Psalm 23

“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.”

Perhaps those are words you once memorized. I know that I did – not first in a Sunday School class, but in my kindergarten class, back in that time when prayers and psalms were recited in public schools. And it was I who was chosen to lead the 23rd Psalm when our class led the opening exercises for the Friday afternoon school assembly.

Those words are embedded in many hearts. And how good it is, on this Good Shepherd Sunday, that we hear and recite them today.

How good it is that we are together today. For some of us this week, it may feel as if today we are finally coming out of a valley, a valley of death, of fear, and anxiety – for our city, for ourselves, and indeed for many around the world who were watching us. I am sure that you, like many, have had friends and family constantly checking in, especially after Monday’s bombings – “Are you ok?” “What is it like?” “How are you doing?”

How good to be comforted by their concern. And how good to be able to gather here this morning without “shelter in place” warnings, and to have, instead in our worship together, a sheltering place of love and support.

We gather here, we see each other’s faces, we sing and we pray, and we come to the table, as we do each Sunday. And to add to our joy, we participate in two baptisms today, always an occasion for celebration and thanksgiving. And so it is one of those occasional Sundays when we celebrate the two sacraments of our faith: baptism and holy communion, together in one service.  And particularly this Sunday, that may be a real gift for us. For in each of these sacraments we are reminded of two central themes of scripture, each embedded in the familiar words of the twenty-third psalm: Fear not. And be fed.

A baptism is about new beginnings and new life. It may not seem like an occasion for reflecting on fear or anxiety.  But have you ever noticed the first two questions that are asked of a candidate for baptism, or of the parents and godparents of an infant.  They are these:

Do you renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness that rebel against God?

And: Do you renounce the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God?

I will be honest – part of me wants to explain away or dismiss the heaviness of these questions. So often it is a young infant gurgling and laughing in a parent’s arms – do we have to talk about evil when such innocence is before us? Especially when the kind of destructive behavior referred to in the questions may seem consigned to the distant past or some far away place.

But we have been through a valley of the shadow of death.  We have experienced this week what for much of the world is a regular occurrence: random terror and acts of violence, the suffering of innocents, and all of the anxiety, grief, and fear that can flow from those events.

And so it is all right to ask those questions, because they are an acknowledgement of the brokenness of the world.  And it is all right to ask those questions because we hear another other word today: we are led through the valley of the shadow of death. And we are led by one we have come to know as the Good Shepherd.

Not only do we ask baptismal candidates or their parents if they will resist evil, but we also ask them this: are they willing to put their whole trust in the grace and love of Jesus Christ: to recognize that there is one who stands with them at the font and whose anointing oil will be grace and love. He is the one who truly anoints our head with oil – and in baptism it is with the sign of the cross, the sign that reminds us of the way in which faithful and persistent love – for one’s friends – and for one’s enemies – overcomes all fear.

And Christ is the one who prepares for us a table – this Sunday and every Sunday – a table in the presence of our enemies, a table in the presence of our fears, a table in the presence of any anxiety or uncertainty that we have, and invites us to come and be nourished.

I was talking with one of you this week about a doctor’s recommendation that you get some rest.  And I shared that a number of years ago, the local newspaper had a typo in the Lutheran Church’s ad for the Easter Sunday service.  It read: 10 am:  the Holy Eucharest – that’s r-e-s-t. But perhaps on a day like today that is the way we need to hear it –  to consider this meal  as rest – as refreshment, and as renewal. For in it we see that a broken body is resurrected, with life shared for all. We see what happens when evil is overcome, and when fear is banished. At this table we are given rest, and strength.  Which we will need.

For it is not only a baptismal candidate who stands at the font. It is not only parents and godparents. It is all of us. For we too, the community of faith will be asked to do all in our power to support these persons in their life in Christ. We make promises today, and they are promises that will require effort on our part.

Some of the images of the last 48 hours have been overwhelming: of over a thousand police and other officials, all intently searching for one person.  It was urgent – there was an emergency. Everyone had to be on alert.

But if those images have been overwhelming, then let me suggest another one for this day. Whenever an individual is baptized into the Body of Christ, we, the community that surrounds her, represent the thousands upon thousands of the whole church. And in this sacrament, it is as if Jesus Christ is saying to us: This is urgent – here is a moment of utmost importance. Be on alert. For here is a child of God. Here is one of my own flock. Here is someone who will need your nurture and care, whom you will want to hold and to help, someone you will want to lift up and lead onward, someone whom you will want to teach to listen and love, so that when she hears the words “Follow Me,” she will respond with a joyful and eager heart.

It has been said of the young MIT police officer, Sean Collier, that he knew he was born to be a police officer. Somehow he came to learn that this was his calling. He gave himself fully to it, and he gave his life for it.  I do not know how he came to that understanding. I do not know if he came to that conviction through a church or through his faith. But I do know that we, when we join in the vows of baptism, are making a promise to help each daughter and son of God to discern who it is that God is calling them to be, that they may give fully of themselves to the world that God has given us. And that they may know, whatever that calling may be, and whatever the risks that accompany it, that God is with them, that God will set for them a table and anoint their head with oil, and that the Good Shepherd’s rod and staff will comfort them.

And so dear friends, we have traveled through a valley. But we have not done so alone. We travel with each other, and we do so with Christ.

Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. That is a promise of baptism.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. That is a promise of the Eucharist.

Our cup runneth over.

Amen.

A Sermon for St. John’s Episcopal Church
Charlestown, Massachusetts
Preached on the Fourth Sunday of Easter
By the Rev. Thomas N. Mousin
April 21, 2013