Perspective in the Time of Pandemic

Good Shepherd/Creation Care Sunday

Acts 2: 42-47; Psalm 23; I Peter 2: 19-25; John 10: 1-10

“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.”

There’s something so poignantly appropriate about celebrating Good Shepherd Sunday and Earth Day together this year.  We’re in this strange time when God’s creation is finally able to take deeper metaphorical breaths than she has in decades, while we—her caretakers--are collectively holding ours, hoping this pandemic will soon be over. 

Michael Joncas, a composer and Roman Catholic priest, wrote the beautiful paraphrase of Psalm 23 we just heard.  He wrote it precisely for this moment--so that hearing it, and praying it, we might take a deep breath ourselves to get our bearings before we continue this journey on untrodden territory.

In this rendition, the psalmist remembers better days, when God led him like a shepherd to “fresh green fields” and “quiet springs”—days when his soul was filled with peace and he was confident of God’s presence.  He doesn’t seem to doubt that days of peace like that will come again. He affirms his belief that God is both faithful and merciful.  He even acknowledges that at some point down the road, with perfect 20/20 hindsight, he’ll recognize that the Good Shepherd was there with him all along.  

Yet none of that seems to matter right now, because in this seemingly endless moment, the psalmist still laments about how he longs for the presence of God he can no longer see or feel.  He says that where he treads now, “death dogs his path” and “dreary darkness” is all around him. 

We might imagine another stanza, where the Good Shepherd now stands with the fresh green fields and their quiet springs at his back, watching tenderly, lovingly, as the psalmist turns away and is enveloped by darkness.

I am reminded of a timeless story in the wisdom tradition about the lion and the lamb.  Perhaps you’ve heard it. A young novice pursuing a life of holiness finds himself at a difficult place in his journey with God--feeling lost and adrift-- not unlike our psalmist.  So he takes his troubled heart to the abbot of his community for guidance, and confides his fear that within him live both a lion and a lamb, each struggling for his attention, and he doesn’t know what to do.

The wise old abbot gazes tenderly at the young novice and says very gently but firmly, “Brother, feed the lamb.” 

It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Just feed the lamb: Feed the lamb within you that knows and follows the life-giving voice of the Good Shepherd; feed the voice that says, “I came that you may have life and have it abundantly.”  And starve the lion—the embodiment of darkness and fear, who like the thief in this morning’s gospel comes, “only to steal and kill and destroy.”

But notice that the abbot did not say, “Ignore the lion.”  He didn’t say, “Bury your head in the sand and pretend the lion isn’t there.” He just says to feed the lamb.

Feed the lamb and starve the lion. It’s not an easy thing to do in the midst of this Covid crisis. Not an easy thing to do when the timelessness of our days seems to practically beg for free-floating fears to fill them…when some of us are suffering from acute feelings of grief and loss, or loneliness and depression, while others suffer from a sort of survivor’s guilt of the privileged.

How do we look the Lion in the face, and not be consumed by it?  How do we look at the death and darkness in our world, like the psalmist in Father Joncas’ psalm, but without losing sight of our Good Shepherd? How can we be fully present to the all-too-real fears and grief and sickness and suffering that are in and around us with this pandemic, while remembering that the fresh green fields and quiet springs are still there?

It’s not an easy thing to do-- even for a young novice devoted to God, or a faithful follower of God like our psalmist. 

Our scriptures this morning suggest that we feed the lamb by choosing a lifestyle that feeds the lamb—by devoting ourselves, like the earliest followers of Jesus, to the apostles teaching and fellowship; to the breaking of bread; and to the prayers—what one writer characterizes as, “the essential acts of Christian life.”  Bible study.  Fellowship. Meals together.  Prayer.  

But what happens when such essentials are denied us?  Our rector and her team have found extraordinarily creative ways to make Bible study, fellowship, and prayer available, but our involuntary fast from Christ’s presence in the Eucharist continues, as does our fast from the comfort of each other’s real presence in the flesh.

