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“Names”
Hardly, I suspect, did you read the first five words of the psalm this morning before at least half of you could have closed the Bible and continued this psalm from beginning to end not just from your memory but from your soul. It’s that familiar. And it’s that important. Because from its opening-- “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”-- through to its closing--“And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.”-- there is no psalm—for some, no other verses in the whole of Scripture--that comfort as deeply as these.
And there are few passages in Scripture that help us appreciate the pulse of this psalm than the passage George read this morning form the Gospel of John. For here Jesus mentions three things about himself that illumine the comfort of this psalm.
The first is that the shepherd knows the name of his sheep.
The second is that the sheep knows the shepherd’s voice.
And the third is that in knowing each other so personally, shepherd and sheep live together safely, securely, and abundantly.
First, the shepherd knows the name of the sheep. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” the psalmist sings. “We are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand,” Psalm 100 declares on the day of thanksgiving. As with the Lord, so with the Lord’s Anointed One, the Messiah: “He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep.” (Isaiah 40.11) Jesus is the good shepherd who will risk his life to seek and save the one straying sheep (Mt 18.12; Lk 15.4).
“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” the chldren’s rhyme goes
“But names will never hurt me.”
As a protection against the teasing—or downright meanness—of other children, this rhyme is as good as it gets. Just imagine for example, what schoolchildren could have done—and did—with Graybill? Or with your name? True on the surface, this rhyme helps children in tough times on the playground or hallway. It helps develop thick skins against the taunts and criticism of others.
But, under the surface, the rhyme is, at best, only half true. Sticks and stones do break bones. But names? Names do hurt, too—not necessarily in places others see, but in places you see and know. And not just for children, but for grown-ups, too. Your name—you know it, of course. It’s yours. But consider for a moment if someone mispronounces your name, don’t you have the feeling that what’s a bit foolish is you? Or if somebody forgets it, don’t you feel that, in some small corner of who you are, you have been forgotten. And if there’s something embarrassing about your name, isn’t it somehow you who are embarrassed? Of course, I can’t imagine myself with any other name. If my name were different, I’d be different. Because if somebody knows my name, if God and Jesus know my name, I know they know me. “The Lord is my shepherd,” David sings. “The shepherd call his own sheep by name and leads them out,” Jesus says (John 10.3b)
Which is why it’s no accident that, in the
body of Jesus Christ we call church, the title given to the church leader for
centuries has been pastor, which is
Latin for shepherd. In the ordination of pastors (Elders and Deacons) we
acknowledge that there are many gifts, many talents—as various as the people
who make up the church. But there is no more fundamental a gift in being a
pastor than knowing the names of each member of his/her congregation. For in
knowing their personal names, the pastor knows something essential about them
and, over time, what makes them glad and what makes them sad, where they hurt
most and how they heal best. And not just their individual names either; over
time, the names of their spouses and children (maybe even grandchildren), their
parents (maybe even grandparents), too. Just one small example.
You all have been so kind and solicitous of Susan’s and my annual visits to my
Uncle Harry in
At the Deacon’s meeting last Monday night Bill Rider’s
reflection was prompted in part, by a New York Times science article where
astronomers had discovered a giant red star 400 times the size of our sun traveling
through the Milky Way 300 times faster than a speeding bullet. This glowing star
leaves a plume trailing behind (like a comet) some 13 light years long. And if we live for another 30,000 years we
here on earth will be able to see the very last part of that trail passing us. (New
York Times, Space and Cosmos,
This is the first thing about the Lord as shepherd, about Jesus as our good shepherd. The Lord God Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, of all things seen and unseen, this Lord knows the personal names of each one of his sheep. And this Jesus, Son of this God, knows your name.
And the second is the flip side of the first. Not only does
the Lord know your name, but you know the Lord’s voice. At least in
There are a lot of voices in this world that call to you, call you to define who you are…usually by some number—your employee identification number, your password number, your social security number, your RIF number, your income number, your goal number. In so many ways, that’s what seems to count these days, doesn’t it? People by the numbers, people by something other than ourselves.
