A reflection on Psalm 23

Where are you writing your sermon this week? My wife Kathi was curious. With kids dropped off at school earlier, coffee and cereal consumed, the question was timely.

Maybe I’ll try the backyard, I replied. The weather seems nice.

I gathered scholarly summaries, books, pen, highlighter, laptop and went outside.

Sitting under our pergola in a patio hammock I looked up. Some of the wooden boards we’d repaired and repainted last Fall had begun to rot. Oif.

The lawn, now fully green, and growing fast, was ready for another mow. Hadn’t I just done that last week? I noticed too the back garden fence was tilting over in unhelpful ways. I sighed.

My mind wandered to the to-do list here at church. I have a six-week sabbatical coming up later this summer, from the end of June through mid-August. Sabbaticals are an opportunity to reflect, refresh, relax, retool, renew, recommit to this called clergy relationship you and I are in. Thank you, good people of St. John’s for making this available to your clergy – supporting your pastors in this way speaks well of you.

But until the sabbatical begins June 30? A growing to-do list of survey analysis, staff hires, hospital visits, baptisms, funerals, member meetings, program planning and preaching awaits. Pondering all that in my backyard I sighed some more.

Psalm 23
In middle school, I attended a summer bible camp that encouraged kids to meet a lofty goal: memorize 100 bible verses over the course of a week. There were daily updates, leader boards, prize categories, that sort of thing. I didn’t hit the top target – few kids did – tho did achieve a couple benchmarks along the way.

One passage I memorized was Psalm 23. Partially because the poetry drew me in. There is a certain flow to it, which makes it memorable. And partially because the short text, in terms of verse count, quickly got me up to a score of six 😊.

The King James Version is what I learned in my youth; it is old English that dates to 1611. Most days I can still recall it well:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
he leadeth me beside the still waters.
3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness
for his name’s sake.
4 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.
5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
6 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.

Feeling led to focus on this text for this message I pulled out some favorite resources and began to read. Sermon suggestions showing promise were underlined. If it really resonated a highlighter was used. And if something truly inspired? I drew a little star by it. With multiple stars meaning more.

Initial read now complete, words underlined, highlighted, stars placed, I put the papers down and closed my eyes. It was time to ponder where the Spirit might move.

Diving In
The poet begins on a personal note: The Lord is my shepherd. It is the only Psalm of the 150 that personalizes the Shepherd in this way. My shepherd highlights a God guiding God’s people as a group, yet doing so one person individually, at a time.

The shepherd cares for the flock, keeping us safe from the dangers that lurk beyond. I’m reminded of the parable where the shepherd leaves the 99, going out to seek the one. When you’re part of the 99 perhaps you don’t worry so much, there is safety in numbers. But when you’re the one? You better believe you want to be able to say hey, that’s my shepherd! They’re going to keep me safe, and out of harm’s way! The Psalmist here is personal.

The Psalmist here also speaks in real time. Lead, restore, fear, comfort, prepare and anoint are all present tense. This isn’t a fond look back at the past. And it isn’t a fast-forward ahead to better times. The promise is that God is with us in the here and now. No matter how that here and now might appear.

The promises we are given in the Psalm explains, perhaps, why the poem is so beloved.

Green pastures,
Still waters,
Right paths,
Overflowing cups,
Anointed head,
Soul restored,
Fearing not –

These are promises you can cling to. Promises we claim through the life, death, and resurrection of Christ.

The final verse then sets its sights ahead.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.

Said differently we can count on these promises today, tomorrow, forever.

Now at the end, I find myself returning to the start.

Because the Lord is my shepherd, providing comfort, care, cups overflowing, and doing so for all the days of my life, what needs do I have?

Because the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. I need only trust God with my joys, fears, and everything in between. With that these promises are mine.

Back
With eyes still closed sitting in my backyard, still pondering the Psalm, I felt myself slowly relax.

I shall not want. The phrase played repeatedly in my head. I found myself now noticing the chirping of the birds, joyfully singing their song. A bushy tail squirrel scampered along a fence line, making it their personal superhighway, racing back and forth at high speeds. Our dog Churro gnawed on a lamb bone I’d given her earlier in the morning. It was the last remains of our Easter dinner a few weeks prior. The birds, the squirrel, the dog, they didn’t seem to want. Why I wondered, should I?

I shall not want. I looked back at the tall, still-needs-to-be-mowed green grass again. It now seemed more inviting. One blanket laid down just so on it, with a few choice morsels and a cool drink would make for a fantastic picnic spot, I realized.

