Millbrook Baptist Church
July 18, 2004
Psalm 23:4a Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .
Several years ago, before we had children, my husband Eric and I took a road trip to visit a seminary friend who was pastoring a church in West Virginia. A United Methodist pastor, Clare had been appointed to a church in the northern panhandle of the state—the little pointed part that wedges between Ohio and Pennsylvania. So we were in for a long drive all the way up through the middle of the state.
We stopped to spend the night in the state capital, Charleston, which is in a lovely, deep valley. After all those steep mountain roads, I was glad to be on level ground. We decided to stretch our legs and do a bit of sightseeing with the last few hours of daylight. But little did we realize, we didn’t have a few hours of daylight left. It was only four o’clock when the sun slipped behind the big mountain that towers over Charleston, taking with it its warmth and light. Suddenly, it felt much later than four. The whole valley turned shadowy and before long, it was just plain dark. Frankly, I found it more than a bit depressing. The sun was still there, we knew that in our heads; it wasn’t really nighttime yet, but it sure did feel like it. Unexpectedly, instead of seeing the sights, we found ourselves walking in the dark in an unfamiliar valley.
At some point in our lives, most of us have found ourselves in just such a place, an emotional and spiritual valley. The sun sinks behind the high mountains that looked so beautiful just a bit earlier and we find ourselves surrounded by a darkness surprising in its onset and in its totality. The phone rings, telling us the medical tests came back with the results we dreaded most; or we find out our child is injured; our parent failing, a dear friend dead. Maybe an old pain returns with a vengeance; the job we once loved, the marriage we have cherished brings us no joy anymore; or perhaps we can barely drag ourselves out of bed in the morning so heavy are our hearts.
And so we find ourselves in the valley of the shadow of death. The green pastures and still waters we enjoyed not long ago have been swallowed by the dark. We cannot see the path before us, our steps falter, our arms reach out, seeking something, someone to reassure us. The safety and security of the sheepfold feel miles away. On the floor of the valley, the warmth of the sun is just a memory.
I find it interesting that it is here, in the midst of this darkness, the very valley of the shadow of death, that the Psalmist shifts his language and begins using the intimacy of the second person, “you,” or “thou” in the RSV. No longer does the Psalmist talk about God and about what God has done. Here the Psalmist speaks directly to God. And thus the Psalm becomes a true prayer, a conversation between the Psalmist and God that reflects the intimacy and trust of what Martin Buber calls the “I-Thou” relationship. While the earlier verses describe the loving care of the Shepherd, verse four turns to the Shepherd, who must be close enough to hear the voice of the Psalmist, this sheep seemingly alone in the dark valley. Perhaps, by the still waters, the comfort of description is fine; but in the valley of the shadow of death, only the intimacy of close companionship will do.
As he turns toward the image of intimacy, the Psalmist is also turning away from one of the great temptations of the valley of the shadow of death: the temptation of allowing our feelings of fear and isolation to convince us that we are truly forsaken and isolated. It is entirely understandable and entirely human to feel deeply the fear of the valley’s darkness. We can no longer see the terrain around us: is there dangerous ground just ahead or is it safe to move forward? The fear of what lies ahead can be paralyzing. It is hard to see our companions—the rest of the flock seems to have been swallowed up by the darkness, too. Often, the Shepherd seems to have disappeared, too. We can no longer see his familiar, comforting form guiding us on the path. The ways of walking together that work in the level fields or on the mountain paths do not work in the valley. In the valley, we can feel alone, afraid, abandoned. In the deep darkness, it is easy to feel forsaken by our Shepherd.
The Psalmist was part of a people who knew the pain of these feelings of forsakenness. The Ancient Israelites had suffered for years as slaves in Egypt. Then, they wandered in the wilderness, unsure if they would ever find home. Later, they would be torn from their Promised Land by the Exile, forced to live in a foreign land, among a foreign people with foreign gods. And they wondered if God had forsaken them.
But like the Psalmist, the ancient Israelites ultimately knew what to do when they stumbled in the darkness of the valley of the shadow of death. They turned to God, cried out to God, began addressing God directly. Sometimes they cried out with hands raised, “How long, O God? How long?” Other times they had praise on their lips, singing of how God had brought them out of Egypt and would bring them out of Exile or whatever other valleys should threaten them. In the midst of their feelings of despair and fear, when the darkness seemed overwhelming, they turned to God, to the “I-Thou” relationship that had sustained them in the past. They felt forsaken, but they trusted that they were not forsaken.