But it’s not just by external numbers that the world squeezes us. It’s the stuff that happens on our insides, too. How often do we find ourselves, as someone recently expressed to me “completely and uncharacteristically overwhelmed”—by the grief of a parent’s death and the all-encompassing worry for her mom and the best hope for each day is to hold back the ambush of tears. Some days it’s a struggle for her even to breathe.
Or maybe it’s the pressure these days of a small business owner having to put personal funds into the business just to keep its and his own—head above water. Sales are down. Expenses are up. Employees are restless. “I used to be able to juggle things better,” he says, but the pressure—he can feel it almost physically--is snowballing.
Or, it’s tax time and a single divorced parent, struggling to juggle parental responsibilities with a full-time job, is feeling shattered by demeaning, hostile communications with a former spouse that are so frustrating that what fragile grip she’s has had on life is slowly slipping or dissolving away.
Or you’ve got a decision to make about which of two—or maybe more—roads to travel. And you don’t know which one is right…or least wrong. Which one is best…or least worst. You can’t focus. You can’t sleep. And you have not the foggiest idea where to turn for help.
And yet to each and all of these-and to each of us--there comes a voice seeping up from our souls, or maybe beating a path to your door: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.” As if the psalmist is saying, “Take comfort, child. I am here. Breathe, child. And believe.” Of course, the memory—or it is the prayer?--of this psalm doesn’t immediately or all-of-a-sudden make things right. This memory doesn’t bring back a deceased parent. This memory doesn’t increase income or cut expenses. This memory doesn’t bring back a marriage. And this memory doesn’t make decisions for us.
But this memory, this prayer does do one thing. This prayer does remind us that, even if God does not bring you the answer you want, God does bring you Himself And maybe at the secret heart of all your prayers, that is what you’re praying for: God. If the name Jesus means anything, if his voice really is the voice of God, then that name means “Emmanuel”: God with us. There is a shepherd who knows only knows your name but whose name you know and who tells you not just then but now, each day over and over again what the Time for Centering said this morning: “The Will of God never takes us where the Grace of God does not protect us.”
“Surely goodness and kindness shall follow me all the day of my life, And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.” (Ps 23.6) “I came,” Jesus said, “that they may have life and have it abundantly.” (Jn 10.10) Going out or coming in without fear: is there any more poignant image of a life that is absolutely secure and safe. Once a person discovers what the God and Father of Jesus Christ is like, a new sense of safety and security enters into life. Of course, that spiritual safety doesn’t necessarily come all-of-a-sudden. For most of us, that spiritual security comes slowly, gradually through the hard knocks and deep hurts in just becoming human in this rough-and-tumble world. But once you begin—just begin—to realize that your life is in the hands of a God who loves you like Jesus loves you, the worries and fears dissipate like fog before the sun and a new vitality, new blessing, new superabundance of life begins that no one or nothing else can compromise.
Cancer might attack my body; but it can never touch me.
The world might attack, even eliminate my job, but it cannot eliminate me.
I might not—and may never know—whether or not I’ve made the right decision, but even the wrong decision cannot separate me from the God whose mercy is ever deeper than this universe can contain.
“I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.” “I have come that they might have life abundantly.” Safe, secure, full to overflowing life—that is the third thing about the relationship between shepherd and sheep.
So, dear brothers and sisters: The Lord is your shepherd. In him you shall never want for anything that really matters.
Because, in Jesus Christ, the Shepherd knows your name, knows you.
Because, in Jesus Christ, you know the shepherd’s voice, know God.
And because, in Jesus Christ, there is life that overcomes every form of death this world throws at you.
For in the Lord you know goodness and mercy all the days of your life and in him you shall dwell in the house of the Lord your whole life long…both in this world and in the next.
Amen.
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