A Lent 4 BFC
2017
Psalm 23
March 26, 2017
Quaker theologian, Ched Myers, in his book, Who Will Roll Away the Stone?: Discipleship Queries for First World
Christians, argues that one of the reasons largely white Americans are so
negative toward immigrants within our own country is that we have buried deep
within our psyche the painful journeys many of our own ancestors took to arrive
in the Americas. So to begin each
discussion with a white audience, he believes these questions should be asked,
questions that should help us remember that pain and difficulty and perhaps
open us to a greater empathy. Here are
the questions:
Under
what circumstances did the European immigrant leave, and how voluntary was it?
Whether in terms of land or work, who did they displace upon arrival?
What discrimination was experienced, and what strategies of accommodation
resulted? When and how was the native language or dialect suppressed?
How did traditional family patterns erode and distinctive cultural
practices atrophy? How many times did the direct family line move states
or regions? What kind of ethnic mixing was there, and why or why not?
How was land procured and wealth obtained and consolidated from
generation to generation? What entitlements were passed on, and what
rivalries resulted? How was the family fractured along class or race
lines? In what ways did upward (or downward) social mobility occur, and how
was status expressed? What kinds of opportunities were there for women?
What wars affected your ancestors? What relationship was there to
the institutions of slavery? Do you know how the indigenous people who
resided or still reside in the place you live now? What are the prominent
family legends?
Myers has had
firsthand experience of seeing people connect back with their histories,
remember that pain and the trauma it caused their families, and become more
open to a dialogue about the real root causes of immigration, the push and pull
factors that would be so great that a family might even consider leaving home,
the climate they are used to and the food that they love, the landscape that
has gotten into their bones as to what is truly safe and secure.
(Nathan Moyer presents
here about the tradition of his family)
If we are truly to understand the
context of Psalm 23, we must do as early Christian scholar, John Dominic
Crossan suggests, we must hear the other end of the phone conversation. For Psalm 23 speaks words of comfort in what
must be a dangerous pilgrimage. There is
no rest for this weary traveler. They
walk through the valley of the shadow of death.
And, finally, it makes a reference to someone who may have fled to one
of the cities of refuge, set up specifically for people who might be pursuing
them to exact revenge or justice for a wrong done to them or done to one of
their family members. Part of the Jewish
legal system set up six cities of refuge for those who might have accidentally
caused a death.[1] Meals,
clothing, and resources would be supplied to these refugees. Here they found sanctuary from those who
might seek to avenge a death, they might even be found eating a meal in the
presence of their enemy. Our most widely
known psalm is one that acknowledges the special care God offers us as refuge
and sanctuary. Seemingly, we have
forgotten the actual content of this psalm.
We cannot imagine the vulnerability, the terror, and the everyday fear
and immigrant or a refugee must go through as they walk in the world.
(Lyla Dyer presents
her Borderlinks experience.)
Phillip Jenkins, growing out of his experience
of working in the Global South, believes that we should read Psalm 23 as a
political tract objecting to unjust secular authority.[2] Beginning with calling God a shepherd, this
was the language ancient Judaism used to reference to their just rulers. Throughout the psalm, the very rule that
should bring goodness to the Jewish people brings threat and danger. In the middle of Psalm 23, the loving shepherd becomes the gracious
host. In a nomadic society like that of the ancient Mediterranean,
hospitality was at a premium. Guests were to be treated with a respect
unheard of in North American society today. If a person were being
pursued by an enemy, and that person came calling to your tent, hospitality
required that one not only provide meal and shelter for the person but also
refuge. Refuge could even mean joining forces with your guest against the
pursuing enemy. So a migrant is given refuge in God’s tent and a meal is
prepared for the migrant in front of their pursuer. God gives refuge,
prepares a meal, and lavishes the wandering migrant with hospitality. In
God’s tent, kindness and steadfast love pursue us . . . and in that place . . .
in that place we make our home.
Though
widely used at funerals, Psalm 23 is not about an afterlife. There are
echoes of the Exodus as Pharaoh pursues the Hebrew people. There
are echoes of the Exile as a people without a home, without hope, without
meaning seek a place of sanctuary. In lieu of their enemies pursuing
them, the Jewish people find refuge within God’s tent where kindness and
steadfast love pursue them.
But do not be deceived. What
Psalm 23 promises is God’s presence with us as a good shepherd. It does not mean that the wolves and their
violence, that danger and destruction are no more.
Danger and
death are not removed from our lives in the images of Psalm 23. We
will have to go through their deep shadows, but we will know that God is at our
side, present with us. Rather than a ruler who lives far removed from the
realities of our world, all-knowing and all-powerful, God is a loving shepherd
who gets dirt underneath the fingernails, even begins to smell like the sheep
who are enfolded into the shepherd’s care. In Psalm 23, good and loving
divine care are marked by creating an opening or a clearing for people to grow
and breathe and have life, rest, and a banquet of joy. Good and loving care does not
ask us to avoid the danger or the shadows of the valley, but we are told that
divine care will also not allow us to go it alone. In a world that seems
bent on proclaiming a God conveys love through power, a God who conveys love
just by being present and accompanying us is a strange way of looking at things. Divine love is marked by offering
hospitality, sanctuary, and refuge for those who
experience the world as a dangerous place.
(Sara Moyer tells about her experience at Wichita State.)
We are called,
as a people of faith, as Christian people, to incarnate the loving care,
hospitality, sanctuary, and refuge of God.
We do that knowing that when we extend ourselves in that way, we do so
at risk and at danger to ourselves.
Tracy, Sophia, and I just recently went and saw Disney’s “Beauty and the
Beast.” There is a great scene where the
fearless Belle comes to her father to tell him what they must do. He responds by saying to her, “But, Belle,
this will be dangerous.” Without
blinking, she does not remove her gaze from her father and says, “Yes, it will
be dangerous,” as if to say, she does not make her decisions in the world based
on whether there is great danger. There
is a higher calling and deeper values which demand that she act.
So it is with
Psalm 23, this psalm of comfort for so many years. Yes, indeed, we see God acting in a way that
brings comfort, rest, hospitality, and joy to us even when life is
threatening. But we, acting in divine
love, are called to do the same.
[1] Numbers
34:11-15.
[2] J.
Clinton McCann, “Commentary on Psalm 23,” The
Working Preacher, October 9, 2011. https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1090. Philip
Jenkins, "Liberating Word: The Power of the Bible in the Global
South," Christian Century, July 11, 2006, 26.
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