Sermons from Moorpark Presbyterian Church

Though I Walk Through the Valley

by Dave Wilkinson

1 Thessalonians 4:13-18, Psalm 23:4a

January 28, 2001

I want to live a long time. I'm like the Irishman who said: "Sure I want to go to Heaven when I die. I know Heaven is a grand wide place. But if someone told me I would be in Heaven next week, I would take it unkindly!"

I want to live a long time. But I do not want to grow old. Who does? Yet both phrases, "I want to live a long time" and "growing old" mean the same thing. It's just that the phrase "growing old" gets to me. It raises all kinds of uncomfortable questions about illness and a lack of income and maybe a nursing home and total dependency. Who wants to experience any of those things?

There is a haunting poem by Donna Swanson titled "Minnie Remembers".

God, my hands are old.

I've never said that out loud before

But they are.

I was so proud of them once.

They were soft

Like the velvet smoothness of a firm, ripe peach,

Now the softness is like worn-out sheets or withered leaves.

When did these slender, graceful hands

Become gnarled, shrunken claws? When God?

They lie here in my lap,

Naked reminders of this worn-out body

That served me too well.

How long has it been since someone touched me? Twenty years?

Twenty years I've been a widow. Respected. Smiled at.

But never touched.

Never held so close that loneliness was blotted out.

I remember how my mother used to hold me, God.

When I was hurt in spirit or flesh,

She would gather me close,

Stroke my silky hair and caress

My back with her warm hands.

God, I'm so lonely!

I remember the first boy who ever kissed me.

We were both so new at that!

The taste of young lips and popcorn,

The feeling inside of mysteries to come.

I remember Hank and the babies.

How else can I remember them but together?

Out of the fumbling, awkward attempts of new lovers came the babies.

And as they grew, so did our love.

And God, Hank didn't seem to mind if my body

Thickened and faded a little. He still loved it. And touched it.

And we didn't mind if we were no longer beautiful.

And the children hugged me a lot.

God, I'm lonely!

God, why didn't we raise the kids to be silly and affectionate as well as dignified and proper?

You see, they do their duty.

They drive up in their fine cars.

They come to my room to pay their respects.

They chatter brightly and reminisce.

But they don't touch me.

They call me "Mom", or "Mother", or "Grandma."

Never Minnie.

My mother called me Minnie. So did my friends. Hank called me Minnie too.

But they're gone. And so is Minnie.

Only Grandma is here.

And God, She's lonely!

Sure, I want to live a long time. It's just that Minnie reminds me that if I do, I will also grow old, and I will die. And I need an understanding that will help me cope as I face this reality.

This is an understanding that is offered in David's twenty-third Psalm. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me."

The Bible is a very realistic book about our lives. It is not a book of "life as we wish it were" but "life as it is."

The Psalmist affirms to the Lord: "You lead me in the paths of righteousness." But this affirmation is then coupled with the recognition that some of these righteous paths lead us where we might well not wish to go.

Jesus said: "In the would you have tribulation." And no matter how we work the deck, we can't shuffle that card out. Jesus makes this clear: "In the world you have tribulation."

The paths on which our Shepherd leads us are righteous -- not because they are smooth or easy, but because they are the paths we need to take to reach our destination.

Sheep, if left to themselves, will follow the same trails until they become ruts. They graze the same hills until they become desert wastes. They pollute their own ground until it's corrupt with diseases and parasites. It's important for the shepherd to keep the sheep on the move. Following a precise plan or operation is the key to healthy flocks and healthy land.

In our Christian lives we sometimes speak of wanting to move onto higher ground with God. We all desire to live above the lowlands of life. We rejoice in mountain top experiences. But, unfortunately, we sometimes think that we can be airlifted to that spiritual realm.

But as with sheep, so with God's people. One only gains higher ground by climbing up through the valleys. The shepherd leads his flock gently but persistently up these right paths.

And biblical realism affirms that some of these paths are rocky. There is so much in life to fear.

Jesus Himself was born as a man into a harsh and cruel world. In the concluding portion of the Christmas story, after the shepherds and Wise Men have gone away, an angel appears to Joseph in a dream and says to him: "Herod will be looking for the child in order to kill him. So get up, take the child and escape to Egypt. Stay there until I tell you to return."

It's a scene of darkness and dread. We see the humble couple gathering their few belongings and their precious newborn babe in the darkness of night, silently and soberly making their way through the Sinai Desert to Egypt.

Life is like that. Even in the beautiful narrative of God's gift of Himself through the manger of Bethlehem, there is the shadow of death.

The Bible does not gloss over the very real problems of living in this imperfect and incomplete world. From the first family producing the first murderer, through the wars, famines, slavery and wilderness wanderings of Israel, through the heresies, tribulations and persecutions of the Church, we see that God knows that life is not easy.