There were shadows in the yard, yes. Tho they were placed there by the same tree I sat under that provided shade. With an ever-so-gentle breeze paired with sun aplenty I felt awash in peace.

I shall not want. I noticed our firepit. Our family loves sitting fireside toasting marshmallows, munching on Smores, sharing with each other all the trappings of life. But we hadn’t done that for a while. I committed to gathering both firewood and family that night, reigniting that tried, true tradition again.

Every-so-often I’d hear a snip or a pluck from the back of the yard. Kathi, trowel and gloves in hand was gardening, taking a first pass at preparing the soil for the season. Last summer we really got that garden going – it made for a great couple’s hobby. I mentally made plans to grow that garden anew.

I shall not want. Looking across the lawn I put new eyes on our brick home. And couldn’t help but recall a children’s fable complete with a big bad wolf and three little pigs. The pigs who made their houses of straw and sticks couldn’t withstand that big bad wolf and all that huffing and puffing. Those houses blew down. But this 105-year-old colonial? No amount of strong winds – and we’ve had some these past few years – can blow this house down. For we dwell in the house the good Lord pointed us to.

Sitting there I realized something I’ve known for a while but needed reminding of. Surely goodness and mercy has followed me all the days of my life. It always has. It still does. It always will.

Psalm 23 is alive and well.
Right in my backyard.
On a mild, mid-May day.

People of God, please know this: the promises of God ring true. If you would, say the verse The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want with me. Let’s say it together three times.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

May you find this promise in your own backyard, too.

He was young. And he was dying. As family and friends looked on that fateful, final day everyone knew. This was it.

Sadness was in the air. And why not? He had overcome so much. He had impacted so many. He was loved by multitudes. He would be terribly missed.

Because life for Brendan Costello, from Brooklyn New York, age 55, was ending soon.

Life for Brendan had always been hard.

A child born into tragedy, Brendan and his sister were orphaned at a young age. An aunt and uncle took them in, grafting them into their family as best they could.

An unplanned run-in with a subway train in 1996 left him without the ability to walk. For some this might have been the end of a meaningful life. But not Brendan.

While rehabbing in a spinal-cord-injury program he met another man in a wheelchair, who offered sage advice.

“With an accident like this, you don’t withdraw from the world. You lean into the world. You go out there.”

Brendan took the advice to heart.

He relearned how to drive a car. Went skydiving. Co-hosted a radio show about disability rights and culture. Taught creative writing at a local college. Published pieces in Harper’s, The Village Voice, elsewhere. He belonged to the St. Pat’s For All group that arranges an annual everybody-welcome parade in Queens.

He gave talks to elementary school students about storytelling. Sometimes he even let the kids sit in his wheelchair.

Brendan was a huge fan of the Japanese art of Kintsugi. That’s where you take a broken thing, like a shattered piece of pottery, and reassemble it with gold or silver lacquer. The resulting creation is something new, something beautiful.

This beauty now seemed to be a distant memory. Brendan had spent multiple months enduring several surgeries. With repeated infections doctors tried, but ultimately could not cure him. Brendan then went into cardiac arrest. Soon after he entered a coma.

When tests confirmed Brendan would not regain consciousness, his family made a gut-wrenching decision. His ventilator would be removed at 1pm on Sunday, January 19, 2025.

It was time.

And then, mere minutes before the appointed hour, as tears were shed and hands reached out for one last squeeze, a nurse entered the room. Are you Brendan’s sister Darlene?

Call
There is a phone call, the nurse told her.  You have to take it.  You HAVE to take it.

The flustered sister left her brother’s side and picked up the phone. Family members watched from a distance as she listened, argued, contorted her face in disbelief. In a sacred moment of saying goodbye time seemingly stood still.

For their beloved Brendan – their playful, curious, compassionate, and not-yet-dead Brendan – had other plans.

Prequel
He too was young. And he was dying. As family and friends looked on that fateful Friday everyone knew. This was it.

Sadness was in the air. And why not? He had impacted so many.

The –
o poor,
o sick,
o hungry,
o homeless,
o women,
o children,
o unclean,
o immigrants,
o different believers,
o non-believers –

were all used to being treated as less than. Cast aside by their government, judged by the religious elites –

He cared for them.
He embraced them, as they were.
He called them children of God.

He offered the people something they had precious little of.

He gave them hope.

Most importantly, he welcomed them into a grand family that does not exclude. With this radical hospitality he ensured they knew, unequivocally, there was a place for each of them in this world.

