Lent 4
Preaching
Hear My Voice
Preaching The Lectionary Psalms for Cycles A, B, C
Object:
(See Easter 4, Cycles A, B, and C, for alternative approaches.)
It is one of the best-known and best-loved passages of the Bible. Generations have memorized it, in Sunday school or at the knee of parents or grandparents. It is one of the first Bible passages we learn, and -- as common as it is at funerals -- it is among the last words said over us when we die. Psalm 23 has been a source of strength and comfort for many.
Its very familiarity makes it difficult to interpret, at least critically. Biblical scholars have always held that Psalm 23 presents problems of interpretation. It seems to be two psalms connected together, and the fit between them is not very good. There is a sudden and awkward transition between the first part (where the author seems to be envisioning himself as a sheep) to the second part (where he has become a hungry and thirsty traveler welcomed into a bedouin tent).
The images seem strained. What sheep have ever been concerned with "paths of righteousness," or contemplated their own end in "the valley of the shadow of death"? The words are beautiful, but the logic seems confused.
Scholars have spilled much ink over the years trying to explain Psalm 23. Some have speculated that an early editor combined two completely different psalms. Yet so lyrical is this religious poem, and so beautiful its language, that few readers have minded the abrupt change of scene, or the thought of sheep that display strangely human sensibilities.
Probably the most fruitful interpretation is one that has its roots in the original Hebrew. Not all biblical translations make this clear, but the New Revised Standard Version does. Unlike the more-familiar KJV, the NRSV does not say, "He leads me in paths of righteousness"; it says instead, "He leads me in right paths." It makes no mention of "the valley of the shadow of death"; instead, it speaks of "the darkest valley." The Bible translators chose these English words -- risking the ire of those who are emotionally attached to the Elizabethan language -- because they are truer to the original Hebrew. As we pay attention to the difference these changes make, the curtain of confused logic falls away, and a wholly new picture of this psalm emerges.
Imagine that the narrator is not picturing himself as a sheep at all, but as a lost and lonely traveler. The blazing noonday heat of the desert is long gone, and the bitter cold of desert night is coming fast. The road has disappeared into the twilight. Provisions of food and water ran out hours ago, and the traveler is parched and hungry. In the distance, a jackal howls. Fears of wild animals and bands of robbers cascade, unbidden, into his mind. He regrets having begun this journey, and wonders if it will be his last.
But then the traveler sees a figure on a hillside, outlined against the darkening sky. It is a shepherd -- a common, ordinary man, but a man who knows these hillsides and ravines. The shepherd goes down to the weary traveler, and leads him up out of the shadowy valley to a place where the last beams of sun still light the way ahead. He leads the wayfarer to a grassy meadow, and invites him to lie down. The shepherd cups water from the oasis spring in his hands, and offers it. The traveler drinks and drinks.
He glances up to see the shepherd's rod, by which he guides the sheep, and also his staff, or walking-stick. It is comforting to see these symbols of a man who knows his way through the desert. When the traveler has rested a bit, the two walk on -- following "the right paths" this time -- to a black goatskin tent set amidst an encampment of other tents. These are bedouins, dwellers in dry and desolate places -- determined people who know how to scratch a living from the desert. They are also outsiders to the rest of society, even outcasts. The bedouin have their own mysterious ways, unknown to our lost traveler (who would hardly have given them a thought, had he passed them in the town). It occurs to him that they may even be enemies, who wish to rob or kill him.
But this fear proves to be unfounded. The shepherd brings the man into his own tent. It is lit inside with oil lamps, and decorated with carpets that are as intricate and beautiful as the goatskin tent is plain. There is no fear now: the laws of Middle-Eastern hospitality are in effect. As long as the traveler is in the shepherd's tent, the shepherd is pledged to protect him from all enemies. The two sit cross-legged at a low table, and the shepherd spreads out a meal -- a simple meal that somehow tastes better than any our traveler has ever had: steaming lamb stew, soft pita bread, succulent dates. In a timeless gesture of honor, the host pours a flask of fragrant oil over the guest's head, and pours wine into his cup until it overflows.
The fears of night have been transformed. Where once there was aching terror, now there is serenity and trust. Such is the power of desert hospitality. Perhaps it was this hospitality that David, or whoever wrote this psalm, once felt. So moving was this experience for the psalmist, so unforgettable his rescue from the very jaws of death, that he has come to see it as symbolic of God's love.
