— Where Do You Make Your Flock Lie Down at Noon?

A Psalm of David.

Six verses,
small as a shepherd’s pouch,
and inside it
the whole night sky.

—

The Holy One is my shepherd.
I shall not want.

The Holy One is my shepherd.

Echo it softly:
is.

Not was, on the hills of Bethlehem.
Not will be, when I am worthy.
Is.
Now, in the dark before dawn,
in the old body,
in the quiet house.

I remember Isaiah:
God will feed the flock like a shepherd,
and gather the lambs in God’s arms,
and carry them in God’s bosom,
and gently lead the mother sheep.

And Ezekiel, against the false shepherds who fed themselves:
I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep.
I will seek the lost,
bring back the strayed,
bind up the injured,
strengthen the weak.

I remember the many years I tried to be a shepherd,
in many churches,
and how often I fed myself instead,
the applause, the performance, the strong years.
Now I am only a sheep again,
and it is a mercy.

I shall not want.

Echo it slowly:
not want.

The soul emptied,
like a cup turned upside down,
and in the emptiness,
no lack,
only room
for the Shepherd.

—

God makes me lie down in green pastures.

Makes me lie down.

Echo it softly:
lie down.

I remember the bride in the Song of Songs,
calling into the heat of the day:
tell me, you whom my soul loves,
where you pasture your flock,
where you make it lie down at noon.

Bernard, whom I studied long ago at Drew
under Dr. Pieter de Jong,
wrote that this noon rest
is contemplation,
the soul lying still in the full light,
no shadow anywhere,
the Bridegroom’s presence so bright
it is like resting inside the sun.

Green pastures.

Not grass only.
The Word,
green and living,
spread across the hillsides of Scripture,
the sheep grazing slowly,
chewing,
tasting,
sapientia from sapor,
wisdom as tasting.

At three in the morning,
I lie down in the green of a single verse,
and do not move on,
and the Shepherd sits beside me
on a stone.

—

God leads me beside still waters.

Still waters.

Echo it slowly:
waters of rest.

A pool in the hollow of the hills,
so still the stars lie on its surface,
the moon floating in it like a white petal,
the sheep bending to drink
and drinking the sky.

Perhaps the soul is meant to be like that,
so quiet the heavens can rest in it,
so clear God’s face is reflected
the way the refiner sees his face
in the silver.

I remember the river Ezekiel saw
flowing from the temple threshold,
ankle-deep, knee-deep, waist-deep,
then too deep to cross,
and the trees on its banks
whose leaves are for healing.

I remember the last page of the Bible:
the Lamb will be their shepherd,
and will guide them to springs of the water of life.

The Shepherd who is also the Lamb.
The One who leads to the water
once said from a cross,
I thirst.

—

God restores my soul.

Echo it softly:
turns my soul.

Like a sunflower turning slowly through the day
to follow the light,
and in the night, still facing east,
waiting.
Like the compass needle,
shaken,
trembling,
always returning to north.

The soul turned,
not by force,
by beauty,
the way a face turns toward music in another room.

—

God leads me in right paths
for the sake of the Name.

Right paths.

The constellations wheel across the night
along paths no one taught them,
Orion, the Pleiades, the Bear with her children,
each in its track,
each held by an unseen hand.

So the soul is led,
step by step,
along a path it cannot see whole,
lit only enough for the next footfall.

For the sake of the Name.

The Name written on the forehead of the flock,
like a seal pressed into wax,
like a star burned into the night.

—

Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I fear no evil,
for you are with me.

The darkest valley.

Echo it slowly:
the shadow of death.

I remember John of the Cross,
who wrote of the dark night,
the soul led through a darkness so deep
it cannot see the One who leads it,
and yet the darkness itself
is the presence,
too bright for the eyes,
experienced as night.

The valley not only of death,
but of every unknowing,
the years when prayer was dust,
the grief of the church divided,
the nights I could not feel God at all.

Across the world tonight,
whole peoples walk this valley,
under bombs, on long roads, in camps,
the shadow of death not a metaphor.
I cannot read this quickly.
Walk with them, Holy One.

For you are with me.

Echo it softly:
you.

