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The good shepherd (easter 4 a)

Given by the Rev. Canon Lance Beizer, Apr. 13, 2008

Psalm 19:14(adapted)

I come from a town in New England so small that there were only four churches, the largest of which by far was St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, but it was an era, of course, in which the very pores of society were permeated with Christian imagery; so it won’t come as any surprise, I’m sure, that I saw a fair number of crèches both in my town and those like it in the vicinity. I really loved them, since several aspects of their unspoken message were – and are – very appealing. Jesus was born as a baby like you and me, which makes him far more approachable than if he were a sort of Clark Kent superhero kind of guy. Also, rural folks were among the first to appreciate his importance, not city slickers, since the angel had spoken to shepherds out in their fields, prompting them to stand there in the stable admiring Jesus along with the richest and wisest – the Magi.

Finally, the fact that both shepherds and magi are there in that scene together is very much a statement about the sort of Christianity we espouse in our church: The least in our society, for that’s what shepherds were, could stand side by side in the scene of the crèche with what society would generally think of as the greatest. It brings to my mind St. Paul’s observation that in Christ there is no Jew or Greek, male or female, slave or free.

Similarly, our church’s true genius, I think, is that it is not primarily doctrine that units us; it is the table around which we gather every Sunday. And we welcome shepherds and magi alike to it – well, maybe not literally, since I don’t believe I’ve ever met a shepherd or magus – in church or out! But, metaphorically at least, ours is clearly a church of inclusion, not exclusion. Imagine what it would be like here at Trinity if shepherds and magi were to wander in one Sunday. I’m sure, after the service is over those of us who went to the coffee hour – and I suspect more than usual would find our way back there -- we’d all be more than eager to learn about the life of a shepherd – so long, of course, as we aren’t too busy staring at the robes of the magi.

But then, back to the scene of the shepherds and magi in those crèches: I’m afraid I have to do a bit of deconstructing, to borrow a literary term. It just isn’t very realistic to have shepherds in the scene, is it? If they’re at the stable in Bethlehem, just who is out in the fields tending the sheep? Protecting them from wolves or rustlers? And if the point of today’s reading has anything to do with the quality of care Jesus is promising as a shepherd, unlike all those other so-called shepherds, who are really nothing but thieves and bandits, what are these shepherds doing abandoning their flocks?

Well, I don’t believe the story is about the actual life of real shepherds. It’s, instead, a way of telling us just how important the birth of Jesus of Nazareth was – that the shepherds were ready to abandon their posts. And let’s take a look at what the life of a shepherd was actually like. Like the role-reversal we encounter on Maundy Thursday in the story of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet, this is Jesus taking the role of one of the least in his society. The life of a shepherd was at the bottom of the social scale because it was tough work indeed, requiring a ruggedness that allowed one to go out into the wild with just a bit of food and drink, and a sling for rocks to drive animals off with. It was the ancient world’s equivalent of the cowpokes of our old west. Perhaps that’s where our romantic notion of those shepherds comes from. But at least our cowboys had horses to ride. The shepherds of Jesus’ time didn’t even have sheepdogs to help them with their responsibilities. It isn’t work, the more I think about it, that I’d ever want to have to do.

And, in the topsy-turvy theology that makes Christianity different from the ways the world finds admirable, this story shows the foundation of our own discipleship. Shepherds are important precisely because Jesus wants us to understand his role – and ours – as a way of life not, at least in metaphor, unlike that of those lowly shepherds. How many times does he tell us in the Gospels – and in how many different ways? You’ll likely remember the scene from Mark’s Gospel when Jesus tells the disciples, as they are walking away from Capernaum, that he is going to have to suffer and die, and our most human of all the disciples, Peter, says, essentially: “Don’t talk like that!” Jesus rebukes him: “Get behind me, Satan.” Then he tells Peter that his problem is that he thinks like humans, not like God. Then there’s that wonderful story in John that is read Maundy Thursday. Jesus washes the feet of his disciples, and makes clear to them, when Peter again is taken aback, that the work that the world calls lowly is something we should gladly do – as he is doing it – for friends. In a way here Jesus is asking us to think of him as a friend to the sheep – who know his voice and therefore listen to him, because they trust him.

And so we hear in the Gospel today a contrast between the truly good shepherd and those who only pretend to be that so that they can steal the sheep. For the good shepherd the sheep are more than mere creatures, or possessions, to protect for the person paying their salary. Also, in one of those twists that we often find in our readings, the author switches images on us and has Jesus refer to himself no longer as a shepherd but as the very gate through which the shepherd has to lead his sheep – suggesting thereby that we also can switch how we hear it so that we are no longer sheep to be led by Jesus, but shepherds ourselves.

And, of course, as shepherds there is much that we must do for the sheep that are our responsibility – and our friends – as we remember the lessons of stories like that of the good Samaritan that our neighbors – and thus our friends – don’t have to come from any particular ethnic or social class.
As shepherds we now have the power to give those sheep a truly abundant life – indeed, until their cup runs over. Remember, in the Maundy Thursday stories we hear of two separate things that Jesus does for his friends. He washes their feet to be sure, but he also feeds them – something we as shepherds should be doing for the sheep in our care.

How, indeed, does John’s Gospel – the Gospel we read from today – end? Jesus is speaking with Peter, who has denied three times even knowing him, but Jesus essentially brings him back into the fold with the question asked three times “Do you love me?” And three times Peter says “You know I do.” “Of course!” In a neat bit of metaphysical sleight of hand, in this incident Peter goes from being a lost sheep to being brought back into the flock to be, instead, a shepherd himself, as Jesus orders him three times in response to his protestations of love to then “Feed my sheep.” If the job of foot washing is beneath neither Jesus nor his disciples, neither is the job of feeding the sheep beneath Peter – or us.

The question, then, for us is whether we are prepared to truly be disciples ourselves. A marvelous poem, “Feeding Sheep,” by Presbyterian minister and poet Ann Weems puts the question most eloquently:

He said, “Feed my sheep.”

There were no conditions:

Least of all, Feed my sheep if they deserve it.

Feed my sheep if you feel like it.

Feed my sheep if you have any leftovers.

Feed my sheep if the mood strikes you.

if the economy’s OK…

if you’re not too busy…

No conditions…just, “Feed my sheep.”

Could it be that God’s Kingdom will come

when each lamb is fed?

We who have agreed to keep covenant