Walking Through Dark Valleys

Beloved of God, grace to you and peace from God our Creator and the Savior of the world Jesus the Christ. Amen.

In my phone calls and messages this week, some really interesting themes have emerged across the concerns and joys of my parishioners and folks in our communities. Some of us acknowledged in this last week that our routines have changed – no longer do we have exercise classes, lunch or breakfast groups, or work to physically show up at. Some are adjusting to having children at home and attending to their educational needs. Yet for others, life continues – for our nurses, other healthcare adjacent folks, farming families, and retail, grocery, and convenience store workers, who show up each day doing the work of meeting the needs of others while trying to keep their own health and well-being protected. I think that all of us can admit that life is not the same as it was even two weeks ago, as we hear of the increase of cases of the coronavirus both across the nation and increasingly here in Minnesota. It’s easy to turn to fear and panic, exacerbated already by how our lives have lost in some sense their stable routines. What are we to do then, while we are trying to define our new reality, at least for this moment? Not all is lost, and much is very familiar – as our work, our families, and our commitments for this time are learning to adjust in new and unanticipated ways. In these days, personally, it has felt strange as I have tried to do my pastoral work from a distance, visiting over phone calls rather than in person, and as we have transitioned from in-person public worship to online here on Facebook Live.

I wanted to share an illustration from Holden Village to help define these days we are living in. Many of you know that Holden Village is an old World War II mining village now turned Lutheran retreat center, hosting groups, individuals, and families from all around the country and the globe. I lived at Holden Village from 2012-2013, and what was most striking to me during the time there was just how long the winter became. Not only was the snowfall impressive in the mountain valley, but I also was unaware of just how much the lack of sunlight, and living in the cradle of two large, domineering mountains would affect me. For days, weeks, and months, we lived largely in shadows and indirect light. For maybe an hour a day, we would be blessed with the sun’s rays. But otherwise, the sun never got high enough to peek above the mountain basin for more than an hour at a time. In the spring, when the sun crested the mountain peaks, the community celebrated “Sun over Buckskin Day” – where we grilled out, and anticipated warmer and sunnier days to come. But in those winter months – I remember growing increasingly depressed and short tempered. It affected many of us on staff, as we learned to sit and live in darkness more than light. During those months, life felt akimbo in some ways: I had my daily activities and work, and yet simultaneously they felt shrouded. In some ways, I was searching. In many ways, I was longing for brighter days. Life felt subdued, stilted. Darkness and uncertainty can do that, certainly. Yet, we are also called as God’s people to examine how we will respond to life’s changes and uncertainty – because the absence of light can also be a space of great growth and transformation.

Today’s Psalm reading is arguably the most well known of all the one hundred and fifty. Psalm 23 is read at funerals, proclaimed at bedsides, and shared with those who are walking the road of grief. One of the most poignant verses of the Psalm for me is verse 4: “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff— they comfort me.” I love this verse because it reminds me that no matter what we are going through – uncertainty, changes, grief, illness, anxiety, or concern – or even if our lives are stunningly ordinary or giving us reason to celebrate – we are reminded that we are never alone. God doesn’t promise to shelter us from trouble, and God doesn’t promise that we will never know the sting of hurt. However, God does give us this: God promises us that God is with us, squarely in the center of our lives, in the deepest valleys. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley” implies that there will one day, whether soon or far-off – be a day when we arrive to the other side, or another space of feeling or being. While we sojourn through our valley, though, we do so knowing that we are not completely alone. God has given us one another to support and care for one another, and God has given us the gifts of love, mercy, and hope – imprints of God’s very being – to help us see our way through to further sunlight and the increase of joy. I saw the increase of joy when I asked my communities of faith what they were grateful for, and the responses given were beautiful: you shared your gratitude for sunlight, for health, for the sounds of animals, for signs of spring, for newborn babies, for protection for our loved ones, for the gift of a good book, for our communities of faith, and for the gift of family connection. These things and more, my friends, are signs that God continues to be with us – helping us to see our way through whatever we are fearful or uncertain of.

My friends, today I give thanks for who you are and for the ministry we share together. This week, I invite you to think of your answers to these questions: How will you spark a commitment to love your neighbors or your family in these days? What do you want God to transform within you in the midst of instability or uncertainty? How can changes in routine prompt new ways of thinking about our life and about our world? I invite you to think through these questions, and then have a conversation – with family, with friends, and with me. Let’s use these days to increase love, mercy, and forgiveness among us, as we remember that God sojourns with us through this time. Thanks be to God, my friends. Amen.