Psalm 23
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
April 25, 2021
Nine minutes and twenty-nine seconds. Over and over we have watched the video of Derek Chauvin’s knee on George Floyd’s neck. Over and over we have been reminded that it was not an isolated incident. In between reports of the trial, we saw bodycam video of a chase with 13-year-old Adam Toledo that ended in his fatal shooting. We saw army officer Caron Nazarro followed by police and then attacked with pepper spray. For months now, we have seen recurring images of Capitol police officers pursued by rioters carrying Blue Lives Matter flags. There was the Asian-American woman assaulted from behind while on-lookers did nothing. Workers at a Fedex facility—many of them Sikh—were pursued by a former employee with an assault rifle. The guilty verdict in Derek Chauvin’s trial offers a hint of possibility—that we could be at a turning point. It also stirs awareness of so many other potential turning points that were turned back to reinforce the status quo.
With these images of pursuit and danger seared in my mind, I sat down this week to read our scripture, the beloved 23rd Psalm. One line stood out, a line I usually ignore because it makes me uncomfortable: “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” The meaning of this line become clear only in the context of the desert society in which the Psalmist lived. In the desert, if someone approaches your tent, the first thing you are expected to do, before you even ask their name, is offer them food and water. In that harsh climate, hospitality is essential for survival of the community. In the Psalmist’s time, this expectation applied even if you were being chased by an enemy trying to avenge a wrong. You were to be provided with food and drink and protected from your adversary, who had to wait outside. Sometimes the protection was permanent; sometimes it was temporary. Either way, there was a pause, time to calm tempers and find a peaceful resolution.
The Psalmist took this familiar concept of desert hospitality and built on it. In the midst of danger, the Psalmist promises, God offers a tent of sanctuary. God’s tent, thought, goes far beyond the societal requirements. Instead of a simple meal, God prepares a banquet. Instead of providing a sip of water, God keeps pouring until your cup overflows. Then, in a twist we miss because of translation issues, God turns the chase upside down. The line, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me” is more accurately translated as “Surely goodness and mercy shall pursue me all the days of my life.” This section of the psalm begins with the psalmist being pursued by an enemy. It ends with the psalmist being pursued by goodness and mercy.
When we bring this line to the forefront, the 23rd Psalm speaks powerfully to where we are today. The Psalm uses beautiful imagery of creation, but it is not about the beauty of the natural world. It paints peaceful pictures of comfort, but it was written by someone who knows the terror of being pursued. Psalm 23 is a prayer for the courage to trust. Even when all he can see is desert ahead and danger behind, the Psalmist dares to trust God has erected a tent of sanctuary for him. The Psalmist refuses to allow the enemy—whether a person or an injustice or a system—to define who she is. Instead, she is defined by her relationship with God, who anoints her head with oil to assure her of her worth. This is not a gentle psalm about green grass and blue waters; it is a heart-wrenching psalm that acknowledges death and danger and injustice and proclaims that God is more powerful.
I thought a lot this week about the image of God’s tent of refuge in the desert. Where was that tent for George Floyd or Daunte Wright or Ma’Khia Bryant? I don’t have a good answer. The promise of this psalm is not the assurance that God will protect us from danger or fix the injustice in our society. The promise that George and Daunte and Ma’Khia now dwell in God’s house forever offers a little comfort, but if doesn’t feel like enough. The awareness that there is a huge community of people determined to say their names, tell their stories and work for change in their honor offers a little more comfort–still not enough.
On the night after the verdict, I heard an interview that made me think, “Ah, this is what God’s tent in the desert is like.” Rachel Maddow spoke with Gwen Carr, the mother of Eric Garner, an African-American man who was killed by a police chokehold back in 2014. She has channeled her grief into activism for change; even more, she offers comfort and support to other mothers who have lost children to police violence. She described her reaction to the verdict: “Tears came to my eyes when the verdict came down; finally we get a glimmer of justice.” She went on to name the people—including her son—for whom there has been no justice. “We are going to go further,” she said.
Maddow shifted the focus of the conversation. “What gives you the power, the strength, the energy to reach out to other mothers who’ve been through similar things…at the cost of reliving your own trauma?”
“First of all,” Carr began, “I have to pray a lot. You have to pray before you go out here on this journey. And second, when you can make another mother a little more comfortable after she has lost her child, with just embracing her or trying to listen to her story or trying to talk about her child in a positive light, it’s a form of therapy….It makes you feel better about yourself; it makes you feel like you’re doing something for the country; you’re doing something for other mothers; you’re doing something for yourself, helping your child’s name be recognized.”
On her own journey through the desert of grief, as she was pursued by loss and injustice and despair, Gwen Carr found a tent of refuge—God’s tent. She found it through prayer, acknowledging her own need, daring to trust someone was listening. In the years since the death of her son, she has moved between being guest and host in this tent, receiving the grace of a sip of water, anointing another mother’s head with the oil of compassion, honoring her own story as she listens to someone else’s, assuring herself and others that healing is possible. She has discovered that in God’s tent of refuge, everyone is guest and everyone is host. Everyone receives and everyone gives. Everyone is wounded and everyone is a healer.
In the 23rd Psalm, God’s tent in the desert is more than a house of refuge; it is a place of transformation. I am intrigued by the way the Psalmist turns the pursuit around: we enter God’s tent pursued by danger or injustice; we are sent forth from it pursued by goodness and mercy. What does that mean? How does that happen? It is a mystery; Gwen Carr’s story offers me a glimpse into that mystery. In God’s tent, the experience of being anointed as God’s beloved changes us; by God’s grace, that change ripples out beyond us.
Around God’s table of abundance, sorrow is shared and transformed into solidarity. Outrage becomes activism. Strengthened by a good meal, an overflowing cup and the assurance of our worth, we link arms and step outside the tent. We say no to the injustice that waits at the door. With attentiveness to the safety of those who have been pursued, we acknowledge that the pursuer is a human being with a story, capable of change, and that the real enemy is bigger than any individual. Knowing that change triggers backlash and that hate is terribly persistent, we set out to build a network of tents, spaces of refuge and transformation in a hostile world. We dig wells, knowing there are too many people who are desperate for a drink of compassion. We plant the spiritual equivalent of drought-resistant trees, in the hopes that future generations will build a new society on the oasis that emerges. We name the reality of hate and injustice; we also celebrate the goodness and mercy that lead and follow us.
Last Sunday, in our congregational meeting, we voted an ambitious set of commitments to guide our anti-racism efforts. In doing so, we commit ourselves to be part of an ever-growing sacred network of tents of refuge and transformation. We promise to learn—to listen deeply to stories of pain and hope, to study histories we didn’t learn in school, to dig deeper than the surface to uncover layers of bias and privilege. We commit to acknowledging our own participation in injustice and ending it. We pledge to look at our own practices to recognize unintentional barriers that keep our neighbors from feeling honored at the table. We commit ourselves to work in partnership with other tents of refuge and transformation, advocating for change in laws, challenging and encouraging each other to dig deeper, building relationships that celebrate our differences and honor our shared values. We promise to be guest and host at the table, listening and speaking, giving and receiving, healing and being healed.
Our commitments are ambitious—even daunting. Thank God, we don’t do it alone. God is with us—shepherd, companion, host, source of the abundance we are called to share.
The danger of the desert is real. The injustice of racism is real. Thanks be to God, so is God’s tent of refuge and transformation. Thanks be to God, we are welcomed at the table, anointed as God’s beloved, invited to pour an overflowing cup for a neighbor, challenged to build tents and dig wells and plant oases to transform the desert, to end the injustice of racism. Amen.