-- C. W.
It is one of the best-known and best-loved passages of the Bible. Generations have memorized it, in Sunday school or at the knee of parents or grandparents. It is one of the first Bible passages we learn, and -- as common as it is at funerals -- it is among the last words said over us when we die. Psalm 23 has been a source of strength and comfort for many.
Its very familiarity makes it difficult to interpret, at least critically. Biblical scholars have always held that Psalm 23 presents problems of interpretation. It seems to be two psalms connected together, and the fit between them is not very good. There is a sudden and awkward transition between the first part (where the author seems to be envisioning himself as a sheep) to the second part (where he has become a hungry and thirsty traveler welcomed into a bedouin tent).
The images seem strained. What sheep have ever been concerned with "paths of righteousness," or contemplated their own end in "the valley of the shadow of death"? The words are beautiful, but the logic seems confused.
Scholars have spilled much ink over the years trying to explain Psalm 23. Some have speculated that an early editor combined two completely different psalms. Yet so lyrical is this religious poem, and so beautiful its language, that few readers have minded the abrupt change of scene, or the thought of sheep that display strangely human sensibilities.
Probably the most fruitful interpretation is one that has its roots in the original Hebrew. Not all biblical translations make this clear, but the New Revised Standard Version does. Unlike the more-familiar KJV, the NRSV does not say, "He leads me in paths of righteousness"; it says instead, "He leads me in right paths." It makes no mention of "the valley of the shadow of death"; instead, it speaks of "the darkest valley." The Bible translators chose these English words -- risking the ire of those who are emotionally attached to the Elizabethan language -- because they are truer to the original Hebrew. As we pay attention to the difference these changes make, the curtain of confused logic falls away, and a wholly new picture of this psalm emerges.
Imagine that the narrator is not picturing himself as a sheep at all, but as a lost and lonely traveler. The blazing noonday heat of the desert is long gone, and the bitter cold of desert night is coming fast. The road has disappeared into the twilight. Provisions of food and water ran out hours ago, and the traveler is parched and hungry. In the distance, a jackal howls. Fears of wild animals and bands of robbers cascade, unbidden, into his mind. He regrets having begun this journey, and wonders if it will be his last.
But then the traveler sees a figure on a hillside, outlined against the darkening sky. It is a shepherd -- a common, ordinary man, but a man who knows these hillsides and ravines. The shepherd goes down to the weary traveler, and leads him up out of the shadowy valley to a place where the last beams of sun still light the way ahead. He leads the wayfarer to a grassy meadow, and invites him to lie down. The shepherd cups water from the oasis spring in his hands, and offers it. The traveler drinks and drinks.
He glances up to see the shepherd's rod, by which he guides the sheep, and also his staff, or walking-stick. It is comforting to see these symbols of a man who knows his way through the desert. When the traveler has rested a bit, the two walk on -- following "the right paths" this time -- to a black goatskin tent set amidst an encampment of other tents. These are bedouins, dwellers in dry and desolate places -- determined people who know how to scratch a living from the desert. They are also outsiders to the rest of society, even outcasts. The bedouin have their own mysterious ways, unknown to our lost traveler (who would hardly have given them a thought, had he passed them in the town). It occurs to him that they may even be enemies, who wish to rob or kill him.
But this fear proves to be unfounded. The shepherd brings the man into his own tent. It is lit inside with oil lamps, and decorated with carpets that are as intricate and beautiful as the goatskin tent is plain. There is no fear now: the laws of Middle-Eastern hospitality are in effect. As long as the traveler is in the shepherd's tent, the shepherd is pledged to protect him from all enemies. The two sit cross-legged at a low table, and the shepherd spreads out a meal -- a simple meal that somehow tastes better than any our traveler has ever had: steaming lamb stew, soft pita bread, succulent dates. In a timeless gesture of honor, the host pours a flask of fragrant oil over the guest's head, and pours wine into his cup until it overflows.
The fears of night have been transformed. Where once there was aching terror, now there is serenity and trust. Such is the power of desert hospitality. Perhaps it was this hospitality that David, or whoever wrote this psalm, once felt. So moving was this experience for the psalmist, so unforgettable his rescue from the very jaws of death, that he has come to see it as symbolic of God's love.
-- C. W.