The psalm stops speaking about God
and begins speaking to God.
In the dark,
the Shepherd is no longer ahead on the hill,
a figure to be described.
The Shepherd is beside me,
so close I cannot see the face,
only feel the breath,
only hear the voice saying my name.

This is the mystery of the valley:
the dark brings the Holy One
from he to you,
from distance to embrace.

—

Your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.

The rod and the staff.

Two pieces of wood.

I remember, by way of reflection,
two other pieces of wood,
crossed on a hill,
the shepherd’s staff become a cross,
the rod that drives off the wolf
become the beam on which the Shepherd died
for the sheep.

They comfort me.

In the dark valley,
I cannot see the staff,
but I hear it,
tapping on the stones ahead,
and feel it, sometimes,
a gentle touch on the shoulder,
turning me back
from the edge.

—

You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.

A table.

Echo it slowly:
prepared.

Not a crumb thrown down.
A table, prepared,
the cloth laid,
the lamps lit,
the bread warm,
the host waiting.

I remember the upper room.
I remember the road to Emmaus,
the stranger breaking bread,
and their eyes opened.
I remember the wedding feast of the Lamb,
the great banquet,
the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame
gathered from the roads and lanes.

In the presence of my enemies.

The table spread
in the middle of the valley of shadow,
the wolves at the edge of the firelight,
and the Host saying to them too,
come.

I think of the tables of the world tonight,
divided by walls and borders,
the church I love eating at separate tables.
Let the table be spread
until the enemies sit down together
and find they are hungry for the same bread.

—

You anoint my head with oil.

Oil.

Echo it softly:
anointed.

The oil of healing on the sheep’s torn face.
The oil of gladness on the guest’s head.
The oil of the lamp,
burning through the night in the holy place.
The chrism on the newly baptized,
the oil on the sick,
the oil on the dying.

I remember the Spirit descending
like a dove at the Jordan,
and Isaiah:
the Spirit of the Holy One is upon me,
because God has anointed me
to bring good news to the poor.

The oil soaking into the hair,
running down,
the fragrance filling the room,
the soul made a lamp,
lit from within.

My cup overflows.

Echo it slowly:
overflows.

A chalice brimming with light,
pouring over the rim,
running down the stem,
spreading across the cloth,
across the floor,
out the door,
into the valley,
into the dark,
until the whole night glows.

Grace does not measure.
Grace does not retire.

—

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life.

Goodness and mercy.

Echo it softly:
pursue me.

Two angels,
two lamps,
two hounds of heaven,
running behind me down every road I have taken,
across the sea,
through every church,
through the strong years and the broken ones,
through the performance and the confession,
never tiring,
never losing the scent,
gaining on me,
closer now than ever.

At seventy-seven,
I can almost feel their breath at my back.
Soon they will catch me.

—

And I shall dwell in the house of the Holy One
my whole life long.

I shall dwell.

Echo it slowly:
return.

Not a visit.
A dwelling.

I remember the One who said,
abide in me as I abide in you.
And,
in my Father’s house are many dwelling places.

The house is not only a place.
It is the Holy One.
To dwell in the house
is to dwell in God,
and God in me,
the sheep in the fold,
the fold in the Shepherd’s heart,
the tenelach by the hearth,
the fire never going out.

My whole life long.

Echo it softly:
the length of days.

The days beyond the days.
The eighth day.
The noon of eternity,
where the flock lies down
in full light,
and there is no more shadow,
and the Lamb is the Shepherd,
and God wipes away every tear.

—

Before dawn, in the quiet house,
I lie down like a sheep in the green of a single verse,
and drink from the still water
where the stars are resting,
and listen in the dark
for the tapping of the staff,
and feel the oil on my head,
and the cup in my hands spilling light,
and behind me,
very close now,
the soft running of goodness and mercy.

And I whisper the bride’s question
into the deep stillness:
where do you make your flock lie down at noon?

And the answer comes,
not in words,
but in the dawn rising,
in the light filling the room,
in the Shepherd’s breath beside me:
here.
In me.
Forever.

—

Note: God who makes your flock lie down at noon in the full light of your presence,
quiet my soul like a still pool until your stars rest on its surface,
be you, not he, beside me in the darkest valley of every unknowing,
spread your table in the presence of every enemy until all are fed,
and let me dwell in you, as you dwell in me, the length of all my days.