Sometimes I think that if all we ever did in Sunday School was to make sure our kids memorized The Lord’s Prayer and The 23rd Psalm, they’d have all they most needed to get them through the tough times. For those of us who grew up in the Christian church, whatever the branch or denomination, there was a time for us, most likely, when we memorized the words of The 23rd Psalm and, most likely, memorized it in the Elizabethan English of the King James Version.

It’s almost instinctive for us, in the midst of a crisis, to reach out, saying the familiar words that just seem to spring forth from deep within our hearts: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…” Of all the psalms, the 23rd is the one that just seems to bubble up in the midst of the worst times. We recite it to reassure ourselves when we’re terrified, and we recite it to others when they are terrified. We pray the words to calm ourselves or to calm others. For some of us, children and adults alike, it’s our nighttime prayer, as we seek God’s comfort and security, whatever the fears that face us; be they monsters in the closet or monstrous stresses and strains.

The familiar words are said at the scene of an accident, in the Emergency Room, before surgery, and at a deathbed. It is the psalm most often selected by family members to be included in a funeral service. Psalm 23 has been and is a lifeline for millions of Jews and Christians alike, of all ages, and through all stages of life. I would imagine that Jesus loved this psalm as much as we do.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. What a different image this is of God, as opposed to the God who created the heavens and the earth, the God who led the children of Israel out of bondage in Egypt, the God who was seen only in mighty pillars of cloud and fire, the God who spoke to Job out of a terrifying tornado. The God described in Psalm 23 is anything but almighty, remote, far removed from us. God as Shepherd is a God who is with us at all times, watching out for us, protecting us and taking care of our needs. The Lord as Shepherd not only cares, but he cares for me, for he is my shepherd; he cares for you, for he is your shepherd. God, the awesome and almighty God, is the most intimate and personal God. God, says Psalm 23, is as close as close can be.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. It’s not hard for us to conjure up an image of green pastures and still waters. We can think of many lovely spots we’ve visited that fit the bill. Picnics we’ve taken on bright sunny days sitting in the grass at the edge of a flowing stream; meadows we’ve hiked through, glimpsing the river in the distance.

Yet what’s so interesting about this description is that we’d be hard pressed to find anywhere in the Holy Land such an idyllic spot! The truth is that green pastures are hard to find and that dry waterbeds are the norm, except when the seasonal rains cause flooding. Somehow I find this juxtaposition even more reassuring. Truth be told, in all our lives there are places of parched earth, scraggly grass, and just about dried out riverbeds.

In fact, life described as lush green meadows and clear, still waters are probably the exception and not the norm for us. Scraggly yards and dried up streams may be a pretty apt visual image of relationships that aren’t working, problems we’re having, jobs that don’t fulfill us, conflicts we have with others, anger or hurts we’ve let fester, family squabbles, money troubles that threaten to sink us, illness and sicknesses and diseases that overwhelm us and those we love. Yet the psalmist paints a picture of God the Shepherd leading us along (even if we are limping and have blisters) until we come at last to lush green grass and cool still water. Doesn’t it behoove us, then, to keep following our Shepherd?

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. The phrase “the valley of the shadow of death” can also be translated (from the Hebrew) as “the valley of deep darkness.” Going again to the geography of the Holy Land, there are paths hewn among the rocks and boulders where there are plenty of places for bandits and robbers to hide, and the path is dark because the rocks blot out the sun’s rays.

Some of you will remember that scene in the very first Star Wars movie when R2D2 has gone out on his own to try and find Obi Wan Kenobi and is frightened out of his mechanical wits because he is all alone, making his way through a valley of deep darkness and sensing the evil Sand People hiding in the rocks above him. R2D2 stops at one point, looks all around, and makes a little mechanical sound. We don’t have to be an android like he is to recognize the whimper of fear when we hear it. The scene is a pretty vivid image of what it feels like to be terrified and alone and to sense danger all around.

Whether we are feeling like we are in a place of deep darkness where we’re not ever sure whether we’re going to see the light of day again, or whether we are experiencing for ourselves or with someone we love what it means to be in the valley of the shadow of death, the point is clear that even if we can’t see him, our Shepherd is near. The protection of God, his rod and staff, are protecting us even when we can’t see it or sense it or feel it. The point is to trust that in the darkness, God our Shepherd is there with us, and to find reassurance and security and comfort in his leading protection.

Psalm 23, in six short stanzas, paints a picture of God’s loving protection and nearness throughout our journey through life. The Psalm ends with the conviction that Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. We’re protected by God the Shepherd out front leading the way, and also by God the Shepherd taking up the rear so that we won’t be left behind. Our journey through life will take us through parched desert places and places of refreshing oasis, through bright sunlit meadows and terrifying narrow valleys. Sometimes the path will be wide open and clearly marked and sometimes the path will be quite narrow and treacherous. We can be sailing along on an interstate with a gas station and McDonalds at every exit, and the next minute find ourselves on a rutted old dirt road, miles from civilization with no map at hand and a dead cell phone battery.

But whatever the path we find ourselves on right now, whether lush and lovely, dangerous and rock strewn, wide and clearly marked, twisted and turning, going through the desert or nearing an oasis – whatever the road, whatever the path – God is guiding us through as our Shepherd. And goodness and mercy are bringing up the rear. The truth is that God knows the way through, he knows the way around, and he knows the way home.

For God guides us ultimately to his house – “the house of the Lord” - to the home where we will find eternal rest from our life’s journey, and perfect peace. That’s our future, and that’s where our path through life will ultimately both end and begin again.

But in the meantime, on this springtime Sunday at St. Andrew’s, I’d like to think that your time here this morning will be for you a rest in green pastures, a quiet time beside still waters. I’d like to believe that this morning you will find restoration for your souls, and a pleasant place to pause in your journey. I’d like to trust that as we share communion with our Shepherd today at the altar, you will be refreshed, you will experience a taste of heaven and you will feel your cup of gratefulness running over. God our Shepherd led each of us here this morning. And he will lead us, rod and staff in hand, when we leave.

Amen.