
“I know where you want to go,” he said. “You
want to go home. And I will take you there. But you will
have to let me choose the way.”
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Then he stopped the car for a moment at the top of a hill. Below
us there were roadways with cars moving on them. “Some
people speed along those roads,” my guide commented. “But
they have no idea where they are going or what they will do when they
get there. Others poke along fearfully, cautiously, but they too
aren’t sure of the way. I know the way, and if you will
allow me, I will show it to you.”
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That was it. That was the dream, the night vision I have never
forgotten. No matter that in the dream I was not a sheep and the
figure in white was more chauffeur than shepherd. Through that
dream Jesus was offering to be my guide through some unfamiliar
territory, promising to guide me my whole life long if I would only
let him.
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And, you know, I have. In Texas I finally learned to bloom where
I’d been planted – as a mother, as a writer and in some
different kinds of church leadership positions. And then, when we
moved to Georgia, I was led to pursue the priesthood — at a time
when there still weren’t many women in leadership, even in the
Episcopal Church. And the journey isn’t over yet.
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But this sermon is not about me so much as it is about one person’s
personal experience with the 23rd Psalm; for that’s what this
psalm is all about. The 23rd Psalm is a profoundly personal and
intimate message from the Lord to each one of us. It doesn’t
speak to the nations; it speaks to individuals in their sleepless
nights and uncertain days — promising them God’s provision
if only they will trust him. And I understand that you would not
be here today if you didn’t have some understanding of this
possibility, some experience of the Lord as your Shepherd.
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So I am offering these personal recollections this morning in the hope
that they will help you remember times in your life when the Lord has
broken through to you, promising he will provide your need, whatever it
is. And this morning, after the service, we have planned a Lectio
Divina study, maybe out in the garden, based on this
psalm. It’s what we have missed in this year of the
pandemic – being able to come together as the Body of Christ
and share.
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So this morning I am looking forward to hearing from you.
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Amen.
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