Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Easter, Year A (4-26-26)

Psalm 23 is one of those scriptural texts that almost everyone knows—a "banger" we would call it in seminary. Inside and outside the church, people are familiar. Many even have it committed to memory as it shows up at funerals, in hospital rooms — in quiet moments when words are hard to find.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want…”

It’s comforting precisely because it's familiar. Maybe even a little too familiar. The kind of passage we can recite about God... without really noticing what God is asking of us. Because if you really boil it down, this isn’t just a psalm about comfort. It’s a psalm about trust. “The Lord is my shepherd.” That’s a relational claim, not a statement of certainty. It doesn’t say, “I understand where my life is going.” It doesn’t say, “I have clarity about every situation.” It says, "I belong to one who leads me."

On Friday I had the privilege of attending a conference in New York where, among many other gripping speakers, I was introduced to Belle Tindall-Riley’s work on unknowing. In it, Belle suggests that much of what we call “knowing” in faith is really about trying to steady ourselves—to reduce uncertainty and to feel in control. Because we want answers, and definitions — something solid we can stand on. And I know that I, for one, had no problem identifying myself in that landscape. But what if faith isn’t about securing ourselves like that? What if it’s about learning how to follow?

Or said another way: do we actually trust God—or do we trust the feeling of being certain and feel the need to give some of the credit to God? Because Psalm 23 doesn’t give us certainty. It gives us movement and movement guided by another. “He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he revives my soul.”

Notice what’s happening here: the psalmist isn’t directing any of this. There’s no sense of control. Everything is received.

That’s the posture Belle is getting at with this concept of unknowing. Not willful ignorance or indifferent passivity, but a willingness to let go of control. To admit that we don’t actually have God figured out, and that maybe we don’t need to. Because the truth is, we’d often rather be the shepherd, wouldn’t we? We’d rather manage our lives and anticipate every risk to make sure we stay on the right path.

But the psalm doesn’t leave room for that. “He guides me along right pathways for his Name's sake.”

Even the “right path” isn’t something we alone determine. It’s something we’re led to... but not before the psalm takes the inevitable turn:

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil…”

Now we’re in a place most of us recognize. Not green pastures, but shadows. Not still waters, but the white waters of uncertainty, grief, and fear. And here’s the striking thing: the psalm doesn’t explain the valley. It doesn’t tell us why it’s happening or how long this trek through it might last. Only that we will not hike it alone.

So what do we do when we don’t understand what God is doing? When the path doesn’t make sense? When the shadows feel a little too real? This is where unknowing stops being an abstract contemplative concept, and begins to show its necessity. Because in that dark valley, certainty isn't just obscured — it's unavailable. Control slips through our fingers and the answers we want simply just aren’t there. So, what is there?

Presence.

“For you are with me; your rod and your staff—they comfort me.” Not explanation, but presence. And that can feel like not enough—until you realize it’s actually everything. Unknowing pushes us to see that if we insist on certainty, we may miss that presence altogether. We’ll be so busy trying to figure God out that we won’t notice God is already with us.

So again, the question arises: what if faith's goal isn’t to understand the path, but to trust the one who walks it with you? Because the psalm keeps going: “You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me …”

That’s a strange image. Those who trouble me don't disappear. The risk isn’t removed. And yet—there’s provision. And there’s even a kind of abundance. “My cup is running over.” How on earth does this happen?

Well - I don't know. But I do know that it doesn’t come from control. It comes from trust. From letting go of the need to secure everything and instead receiving what’s given—even when the situation hasn’t changed.

That’s the heart of unknowing. Not having everything resolved, but being open enough to recognize grace when it shows up in the middle of unresolved things.

And then the psalm ends: “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” This is a statement of confidence—but not the kind we usually reach for. It’s not confidence in a plan we understand or a future we can predict. It’s confidence in a relationship. The shepherd is still the center. Still the one who leads, and who accompanies, and who provides. And maybe that’s the invitation Psalm 23 is quietly making. Not to have more answers or to feel more certain, but to live more deeply into trust.

To loosen our grip on control just enough to be led. And to admit we don’t always know where we’re going—and to believe that we don’t have to. Because we are not alone.

“The Lord is my shepherd.” Not someone we’ve figured out, but someone who is with us. And maybe that’s enough.

Actually—maybe that’s everything.

Amen