As people of the cross, we have an even greater witness to the valley of the shadow: God the Son. According to the Gospels of Mark and Matthew, Jesus felt this same deep abandonment in his own valley of the shadow of death. On the cross, when, the noontime sun had disappeared and all had turned dark, Jesus cries out “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Yet, even in voicing his sense of forsakenness, Jesus is doing just what the Psalmist has done—he is turning to God, to his Shepherd, the one who has guided him this far. He does not filter his pain, he does not ‘make nice’ with God. Jesus cries out “in a loud voice” the scriptures say, a desperate, honest prayer to God. At a core level, by simply naming—or rather, shouting-- his sense of forsakenness to God, Jesus reveals that he knows—somehow—that he is not truly forsaken. If he were, what would be the point of turning to God at all?
Moreover, it is quite telling what words Jesus chose to shout this forsakenness to God. Notably, he chose the words of the Psalms, the less familiar 22nd Psalm, which begins “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” While it begins with a tone of desperation, the Psalm later turns to remembering God’s faithfulness and goodness. It becomes a Psalm of praise to the God who, as verse 34 rejoices, “did not despise or abhor the affliction of the afflicted, he did not hide his face from me, but heard me when I cried to him.” To name the forsakenness he faced in the valley of the shadow of death, Jesus prays the beginning lines of a Psalm that praises God for turning to us and hearing our cries. In the midst of the despair all humans know at some point in our lives, Jesus turned to God and prayed a prayer that both captured his feelings and claimed God’s promises of faithfulness. In the valley of the shadow of death, Jesus felt forsaken and yet, still knew that he was not forsaken.
Several years ago, when I served as chaplain resident for the Triangle AIDS Interfaith Network, I heard many cries of forsakenness. People living with AIDS know, just as all with a life-threatening illness know, what it means literally to walk in the valley of the shadow of death. But in addition to the shadow of physical death, they were also dealing with countless other deaths: the ending of life the way they had known it, the severing of numerous relationships, the death of certain hopes for the future, and for many, the death of their relationship with the faith community they had known.
One particular man, whom we’ll call Adam, had told his pastor about his diagnosis. The pastor suggested that he and Adam just keep it between the two of them. The pastor said that he was doing it to protect Adam, but what this decision did was cut Adam off from the support of the body of Christ he had worshipped with and loved for years. He felt so alone. As time went on and his health worsened, Adam lost his job and then found himself fighting for his Social Security benefits. His life began to get darker and darker. Cut off from his family of faith, Adam wondered if he was forsaken.
I visited one day during this dark time and Adam shared something I didn’t expect to hear. After describing how bad things had gotten, Adam said that, in the end, he felt closer to God than he ever had. He told me about nights he had spent in prayer, railing at God for all that had happened, pouring out his heart before God. And he told me about the sense of peace this brought him, the intimacy he felt with God. Stripped of any artifice, devoid of any distractions, it seemed that Adam’s turning to God in this darkest of valleys had deepened his relationship with God. Now, Adam was quick to point out that this deeper relationship had not fixed his problems. Yet, in the darkness, Adam had turned to God, drawn closer to the Shepherd, who did not hide his face, who heard Adam’s cries. Adam had felt forsaken; in the end, he knew that he was not forsaken.
In his book A Shepherd Looks at Psalm 23, Phillip Keller says that during autumn, as snow begins to gather on the high mountains, the shepherd drives the sheep down into the valley. By late autumn, the sheep and shepherd arrive at their home ranch, deep in the valley, where they will spend the winter months. It is during these cold months, in the depths of the valley, that the sheep have the shepherd’s undivided attention. He focuses upon their upkeep and care, undistracted by the rigors of travel or other chores. He attends to them solely, listening for their cries, responding to their needs.
Perhaps that is the truth the valley offers us, too. Within the darkness, as we turn to God our Shepherd, we find him closer than we had imagined. We pour out our hearts, addressing God directly. And in sharing that we feel forsaken, we find that we are not forsaken after all. The Shepherd who has brought us this far is still with us. God will continue to guide us. The valley may be unfamiliar to us, but it is not unfamiliar to our God, who knows well its depths and its darkness.
The valley of the shadow of death is a fearsome part of our journey with God, but it is not the end of the journey—in real life or in the Psalm. This is a valley that we walk through, after all; it is not our destination. May we who walk through the valley know what the Psalmist knew: that it is in the valley where we may find God closest to us, as we turn to God and God hears our cries. It was so for the Psalmist, it was so for Jesus, and may it be so for us, as well. In the name of our Lord, Amen.
