Sunday, November 30, 2025
By Rev. F. Vernon Wright V
Reading, Psalm 23, followed by the sermon.
Reading: Psalm 23
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.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
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.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
Finding Light In the Valley of Shadow
Good morning! I don’t usually draw directly from biblical scripture- (I did enough of that for twenty-three years as a UCC minister), but today there it was raising its hand, “Yes, yes, choose me!”. You might think I had learned this psalm early, when I was young, and it’s true my mom did try to teach me, and I did get lots of practice, especially after seeing “The Nightmare on Elm Street!” God, I hated that movie. The monster appears in your dreams but kills in your sleep. I mean, come on!
In my first years of ministry, I finally got around to memorizing the 23rd Psalm. There were a few people who really wanted it at the deathbed or during an internment. Many people of the so-called “Greatest Generation” had indeed memorized the scripture, and it wasa normal practice. I have many memories of reciting this when the chips were down. I mean, way down in the death rattle. And many times there was a sense of calm and peace.
Psalms are dynamic poetry. Most teeter between lament and thanksgiving. The lament reminds us that we know what it is to walk in the valley of the shadow of death, we know what it is to be in the presence of the enemy. The thanksgiving reminds us of the steadfastness of God, or things like love.
David, or in Hebrew Daw’ood, the beloved- an interesting man, the founder of Jerusalem, is supposed to have written it. He’s the one missing when the nation creator Samuel comes looking, out tending his sheep. Perhaps his mother knew what was coming, and she held her tongue when all the other older sons were lined up and found to be not worthy. “One of your sons is missing,” said Samuel, “Where is your beloved one?”
Daw’ood, the beloved there in the field of battle with his sling against Goliath. The beloved at the court of mad King Saul, playing his harp and being the target of javelins. The beloved at the head of armies, named King, after Saul dancing before them in his underwear. This was the kind of man that knew what is to prevail in the face of death and darkness.
And yet… Is not history, especially in places where there is no freedom of the press, written by the victors? And is there not that story of David, sending a man to his death just so he could marry his pretty wife, one wife of many in a huge harem? And did not he have everything in a way handed to him on a platter? Was he not the favorite son even from the beginning?
And what if you weren’t the favorite son? And what if you are not fortunate? What if your name does not mean “beloved?” And what if the whole world is preparing for Christmas, but you are just not feeling it?
Where is the light in the Darkness? The day after daylight savings, I’m like, “Where’s the light?” Leaving work, the sky is already silver and red rimmed melancholy. Dinner is early, and long evenings stretch before me. I love you all very much, and I know death is not far beyond the horizon for any of us. This is just the reality of having in a manner of speaking, over a hundred good friends. Darkness glooms in, and I wonder, and fear, and fret. “What shall I do with this one, wild life of mine?”
I’m not alone. I know people. You know what Christmas is like the year after you lost your closest parent or spouse, or heaven forbid, your child? The nights are darker still. People have told me about them. I believe them.
Each day the sun shines bright. Each day we manage. Each day. And yet each day is also the valley of the shadow of death. And there are shadows everywhere. Behind each of us is the shadow of the time we will cease to be.
I am despondent in my chair. I half interestedly gander at my spouse’s show. I enjoy the actors, but they can’t reach me. Who can?
Naya, the black lab noses, me, and I’m grumpily I am cajoled with a half playful “Woo, woo, da woo” into taking the beast for a walk. She pulls me around the yard, deep sniffs into leaves, and looks up. The stars are bright, and a half moon shines down on me. Orion is back like an old friend with its gigantic red hot nebula there in the belt. The bare trees knock together in the wind, and my senses wake. The day is so diurnal, so common and plain compared to this wonder.
They say that even in the darkest depths of space, where light is so very, very far away, even then photons worm their way through. Even in the darkest cell, even in the cloudiest, stormiest night- technically even then light is there.
What do these longest nights show us? They show us that even the smallest, tiniest light, coming to us from millions of light-years away, is still light- beautiful, brilliant light.
Inside, Naya, the black lab, looks up at me with those sweet D’wood eyes, thy wet nose and woo, woo, they comfort me. They remind me that awe and wonder, even it the form of the smallest stars, shall always be there to comfort me, to prepare a table, to be my ultimate good, and merciful home.
Blessings to you in this season of good cheer, even when the shadows can be so deep and long. May you find comfort even in the smallest lights and the smallest feats. No matter how small it might be up there in the darkest sky, there is always light. Let us help each other find it, even if it comes in the form of a black lab. Blessed be!
