Fourth Sunday of Easter: Though I walk in the dark valley

Fourth Sunday of Easter
2020

Parish of Holy Cross—St. John the Baptist
Midtown Manhattan

Even though I walk in the dark valley
I fear no evil; for you are at my side.¹

Each evening, at the stroke of 7 PM, it begins.  

A lone set of hands leaning out of an open apartment window clapping, slowly.  Then swiftly, numerous others join in – clapping their hands with escalating speed, settling first into a rhythmical pattern mimicked by others and then a raucous cadence spilling a joyous cacophony onto the streets below.  The mounting sound is augmented by emergency vehicle sirens and automobile horns.  Those so skilled lend the sound of their musical instruments.  Amateur percussionists add the clatter of clanging pots and pans.  A glorious, mighty sound reaching to the heavens.  A scene repeated in neighborhood after neighborhood here in our urban abode.

Each evening, at the stroke of 7 PM, the New York City salute begins.  

A salute to all those, seen and unseen, offering selfless service during this time of biological siege and social distress.  Doctors, nurses, aides; medical technicians, hospital nutritionists, emergency medical professionals; firefighters, police, sanitation workers; grocery store clerks, delivery drivers and bikers; public utility workers, mass transit personnel, information technology personnel.   This list is nowhere near comprehensive.  And that is the point – there are many unseen and under-appreciated folks helping to ease the difficulty of these days.

Each evening, at the stroke of 7 PM, begins the opportunity to forge a new future, the prospect of a polity more generous in its spirit, a society knit together in a wider solidarity.  An opportunity, not an inexorable outcome.  A relapse into splintered factions, angry divides and selfish pursuit remains also entirely possible.  How might we help to assure the emergence of the former, rather than the latter?  What might we, as disciples of Jesus Christ, the crucified and risen One, contribute to this endeavor?

This fourth Sunday in Eastertide turns to the Gospel of John bearing witness to Jesus’ role as a gate – a sheep gate.  The Johannine witness reports this claim made by Jesus: “I am the gate. Whoever enters through me will be saved and will come in and go out and find pasture.”  The image is not particularly familiar to us living in a 21^st century cosmopolitan center of commerce, finance and artistic endeavor.  

The gateways of our experience are more like passages through swarming locations like Penn Station and Port Authority Bus Terminal; the tunnels borrowing under the Hudson river here in midtown as well as lower Manhattan; the bridges stretching across the East River; the turnstiles affording access to the Subway system.  These are the “gates” of our daily encounter.  

Like a sheep gate, each of these passageways is a crowded, chaotic, competitive place.  Just as sheep jostle one another, squeezing through the gate as they are herded in and out so that they might find pasture, we enter into these dense spaces, rubbing elbows, bumping into one another in the rush to arrive at the various destinations of our own pasture.  While currently that commuting adventure is vastly diminished during this time of sheltering and physical distancing, nonetheless our pasture – sustenance, salary, medical attention and the like – remains a remarkably social affair.

Perhaps this anomalous time is a particularly apt one in which to reflect upon our manner of negotiating these gates of our daily life.  Our culture has coined a telling phrase: the rat race – a literally accurate description for those who experience travel by subway!  Have you not seen those critters along the tracks?

Life as a blur.  A contest.  A joust.  An antagonism.

With the considerably diminished number of commuters, the blurred nature of the daily commute abruptly yields to a clarity of vision both sudden and sobering.  No longer eclipsed by the masses, the faces and voices of those struggling with mental illness are inescapable.²  No longer blended into the background, the ravages of addiction manifest starkly in the faces and mannerisms of so many of those wandering these transportation hubs.  Presently, it is virtually impossible not to see the vulnerability, the frailty, the desperation evident in the lives of a good many our fellow travelers.  Unless, of course, one elects not to see or not to care.

In “normal” times, the hordes with whom we contend as we enter the gateways leading to our pasture help to obscure the presence of these wretched fellow travelers.  In “normal” times, our annoyances, angers, aggravations lead to awkward altercations, shouted accusations, occasional assaults.  The density and intensity lodge themselves in our spirit as we force our will on those who impede our movement in any way – to grab that seat, squeeze through that doorway, hail that cab.  A rat race?  For sure.  Like sheep in the gatefold scrambling for pasture?  Indeed.

For those of us who lay claim to the wisdom of the gospel of Jesus Christ, how might we offer witness in these gateways?  We might begin by recovering a reverential imagination with which to enter them.  What if we imagine that the Risen One is that gateway?  

For starters, I’d suggest we’d have to surrender our perception of others as “fellow travelers.”  Rather, we’d imagine them just as the gospel names them: sisters and brothers.  “When did we see you naked or hungry or …”³  The sorting of sheep and goats found in Matthew’s gospel pivots around the recognition of our suffering brothers and sisters as worthy of our respect and aid – as vehicles through which the Risen One is present.  Those who see and respond are the “sheep” Jesus declares worthy of inheriting the kingdom prepared before the foundation of the world – the “sheep” who pasture by passing in and out of the gateway that is the Risen One.

As we await our circumstances to return to “normal,” perhaps our time of reflection now might help us to determine how then we will return to our daily gateways.  No one of us can solve the sizable challenge of remedying the ills of all of our brothers and sisters.  What we can do, though, is resolve to recognize our solidarity in our shared need for pasture.  We can respond individually as our means and talent allow us to.  We can advocate for public policies that provide practical solutions and tangible healing to the most vulnerable and forgotten among us.  And, yes, we can celebrate and support all those who spend themselves heroically amid dire straits so that the least among us might enjoy pasture and passage through the dark valley.

Even though I walk in the dark valley
I fear no evil; for you are at my side.¹

Each evening, at the stroke of 7 PM, the New York City salute begins.

Boisterous applause, exuberant shouts announcing our solidarity, our shared need of pasture.  Praise for the heroic commitment of so many, ensuring that no one be left alone in the dark valley.  We bask in the goodness of those who serve so selflessly.  We glory in the Risen One who remains at our side – not least through those grace-filled hearts and heroic hands.

Each evening, at the stroke of 7 PM, a mighty sound erupts among us.  

A mighty sound in wonderment for the humanity and graciousness of so many among us.  A mighty sound pleasing in the sight and hearing of our G-D.

 

---

¹Psalm 23.  This is the psalm chanted as the Responsorial Psalm for this day’s Liturgy of the Word.
²According to the Manhattan Institute website, during 2015–17, the number of seriously mentally ill homeless New Yorkers increased by about 2,200, or 22%.
³Matthew 25:31-46.