On the Good Shepherd

'Jesus said, “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away—and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep. I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep. I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd. For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again. I have received this command from my Father.”'

--John 10: 11-18

As just about all of you know, I was educated for ministry at The General Theological Seminary in the Chelsea neighborhood of New York City. At the heart of campus stood the Chapel of the Good Shepherd, which was a place of deep prayer and healing for me. If you manage to go there today, you’ll still see it: the stained-glass windows weaving bible narratives, the prayer for the consecration of a priest written in Latin around the walls, and the seven virtues carved into on the floor. There was a profound sense of holiness in that place, and I knew the first time I saw it that I wanted to pray there every single day.

Jesus with his shepherd's crosier, holding a lamb (with another at his side) in the Chapel of the Good Shepherd, 

General Theological Seminary

Behind the chapel’s altar is a reredos that has nine statues:  the four gospel writers, Peter, Paul, Elijah, Moses, and, in the middle, Jesus.  I called this reredos ‘Jesus and Pals.’ And because it’s the Chapel of the Good Shepherd, Jesus stands with a crosier, a shepherd’s staff, in one hand, and cradled in the other is a lamb.  Now all of the other statues are looking around the chapel, some at Jesus, others out at the congregation.  But Jesus’ gaze is fixed on that lamb.  There is nothing more important to him as he looks into that lamb’s eyes and it into his.  

I don’t know where you go to think and talk out loud to God, but while I was at General, that place, for me, was the chapel.  I’d go in the middle of the night with my dog Casey, who would curl up on the broad step in front of the altar, and I would talk, yell, or cry with Jesus.  And often I wondered what that lamb’s story was.  What had it done?  Where did Jesus find it? What was its name?  And more than once I wished I were that lamb.  I wished I were being cradled by Jesus, looking into his eyes and he into mine, as he tells me that all that is wrong in my life will be made well.  That, brothers and sisters, is my permanent image of the Good Shepherd.

This week we hear Jesus speak those very familiar words in the Gospel of John:  I am the good shepherd.  I am the good shepherd. (He says it twice, so he must have meant it!)  But what does that really mean?  Odds are they had heard plenty of stories of thieves breaking in and stealing sheep, possibly due to the negligence of a hired hand.  Maybe Jesus was telling this story while they watched a shepherd tending to and putting away the sheep into a pen or barn for the night.  But what does it mean for us to say that Jesus is our good shepherd?

There are two words used for ‘good’ in biblical Greek:  agathos and kalos.  Agathos simply describes the moral quality of a thing, while kalos means that in the goodness there is a quality of winsomeness, which makes it lovely.  When Jesus says he is the good shepherd, the word is kalos, which is to say that in him there is more than efficiency, more than fidelity.  There is loveliness.  There is sympathy, kindness, and graciousness.  Jesus isn’t a good shepherd in the sense that he does his job well - making sure the sheep are where they need to be.  He’s more than that.  He is the shepherd who loves his sheep, so much so that, rather than run away when threatened he lays down his life for them. He knows each of them by name and calls them, and they know his voice, a familiar, sweet voice that excites and inspires them. That’s a pretty incredible amount of love, and I suspect that as that little lamb in my seminary chapel gazes into Jesus eyes, that lamb knows that kinda love.

But Jesus doesn’t just stop there.  Being the good shepherd is about even more than caring for the sheep that are already in his fold.  There are others, Jesus says, and they too will be loved, they too will be welcomed; for there will be one flock, one shepherd.  A very hard thing, one of the hardest things, for us to unlearn in this life is exclusivity.  Once we get this notion in our heads that we, and we alone, are entitled to something, it is extremely difficult to accept that that something might actually be extended to others.  While living at General Seminary in my final year I witnessed a plan go into action that saw our oldest buildings sold to pay off debt.  Walls were erected as scaffolding went up, and as our buildings were remodeled and turned into high-fallutin’ apartments, folks from outside our close, folks who had no connection at all to the Church, were moved in.  The physical landscape of the seminary was changing, and we didn’t like it.  It’s a symptom of the wider Church.  We love our rules and regulations and the way we do things, but when we feel threatened, we get defensive and try to hang on to something that is not actually ours.  We didn’t want new neighbors on the close of our seminary.  But what we didn’t realize was that it wasn’t our seminary.  It was God’s.  And, church folk or not, God was bringing them into the flock, despite our exclusivity.  It’s always God’s flock, not ours.