But the Bible also affirms that we who belong to God cannot hit ultimate bottom. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil -- or the evil one -- for You are with me." We are in the valley of death and on the rocky paths. But we are not alone. Our Shepherd is with us. And ultimately, as Paul declares in the passage from 1 Thessalonians, the Lord will return and we will be "forever with the Lord."

A man writes: "My wife was in a minor automobile accident where she sustained a cracked rib or two. She hadn't been to church for some time so she appeared the following Sunday. After the service, the minister was shaking hands at the front door with members of the congregation when he saw her coming down the aisle. His face wrinkled into a broad grin and he said: 'Scared you, didn't it?!"

There's nothing like a good scare to bring us close to the Shepherd. David also knows this. Up to this point in the Psalm, he speaks about God in the third person -- "The Lord is this, He does this, He provides thus and so." But here in the valley the remote third person shepherd will not do. He now speaks not about the Shepherd, but to the Shepherd: "You are with me! Your rod and your staff they comfort me!"

When we are in the valley, we need the awareness of the Lord's personal presence. There are many fears that haunt us in this valley of death -- fear of what happens to the body, fear of judgement, fear of the loss of sensation, fear of loss of "self", fear for our survivors, fear of the unknown, fear of pain, fear of separation from those we love.

It is here that David assures us that we can be confident of our Lord's strong presence when everything else does not go well. When the light fades and we find ourselves in darkness. The Lord is with us in all kinds of darkness -- in times of depression, serious illness, rejection by friends, the horror of discovering the sickness in our own hearts, as well as the experience of death itself.

This is the hope of Christian people.

Some years ago, the young wife of a friend was diagnosed as having terminal cancer. My friend later shared with me how they sat in the doctor's office as he shared the results of the lab tests and the exploratory surgery. An office nurse stood outside prepared to administer a sedative to help them cope in the face of the terrible and unexpected news.

But the sedative was not needed. My friend's wife simply nodded to the doctor and said that she understood.

The doctor was not prepared for her lack of anger and denial. He knew that she must not have heard what he had said. He began once again: "your tests conclusively show "

She stopped him. "Doctor, I understand what you've told me. I have cancer. It can't be treated. I am going to die soon and I will experience a lot of pain before I go."

The doctor sat there in silent surprise as she continued: "I've always known I was going to die. You have only given me the date. And I know who will be with me and will walk with me to the other side."

Grief is natural for the Christian. But so are trust and hope.

A preacher named F.W. Boreham told of an elderly man in his parish whom he would sometimes visit. He noticed that this elderly man always kept a chair next to the bed on which he lay -- an empty chair. One day, Dr. Boreham asked why that chair was there. The old man explained: "Some years ago I had great difficulty staying awake when I prayed. If I managed to stay awake I frequently found my thoughts wandering. I spoke to my pastor and he suggested using this chair. 'Just sit down,' he said 'and put a chair opposite you. Imagine that Jesus in that chair. Just talk to him as you would a friend'. I've been doing that ever since. That is why the chair is beside my bed."

A few days later the old man's daughter called Dr. Boreham and told him that her father had died during the night. "I had no idea death could be so near," she said. "I'd just gone to lie down for an hour or two. He seemed to be sleeping so comfortably. When I went back, he was dead. He hadn't moved since I saw him before except for one thing. His hand was outstretched and was lying on the empty chair next to his bed."

We are all going to die. I hope I'm not surprising any of you by saying that. We just don't know the date. There are no professional artists in the act of dying. We are all amateurs. But our Shepherd, who has already been through it, is with us.

Death is a reality for which we are never quite ready or prepared.

When it comes to a person who has lived a long and full life, we are not quite ready. We wish we could have the person for a few more months or years.

When death comes mercifully, after a person has been incapacitated mentally or physically, or after a person has been terminally ill for several weeks or months, we are still not quite prepared. Each day life is present lulls us into thinking life will continue indefinitely. Even with all the warnings, when death comes we still are not quite ready to accept death's reality.

When death comes suddenly, we find ourselves in a state of shock, as if we were in a dreamworld, unable to comprehend what has happened.

No matter when death comes or how it comes, we are never ready for the grief, the pain, and the sense of loss it brings.

And what a sad commentary it would be if, when our lives are touched by death, there were no pain or sense of loss. Grief comes to us because we care. Grief means that we love and have been loved.

But, as Paul tells us in 1 Thessalonians: "We are not to grieve like those who have no hope."

When Charles Kingsley died, his wife had three Latin words carved on the gravestone: Amavimus, Amamus, Amabimus -- we have loved, we do love, we shall love." It is the certain hope of believers that they will be reunited with those who have preceded them into the Father's house.

As our Lord promised long ago: "I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also." We don't know all that that place will bring, but we know that the Lord we love will be there and that is enough.