23rd Psalm

This morning I read the 23rd psalm.  It was in a book about poetry.  I still remember it by heart from my early Sunday school class.  Though I haven’t thought of it in years and because I don’t have the same theology I did then, the words do not bring solace.  But they do bring up memory… I would probably cry if I stood with a group of people reciting this psalm today – not because I think the dead (or I) will “dwell in the house of the Lord forever”. – but because I treasure the ritual of people gathering together, stopping their usual lives and reciting words together.  Words that have ancient history.  Words that remain in the sacred folds of the brain long after they were planted there.  To me, ritual almost always moves me, regardless of the particular meaning of the words.  The words are all we have to point the way or to express what our heart can’t quite say.

            Did you too learn this Psalm by heart?  Do you have memories of reciting it with others?  Has its meaning changed for you over time?

Psalm 23:  The Lord is my Shepherd

The Lord is my shepherd;  I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he

            leadeth me beside the still waters

He restoreth my soul:  he leadeth me in the paths of

            righteousness for his name’s sake.

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.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of

            mine enemies:  thou anointest my head with oil

            my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the

            days of my life:  and I will dwell in the house of

            the Lord forever.

And, here is my very much less poetic, but contemporary take on this Psalm for me today;

I have no shepherd, still I want

someone to lie down with me

in green meadows, beside a still pond.

This would restore my soul.  Someone

who knows a path in the forest

where we might walk and talk

about our own shadows.

Someone who will bear with me,

comfort me, and who will

share their own sacred story.

The world is a banquet,

a table where I might

reconcile with mine enemies,

a sanctuary where I can anoint myself,

where there is enough to fill

everyone’s cup to overflowing.

Surely goodness and mercy are available

to me and to you,

if we but open our eyes every day.

This place here and now where I will

not dwell forever – yet, it is enough.

            ~Penny Hackett-Evans