Sequel
Now unplugged from life here on earth, his friends gathered early in the morning. They departed, heading toward the tomb.

They brought spices to anoint his body as a final act of love. Perhaps they too hoped to reach their hands out for one last squeeze, amid tears of grief still flowing down.

But then, the unexpected. The stone that was supposed to be there was gone. Not sure what to make of this the friends walked in.

The tomb was empty.
No corpse was in sight.

There were, however, two men, suddenly standing beside them. When did they arrive?

Perplexed and terrified, the friends listened as the men asked them a question:

Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, they continued, but has risen.

Christ has risen,
Christ has risen indeed! Alleluia!

The men reminded them that Jesus had this in mind the entire time.

The friends then remembered his words. In their excitement they ran to tell the others – he is not dead, but alive!

For they knew, in that moment, their beloved Jesus – compassionate, caring Christ, with no body in sight – had other plans.

Brendan
The call that interrupted Brendan’s death was from a non-profit who designates organ donations. Years ago Brendan had registered as a donor while renewing his driver’s license.

When Brendan’s sister learned about the directed organ donation option, she remembered someone. A family friend suffered from a debilitating kidney disease. They were on the transplant registry, but their number hadn’t yet come up.

Do you want one of Brendan’s kidneys, his sister asked? It would be an honor, the friend replied, yes. Less than 3% of directed kidney donations are a match. After testing they realized, miraculously, this was one of them.

Brendan’s left kidney went to the family friend.
His right kidney to a man in Pennsylvania.
His lungs to a woman in Tennessee.

Brendan’s eyes, the lens through which he saw the world, he donated too.

Because he gave himself, literally for others, Brendan continues to live on.

Relate
Our world right now seems, perhaps, a little more broken than usual.

The civil rights of many aren’t being threatened.
They are actively being taken away.

We see the rights of many groups eroding before our very eyes.
– Women
– LGBTQ
– Immigrants

It’s fair to wonder, which groups of people – people that God loves deeply – will be targeted next.

In 1963, during our first Civil Rights era, President John F Kennedy said this, “the rights of every man are diminished when the rights of one man are threatened.”

Because of this we might be feeling more broken than usual too.

People of God, I’ve got some really good news for you.

Because of Christ’s life, death and resurrection, we are clay in our creator’s hands.

God takes each of us, like shattered pottery, and reassembles us. Putting us back together, as we were designed to be. Bit by bit by bit. Our broken parts are both healed and highlighted. For like a broken bone that has been reset, when pottery has been reassembled with an expert repair, it is stronger where it has been broken before.

As new creations now made whole, the Easter promise is this: Christ has been grafted into each of us.

We have Christ’s hands when we serve our neighbor.
We have Christ’s feet when we go where there is need.
We have Christ’s voice when we advocate for God’s people who are being harmed.

We know who we are.
We know what we are called to do.

Christ’s work through us is not yet done, beloved. Not even close.

For God has other plans.

A reflection on Luke 13:1-9

The people gathered there that day were furious. While in Jerusalem to offer their sacrifices, several Galileans were cut down, mid-pilgrimage, by the state, plucked from the earth too soon. There was little love lost between the Galileans and the Romans who occupied their land. Pontius Pilate, their governor, was known for his brutality and injustice. This, clearly, was another example of that.

Perhaps the Galileans were sadly getting used to it. Pilate was a cruel leader. He intentionally caused harm to anyone that dared stand in his way. The Galileans knew all about Pax Romana, aka Roman peace. They knew it was “peace” gained through slaughter, “peace” gained through slavery. It was “peace” driven by an unquenchable greed for power, money, land. This kind of peace, for all but a handful of the ruling class, came at an incredible collective cost.

What the Galileans weren’t prepared for was what the governor did next. He ordered that the blood of their fallen friends be mixed with the blood of the animals they sacrificed to their Lord. Pilate’s actions went against everything in their faith they knew to be true. And went against everything they desired from the government official who ruled their land.
The people were upset, angry, scared. They were likely ready to take action, to revolt against this unjust ruler with force. They wanted Jesus, a fellow Galilean, to know all about it. Perhaps he might lead them into the fray.

Pivot
The people knew about taking an eye for an eye.
But that creates a vicious cycle of violence.
Instead, they were asked to turn the other cheek.

Christ then queries the crowd, shifting the conversation.

Do you think your fallen friends were worse than all the others? Unless you turn to God it could happen to you. And how about the ones crushed when that tower collapsed and fell on them? Do you think they were worse citizens than all the rest? Not at all. Unless you turn to God, it could happen to you too.

