Our Shepherd

 

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. (Psalm 23:1)

 

        My knowledge of shepherding is almost nothing. I’ve watched a sheep-shearing exhibition at the state fair and once helped a friend feed a handful of sheep at his hobby farm in North Carolina. But that’s about it. I’m one of that large group of people who, not being part of a rural-based society, know little about tending sheep and for whom it’s hard to connect much meaning to the image of God as Shepherd.

         For us the Shepherd has slipped into the background.  I heard someone describe this disconnect in terms of a stained glass window portraying the Good Shepherd in his home church—not front and center but “in the back, under the balcony, behind the stairs.” That’s in fact where we’re likely to remember him today, not at the center of our faith and proclamation but at the fringes, in the margins—hospital bedsides, emergency rooms, deathbeds, funerals.

         When we talk to the Shepherd, we usually ask him for miracles, for healing or escape or power to overcome. I’ve found, however, that most of the miracles that sustain us there, walking through our valley of shadows, turn out to be less grand than those prayed for. They’re no less profound, just less dramatic. She wasn’t fully healed, but she found the true affection of a friend. The relationship wasn’t totally restored, but he received heartfelt forgiveness from one he had wronged. The pain was still there, but we found assurance that we were loved in the smiles of those dearest to us. These are shepherding miracles, filling us with hope, giving us confidence that we are not alone.

         Alvin was a middle-aged man of limited mental capacity who attended my first church as a young pastor. His father had cared for him all his life, and when the father was forced to enter a nursing home because of the frailties of old age, he insisted that Alvin should remain in the house they had shared. “He can do it alone,” he said.

         And it seemed to be true. Alvin showed up at church nearly every week. He certainly was getting enough to eat and was dressed well enough. I mentioned to one of the church’s deacons one day how well Alvin seemed to be doing on his own. He smiled and told me what was going on. A neighbor took Alvin grocery shopping twice a week. A teller at the bank helped him pay his bills and keep his checkbook straight. Men from the church kept up Alvin’s yard, and one of the women in the church did his laundry every week. Alvin was content, well-fed, healthy enough—and blissfully unaware that a whole village was bolstering up his illusion of being independent.

         Remembering Alvin reminds me how God’s love is holding and watching and following me, guiding me gently, even allowing me to believe at times that I’m self-sufficient. Remembering Alvin reminds me that a Shepherd tends to my needs in ways of which I’m entirely unaware. Remembering Alvin reminds me that there is a force of love following me—following us—along this pathway of life, and that is good comfort for me.

        We know that the Shepherd does not protect us from all harm. But I believe that at the heart of the universe is a force—we call it God—that loves us and will see us through all manner of difficulties with tenderness and hope. The unseen Shepherd, our Shepherd—the Lord God himself—attends us with goodness and mercy all the days of our lives.

 

 

 

Copies of Mike’s book You Are Rich: Finding Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of 60 faith-related reflections, can be ordered from Amazon or Barnes & Noble.