5/11/25 Sermon

I’ve been thinking a lot about life—and a lot about death—lately.

I suppose that’s an occupational hazard. But lately, the thoughts have turned personal. I’ve found myself contemplating my own death. Not because I want it to happen any time soon—but because I know one day, I will in fact die, as surely as dusk gives way to dark.

And here’s the strange part: I don’t think I’m that scared of dying.

I used to be afraid of dying, but honestly, the more I think about it I think I’m okay with doing it. I don’t want to live forever. It strikes me as ironic that so many of us long for eternal life when we barely know what to do with a rainy day. I just want to live fully while I’m here. And then—someday, not tomorrow—I want to die.

It sounds morbid, maybe, but I don’t mean it to be. It’s just honest. But still…  there’s something unsettling to me about the thought of dying. 

What unsettles me is what the psalmist calls “the valley of the shadow of death.”  Not death itself, but the shadow it casts—its long, slanting reminders that our time is limited. That shadow reaches across every Tuesday to-do list, every half-finished project, every bedtime kiss when I pray my kids remember that their dad tried to love them well, and every time my wife laughs at one of my stupid antics designed to evoke that exact reaction from her. Rabbi Harold Kushner once observed, “It is not the fact that we die that frightens us; it is the knowledge that our days are numbered.” And that hits the nail on the head for me. My fear isn’t of the final breath; it’s of squandering the precious breaths that come before it.

And So as I thought about life and about death, I did what any decent person of faith does: I argued with my faith. How do we live well within that shadow? How do we keep breathing deeply when mortality sits in the corner like uninvited company that refuses to leave?

And my faith didn’t give me a dissertation. It gave me a psalm. Psalm 23. And within it, one word stood out: walk.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

Walk. Keep moving. Not sprinting. Not hiding. Walking. Which is to say: be faithful in small steps. Psalm 23 doesn’t rush to resurrection. It invites us into movement—step by step, moment by moment—through fear, through uncertainty, through the valley.

I used to think the psalm was only for funerals. But lately, I see it as a guide for the living.

It begins not with us, but with God as Shepherd. And the Shepherd’s first act? He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. That’s not just poetry. That’s a reorientation. We begin by being led. Not by control, not by certainty, but by trust.

The psalm doesn’t promise we’ll never face danger. It doesn’t say the path will be easy. It says the Shepherd stays. “Your rod and your staff—they comfort me.” In other words, presence is the promise.

And maybe that’s enough. But the psalmist goes on: “He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”Righteous paths aren’t glamorous highways. They’re foot-worn trails—daily acts of integrity. Packing lunches. Making a phone call to someone lonely. Telling the truth when it would be easier and cheaper to lie. That’s where the soul take shape.

And as I was thinking about all this, I remembered one fo the most intriguing and encouraging parts of the Bible for anyone in any leadership position in life.  There’s a moment in Exodus that caught my attention recently. In chapter 14, God parts the Red Sea—arguably the biggest miracle scene in Scripture. Israel escapes. The Egyptians are swept away. It’s epic. And in the next chapter, they’re singing, praising God: “I will sing to the Lord, for he is highly exalted!” They say they’re going to praise God FOREVER. 

And then, just three days later, in chapter 16, The complaints start:  Food is bad, the trip is bad, everything is horrible.

Three days. That’s how long the miracle lasted in their hearts. Forever turned out to be a long weekend.

Even God, it seems, can’t rely on one viral moment. Not even God gets away with one great act to secure a reputation forever.

But that’s what makes God… God. God doesn’t bail. God doesn’t vanish after one big performance. God shows up again. And again. And again. Providing manna, water, mercy. That’s why the psalmist is so confident: “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.” The Hebrew word for “follow” actually means to pursue—like a shepherd pursues wandering sheep.

God doesn’t wait for us to get it right. God follows us with mercy. Through Every day. Through Every moment. Through Every shadow.

And if God doesn’t rely on showstoppers, maybe we shouldn’t either.

It’s tempting to believe our lives will only matter if we do something huge. Write the Great American Novel. Start a movement. Leave our name etched in marble. But the truth is: the world is changed more by people who show up at 3 a.m. to rock a crying baby than by people who go viral once and disappear.

Kids, by the way, have a sixth sense for this. They know who really loves them. You can impress them once, but they remember who’s consistent. Who shows up. Who listens. Who says “I’m proud of you” not because of a trophy, but because of a good-hearted effort.

And I think that’s where I find my peace. Not that I’ve done one great thing - because I haven’t.  But that I’ve tried to do small things with faithfulness - because I do try.  Not always successfully, but I try.