With his response Jesus sought to move the people –

From outward rage toward inward reflection,
From a focus on death to what we do with this life,
From retribution to reconciliation.

Having their attention, Christ continued to share.

Consider the fig tree. It has been in the vineyard for a while now. It bears no fruit. The landowner, seeing this, grows impatient, desires to cut it down. The gardener, who has put a lot of effort into caring for the tree already, advocates for the tree.

Let me water it, fertilize it, really dig in with it, the gardener pleads.
Let me do all of that some more.
Give it every chance to grow, blossom, bear fruit.

Just as the tree was created to do.

Today
Today’s text is timely. It reminds us that government leaders can be cruel. And that it is natural for us to be upset about the harm they cause.

It reminds us, too, that life can be short, and unpredictable.
And can end, unexpectedly, in the blink of an eye.

Because of this, my friends, what we do with this life,
In the here and now, matters much.

Instead of tearing down this kingdom,
We are called to build back God’s kingdom.

Christ calls us to –
Put down our pitchforks and torches, and
Pick up our shovels and our trowels.

For we are called to garden God’s land.

To rebuild relationship with our Lord.
To rebuild relationship with our neighbor.

And to give our neighbors every chance to grow, blossom, and bear fruit.

No matter who that neighbor may be.
No matter what that neighbor may have done.
No matter how long our toiling may take.
No matter if we ever see the fruits of our labor.

Romero Prayer
In 1979 Catholic Bishop Ken Untener wrote a prayer for a service celebrating departed priests. The prayer has since been called the Romero Prayer, in honor of the martyred Archbishop of San Salvador, Oscar Romero. Romero spoke out against social injustice and violence in his country, which was increasingly becoming the norm in El Salvador.

The prayer is this:

It helps, now and then, to step back and take the long view.

The Kingdom is not only beyond our efforts; it is even beyond our vision.

We accomplish in our lifetime only a fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God’s work.

Nothing we do is complete, which is another way of saying that the kingdom always lies beyond us.

No statement says all that could be said. No prayer fully expresses our faith. No confession brings perfection. No pastoral visit brings wholeness. No program accomplishes the church’s mission. No set of goals and objectives includes everything.

This is what we are about.

We plant the seeds that one day will grow. We water the seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise. We lay foundations that will need further development. We provide yeast that produces effects far beyond our capabilities.

We cannot do everything and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something and to do it well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest. We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.

We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.

We are prophets of a future not our own.  Amen.

Today’s text from Luke 6:17-26 finds Jesus early in his ministry. Christ’s teaching and preaching had begun. The sick came to him, hoping for relief. High fevers were cooled, withered arms outstretched. The lame walked. The blind saw.

Jesus was, without a doubt, the talk of the towns he travelled to.

The twelve disciples had recently been invited to follow Jesus. Their acceptance of Christ’s call was a fork in the road. It required they leave everything they had and knew behind. They embarked on the journey without food, without money. Instead, they relied solely on God’s provision. It was a provision, they would soon learn, that manifested itself, again and again, through the kindness of strangers.

Jesus then came down the mountain, the disciples by his side. A great multitude gathered from all around.

The people came to listen.
The people came to be made well.

It was a gathering of those without.
It was a gathering of those in need.

All who tried to touch Jesus did.
Power came out of him.
All who gathered were made whole.

Their needs, in real time, were met.

Blessings
Healings now complete, Jesus turned to the assembly to speak:

Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the Kingdom.
Blessed are you who are hungry, for you will be filled.
Blessed are you who weep, for you will laugh.
Blessed are you when people hate and exclude you,
for your reward is great in heaven.

This is the Jesus we know.
This is the Jesus we love.

It is the Jesus ever present with us.
It is the Jesus that always has our back.

It is human nature for us to want to find the blessings for ourselves within this text. And why not? Feeling blessed makes us feel loved, supported, part of something bigger than us.

I’d suggest each of us can find ourselves in these blessings somewhere along the way.

For me it was graduate school, in the Fall of 1998, at Cleveland State in Ohio. That year I was downright broke. My apartment was a 220 square feet efficiency housed in the downtown YMCA. My car was a sixteen-year-old clunker 1982 Subaru; Blue Book value: $400. My diet consisted of ramen noodles, which, when they went on sale were 10 for $1, and packages of 25 cent generic mac & cheese. If I had a little extra, I would splurge on a box of cereal.