So, I want to share with you a few ideas about how you might lean into the full reality of the world’s suffering right now, without being consumed by it. How you might feed the lamb, while not ignoring or denying the Lion.

First, like our biblical forebears before us, try feasting on the strength that comes with remembering God’s saving action in the past. Be intentional about remembering the stories of God’s activity throughout salvation history—from the Exodus to the Resurrection to your own life.  Notice the pattern.  Think about how the Good Shepherd has led you from the bondage of what once held you captive, to places of new freedom and new life…from grief to grace, from darkness to light.  Create your own salvation history narrative by identifying a few of the most difficult times you’ve ever faced in your past, and see if in retrospect, you now recognize not only how God was present with you through that dark journey, but how God has used you and your experience since then, to help others.

This second suggestion is pretty self-evident, but remember to pray! Begin each day with prayer.  It might be as simple as, “Good Shepherd, help me remember you are with me always,” or as formal as reading Morning Prayer while knowing that thousands of Anglicans around the world are reading it with you.  Pray while you’re lying in bed or sipping your coffee or even brushing your teeth if you have to, but make it a practice, one way or another, to begin each day by reminding yourself to rely on God’s strength rather than your own…by remembering that the Good Shepherd is with you, even—if not especially—in times of fear or darkness.

Then try praying the news.  My very wise mentor taught me this one.  He would pray his daily paper by reading each story, allowing himself to feel his reaction to it, and then he’d pray either, “Lord, have mercy,” or if it was good news, “Thank you, Lord.”  Sometimes I add to that by asking God’s blessing on a particular person, or family, or group of people whose story I’ve been especially touched by. 

And if you watch television news, try inviting God to be with you while you’re watching. You might think this sounds silly, but clergy make a practice of inviting God to be with them before emotionally challenging things like entering a hospital room or someone’s home for a pastoral visit.  This is just an extension of that.  It’s yet another way of remembering to rely on God’s strength rather than our own.  You may be astonished to discover what a difference it makes inviting the Good Shepherd to be with you in such ordinary, but increasingly challenging, daily activities as watching the news.

Finally, work at developing a thankful heart. There’s a meme going around on social media that says, “I’m not stuck at home, I’m safe at home.”  Notice the difference in perspective?  That’s the kind of “attitude of gratitude” we’re going for here.  Challenge yourself every day to make a list of five things for which you’re grateful. Then challenge yourself even more and go for ten.  I’m always embarrassed to admit it, but this just does not come naturally to me, even after much practice, so it’s something I’ve got to do daily—before I even get out of bed. I’ve even been known to make an alphabet-game out of it, trying to think of one thing for each letter from A to Z that I’m grateful for. But mostly these days I begin by taking a deep breath, marveling that I’m able to do that, and giving thanks that I haven’t got the virus. It definitely restores my perspective.

There are so many other practices I’d love to commend to you, but I’d be seriously remiss if on this celebration of Earth Day I didn’t mention basking in the glory of God’s creation, giving thanks for the privilege of enjoying it, and vowing to take better care of it.  Nothing in nature brings me closer to God’s majesty than a night sky full of stars; nothing restores my soul like a walk on the beach; nothing speaks to me of the mystery of life like the tiny toes on a newborn baby; and nothing loves me as innocently and unconditionally as my big goofy dog.

My friends, we are surrounded by fresh green fields and quiet springs.  They are always there, waiting, on the other side of darkness.  Our spiritual task in this perilous time is this: To remember that the Good Shepherd is with us as we face the fears and the darkness of this pandemic, with us as we open our hearts to those who are sick and suffering, with us when we’re feeling overwhelmed by it all, and with us –always with us--inviting us back to the rest and peace of the green fields and quiet springs our souls so desperately need. Trust yourself to follow him there when you are ready. And in the meantime, know that he will not let you get lost as you face the darkness courageously.

Amen.