“Through the Valley”
April 17, 2016
Psalm 23; John 10:11-16
Rev. Dr. Debbie Clark
The 23rd Psalm begins with such beautiful imagery. I picture a vast pasture under a cloudless blue sky, dots of yellow and purple wildflowers speckling the lush green carpet. The Psalmist’s still water evokes the high mountain lake—Sky Pond—that is my favorite hike in the Rocky Mountains. The water is so placid the surrounding mountains are reflected almost flawlessly.
Gentle, peaceful, soul-restoring—until we get to the fifth line. Instead of greens and blues we suddenly picture shades of gray—all the color obscured by shadow. Instead of the expansiveness of the pasture we are hemmed in by a valley so deep the surrounding mountains cut off all light. Instead of peaceful rest we feel a foreboding anxiety. We can’t see where we are heading; we can’t feel the warmth of the sun. Seduced by the opening green pastures and still waters, we have walked with the Psalmist right into the valley of the shadow of death.
Rabbi Harold Kushner, in his book The Lord is My Shepherd, points out that a more accurate translation of this line might be “the valley of deep darkness.” Even so, he chooses to reflect on the passage using our more familiar translation. He recognizes that “the valley of the shadow of death” lifts up profound truths about what it means to be human.
The Psalmist, he points out, is not talking about the valley of death. Death is simply a fact of life. Instead, the Psalmist writes about the shadow that death casts on our lives.
What is this shadow? Sometimes it takes the form of fear—fear of what happens when we die, fear of annihilation, fear that when we are gone our lives will have meant nothing. Sometimes the shadow is an unwelcome acknowledgement of our limitations: along with our awareness that the length of our life is limited comes the recognition that our power and influence are limited. We have dreams that we cannot always bring to fruition. We make plans that go awry. Often the shadow is a painful awakening to our vulnerability—highlighted when we go to the doctor and get unexpected bad news, heightened when we turn on the evening news and are reminded of how quickly everyone’s life can change or end.
An equally ominous manifestation of this valley is the shadow the death of someone we love casts over our lives. The light of joy is obscured, and in our grief we cannot imagine ever finding it again.
The valley of the shadow of death is a dangerous place. We cannot see clearly, for the shadows obscure the path. There are rocks to stumble over. There are side roads that lead us in circles, further from the light of hope and truth. There are tempting paths that look like shortcuts, seeming to offer us an easy way out of the valley but actually leaving us stuck on a rocky ledge. There is the impulse to turn around and go back, but that only delays the inevitable journey.
Some of the stones we trip over are our natural human instincts to protect ourselves and the people we love. We put on physical and emotional armor to keep us apart from people we fear might do us harm. We short-circuit our dreams because they involve risk. We try to control other people’s choices. We pretend we are invincible, or we pretend we are powerless. Sometimes the side paths we take lead us to assume that shadows and loss, grief and fear are all that exists. We think the valley of the shadow of death is our permanent home.
The Psalmist uses the word “evil” to describe the dangers of this valley. It is a strong word, one to use with caution—and it conveys the extent of the danger. Our fear of death, our instincts for self-preservation, our delusions of grandeur and helplessness—they are natural responses to our mortality. If they are given free reign, if they are allowed to harden and take over our lives, they can lead us to actions that harm ourselves and others, that promote hatred and injustice, even that cause evil.
The vivid poetry describes the desolation of the valley and names the danger. Ultimately, though, this is a Psalm of comfort and confidence; in the midst of this ominous picture, the Psalmist points us to four promises.
The first promise is that we do not have to live in the valley of the shadow of death. Instead, as the words proclaim, we walk through it. The shadow of death is part of life; it does not have to define our lives.
The second promise is that we are not alone. God is with us, a companion to ease our loneliness, a shepherd with rod and staff. When we trip and fall into a crevasse, God holds out the staff to pull us back onto the path. When the forces of hatred or despair threaten us, our shepherd wards them off with the rod.
God’s presence with us on this journey may take any number of forms. We find comfort in the wisdom of our faith—stories and songs and prayers that guide us. We discover strength as we awaken to the sacred spark of truth within –to God’s Spirit in us. God works through other people—shepherds and teachers, parents and friends—who walk beside us. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for you are with me.
The third promise is revealed when these words are put in the context of the entire psalm. The line that follows this one is perplexing: “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” In spite of the way it sounds, this line is not about God’s favoring us over someone we define as our enemy. It is about sanctuary. In the harsh desert of biblical lands, hospitality was a life-preserving necessity. If you were being chased by a person who had a grievance and intended to harm you, all you had to do was make to the door of someone’s tent. The laws of hospitality required the tent-owner to let you in, protect you, and give you enough food and drink to sustain you.
The Psalmist takes this cultural requirement of basic hospitality and breaks it open to convey a truth about God. God offers refuge and so much more—a table spread with a feast, a cup that overflows. And when we are ready to leave the sanctuary and venture back out into the world, instead of being pursued by our enemy, now we are followed—the word actually means pursued—by goodness and mercy.
All this abundance after our journey through the valley of the shadow of death: we are promised a feast, an overflowing cup, a life chased by goodness and mercy. It makes me think that the walk through the valley of the shadow of death is more than just a necessary unpleasantness. It is part of our awakening to abundance and joy.
The shadow of death does remind us how fragile our lives truly are; it can also awaken us to how precious life is. It prompts us to treasure every moment as a gift. The shadow of death may make us feel too small to matter, or it can inspire us to be part of something bigger than ourselves—to join together to make a difference, to participate in God’s on-going creation of beauty while we can. The shadow of death might lead us to small, self-centered lives, or it may lead us to reach out for connection, and to tell the people we love that we love them. Because we walk with God, our walk through the valley of the shadow of death can change us—leading us to lives of compassion and creativity and joy.
There is one more promise. “You anoint my head with oil.” Most of the time, in the Bible, a person is anointed as a sign that they have been called to serve God. The Psalmist promises us that our journey through the valley of the shadow of death leads us to our calling. We who have known fear and loss, vulnerability and danger are called to walk with others through this valley. We are called to use our staff to pull a friend out of the pit. We are called to walk beside our sister in silence when there are no words to say. We are called to hold out hope that the sun really does shine behind the mountains and to assure our brother that he will once again feel its warmth.
The valley is dark and dangerous. But we do not have to be afraid, for we know the promises of God: We are not defined by the shadow cast by death; we walk through its valley. We do not walk alone, for God is always with us. The journey is more than an unfortunate necessity; it transforms our lives. We are anointed, called, to serve God, to walk with one another.
Surely goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our lives, and we will dwell in the house of God forever. Amen.