I look back on that year now fondly. I was blessed with a roof over my head that didn’t leak. I was blessed with government student loans, making so much more, career wise, possible. I was blessed to be a Teaching Assistant, and had a local internship, both that paid me to learn. I was blessed with a girlfriend who, when money was really low, would mail me a care package from Flagstaff Arizona complete with a check to see me through. I’d later marry that girlfriend. Which was another blessing to be sure.

At the time Christianity wasn’t on my radar. I attended no church, had no ponderings about God. But Christ was there, whether I knew it or not, through the kindness of others, blessing me along the way.

I’d encourage you to ponder the many blessings you have received that got you to where you are right now. My guess is they are countless.

Woes
The feel-good portion of his sermon complete, Jesus continues.

Woe to you who are rich, for you have received yours.
Woe to you who are full, for you will be hungry.
Woe to you who are laughing, for you will weep.
Woe to you when all speak well of you,
for you are considered false prophets.

Woe to you? It’s enough to make me squirm. Are you wealthy, full, laughing, well-liked? Is Jesus saying woe to you?

Financially I’m fine.
My belly is full.
I enjoy laughter.
I’m even well-liked. Sometimes.

Is Jesus saying woe to me?

Said differently, woe to you is to wish profound distress on a person.

If these woes apply to you, and they do for yours truly – I’ve got some questions.

Why would Jesus want us to feel distressed?
With these feelings of discomfort now upon us –
how might Jesus want us to respond?

Synthesis
In the late 19th century Chicago Evening Post journalist Finley Peter Dunne wrote that the job of the newspaper is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Many clergy will tell you that, too, is the role of the preacher. But our source material for that notion comes much earlier.

Because this is precisely what Luke’s Beatitudes, with their four paired blessings and woes, do. The language here mirrors Mary’s Magnificat a few chapters earlier. When hearing she was to give birth to the savior of the world Mary couldn’t help but sing that the Lord has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty. Simply put Mother Mary and her Son seek to turn the world as we know it upside down.

I’d suggest that our response to this distress, this affliction we may feel, when we follow Christ’s call, represents nothing less than the heart of the gospel.

Our faithful response echoes the fruits of the Spirit when we care for others with love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

Our faithful response embodies Luther’s explanation of the 8th commandment, that we are not to tell lies about our neighbors, or destroy their reputation. Instead we are to speak well of them, and interpret everything they do in the best possible light.

Our faithful response epitomizes what it is to follow Christ’s greatest command: to love our neighbors as ourselves.

It is our call then to bless those in need.

Blessed are you who are poor,
Blessed are you who are hungry,
Blessed are you who weep,
Blessed are you when people exclude you.

Yes.

And also –
Blessed are you who aid the poor,
Blessed are you who feed the hungry,
Blessed are you who comfort the sad,
Blessed are you who include who others exclude.

We do an awful lot of that here at St. John’s.
It is something we can be very proud of.
Many of us do an awful lot of that elsewhere too.

And when we don’t?

Woe to you.
Woe to me.
Woe to us.

These woes represent an important reminder that we need to get back on the wagon and care for all of God’s children. Especially those society often neglects.

Theologian and pastor Karl Barth once famously said this: Take your Bible and take your newspaper and read both. But interpret newspapers from your Bible.

I try to keep this in mind every time I approach the pulpit.

Our American news cycle these past few weeks has been nothing less than an unmitigated hot mess. There’s no way around it. This entire sermon easily could have been filled with stories pulled from our headlines and lined up with the words of Jesus we hear today.

We could talk about the US Agency for International Development, or USAID.
We could talk about Lutheran Services in America, and Lutheran Services in Iowa.
We could talk about US plans to force Palestinians from Gaza and instead turn it into the Riviera of the Middle East.

Instead, I liked to focus on just one news story from earlier this week.

On Wednesday, Elon Musk posted a meme on his social media platform, X, showing a blue-eyed young blond woman sporting a bright smile with this caption, “Watching federal programs slashed because it doesn’t affect you because you’re not a member of the ‘Parasite Class.’”

Here we have the richest man in the world, given immense power by our presidential administration, who is publicly and unashamedly dehumanizing entire groups of people.

Let’s interpret this news with today’s gospel:

Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the Kingdom.
Woe to you who are rich, for you have received yours.

The pairing speaks for itself.

Far too often we let our government inform our faith. The opposite should be true. Our faith should inform how we vote, how we govern, how we speak, who we serve, how we serve, how we lead.

As Christians we too are at a fork in the road. Will we follow Christ’s call?

People of God, know this: we are called to more. Amen.