When I love my children well, when I show up honestly, when I try to help someone else feel seen or known, I think that’s where heaven breaks through. When I mess up and seek forgiveness, or offer it before it's asked, I think that’s how the Shepherd’s table expands.

Psalm 23 ends with this line: “I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.” Not “someday,” but now. Dwelling begins here. Heaven begins here. A house built not of brick but of mercy, hospitality, grace.

I’ve read a lot of books about what happens after we die—ones my seminary professors recommended, others people handed me with concern or curiosity. I’ve read C.S. Lewis and Dante, N.T. Wright and probably too many Reddit threads at 1 a.m.

And I’ve read Rob Bell’s book—the one that caused such a theological stir—Love Wins. Funny that a book with a title like that could upset so many. But it did, because it dared to ask the question: what are heaven and hell really about?

And after all that reading, I still don’t think I’m any closer to fully understanding what happens when we die. Not really. The Bible itself is pretty vague.

But I can tell you this: I believe in heaven. And  I believe in hell, as well. Just maybe not in the way Dante described or Milton fantasized. I don’t see them as zip codes in the afterlife or as some reward or punishment laid out on a divine score card. And honestly? I don’t spend much time wondering about the logistics of the afterlife. I don’t have a crystal-clear image of harps or flames or golden streets. I don’t sit around imagining who’s in and who’s out.

But I do believe heaven and hell exist—maybe not as places, but as experiences. As moments. As states of being we create right now - right here.  And I think we brush up against them more often than we realize.

Heaven, for me, is that sense of joy and peace that sneaks up on you. That deep, quiet satisfaction when you know you helped someone. When you walk away from a moment thinking, That mattered. It’s the grin that creeps across your face when you sit in your car after showing up for someone. I get it when I spend good, real, quality time with my kids—when I know I was a good dad that day. Honestly, I probably ought to get that feeling when I clean the kitchen and know I was a good husband. I'd definitely do it more often if I did. But to me—that’s heaven.

Hell? Hell is the opposite. Hell is knowing that when I lie to get out of an embarrassing situation I just contributed to a deceitful world.  And my family has to live in that deceitful world.  Hell is knowing that if I beat and tear down my kids, they’ll beat and tear down my grandkids and it’ll be my fault.  Hell is knowing that my jealousies and anger and my selfishness leads me to see and live in a world where people are out to get me and in a world that’s self-interested and is constantly unfair and unjust. 

Heaven and Hell aren’t clouds and harps or fire and brimstone but the realities I create for myself here and now. Heaven and hell aren’t clouds or flames. They’re the shape of the world we co-create, one decision at a time.

It’s just like how our bodies work. Feed your body garbage, and it breaks down. Feed your soul bitterness, resentment, or shame, and you’ll see the world through that same filter. But nourish your soul with grace—with rest, with compassion, with faithfulness—and something different begins to grow. Suddenly, when we walk through that dark valley, we find we’re not afraid. The Shepherd is there. The Psalmist was right.

There’s an old rabbinical proverb that goes something like this: God is a mirror. The mirror never changes, but everyone who looks into it sees a different face. I think the world works the same way. What you look for is what you’ll find. If you go out looking for anger, you’ll find enemies on every corner. If you go out looking for blessing—green pastures show up in the most unexpected places.

So the question becomes: Are you looking for heaven? Or are you looking for hell? Because what we look for shapes what we create. And what we create—moment by moment—shapes the world we live in.

So in light of this psalm, in light of the Shepherd who walks with us through shadows and still waters alike, I want to challenge you to three small but transformational practices:

 1. Do Three Intentional Acts of Mercy Per Week. Just three. Go out of your way to help someone else—someone who doesn’t expect it. Write it down if you want. Keep it simple. Watch what it does to your inner climate.

2. Take One Sabbath Moment Per Day. The Shepherd makes us lie down. That’s not just permission; it’s instruction. Find five minutes—at lunch, at bedtime, in the car—just to breathe, to say the psalm, to be still.

And 3. Speak One Word of Gratitude Daily. A thank-you note. A text. A compliment that’s been sitting on your tongue. Give it away. Gratitude slows us down—like green pastures and still waters—clearing a space in us where peace can take hold and root us more deeply in the life we’ve been given. Practice these, and I believe you’ll feel goodness and mercy nipping at your heels.

Because when the time comes—when the final breath slows, when vision dims, when we reach the edge of the valley—we won’t be alone. We won’t have been alone. The Shepherd will greet us with that quiet smile that says, “Welcome. I’ve been right behind you the whole way.”

Green pastures here. Greener pastures yet to come.
Still waters here. Living waters just beyond.
A table here—even in the presence of enemies. A feast there by the river of life.
Goodness and mercy here. Goodness and mercy forever.
Amen.