From 2012: walls going up around the West Building, oldest building at General Seminary, as it is prepared to be gutted and transformed into million-dollar apartments.

You are not called to be shepherds.  I’m not a shepherd. Priests and pastors aren’t, either.  At best, we’re sheepdogs, just trying to herd everyone together. Because there is only one shepherd, and that’s Jesus.  And blessedly, he is not asking us to be him.  He is, however, asking us to model our lives on his own life of sacrificial, all-encompassing love.  Because the truth is that you and I ARE that lamb in his arms.  The truth is that he DOES cradle us and looks into our eyes and call us by name because he DOES love us so much that he lays down his life; not to make some kind of payment for sin or to satisfy God’s wrath, but in order to reveal God to the world, to make the invisible God seen and the unapproachable God accessible, to reveal that God so loves the whole world, no exceptions.

And what’s more, the good shepherd is the one who cradles and comforts and loves through the worst of our hurts and pains. I thought, as many did, that the days of watching our historic buildings turned into apartments and outsiders coming onto our close would be the worst in the life of General Seminary, but I was wrong. Today, there are no on-campus students. Debts that had once been erased by those property sales have mounted again, and dysfunctional, toxic administrations have led to enrollment cratering. No bishops will send students there anymore. There are even whispers going around, especially after events of the past few weeks, that the once proud, original seminary of the Episcopal Church – founded by the General Convention itself - will end all programs, that the chapel – with its statues of Jesus and Pals – will be deconsecrated, and that holy space once called Chelsea Square will be no more. Even in the midst of that pain and sadness, I still see Jesus cradling that lamb. Still loving it, no exceptions.

The writer of First John says, ‘Let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.’  That is my prayer for you and always has been. That you will love all whom the Good Shepherd draws into his flock, in truth and action; that you will know, even when you feel lost or hurt, that the Good Shepherd holds you, calls you by name, and loves you through it all. No exceptions. 

Showing Our Scars

'Jesus himself stood among the disciples and said to them, “Peace be with you.” They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, “Have you anything here to eat?” They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.

Then he said to them, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you—that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.” Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, “Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things."'

--Luke 24: 36b-48

Happy Easter! Just making sure y’all remember we’re still in Easter – it’s the longest season of our church year, in fact, 50 days, so like Christmas, y’all can go around wishing people Happy Easter all the way up to May 9 and the Feast of the Ascension.  Give it a try, and see what happens.

The argument can be made that it’s always Easter. Think about it, we live in a post-Resurrection world. In a very real sense, it’s always Easter, no matter what season of the church year we’re in. That’s why we celebrate Holy Eucharist every Sunday because the early followers of Jesus worshipped in solidarity with the day of Resurrection, so every Sunday is a sort-of mini-Easter, all year round. 

We call such gatherings of ours Celebrations of the Holy Eucharist. That’s what Easter is, after all, a celebration, right? Sure, and at the same time it’s confusing, fearful, uncertain. At least, that’s how the disciples experienced it. 

Icon of the resurrected Jesus eating with the disciples.

Last week we heard a post-Resurrection account from the Gospel of John in which Jesus seemingly appeared out of nowhere – or maybe even walked through a wall – and showed himself to his frightened disciples, including Thomas, who, rather than believe blindly demanded to have an experience of the resurrected Jesus. And this week it’s a similar story, now told by the Gospel of Luke, as Jesus shows up amongst the disciples, who are startled and terrified; and while they feel joy there’s also an element of disbelief: how is any of this possible?? Suddenly, he’s there. After nearly three days of sadness and despair, hope that has been utterly dashed and forsaken, with all that he had represented to them coming to a violent end, and now – poof – here he is again. All they had treasured had been suddenly ripped away, and now Jesus has decided to just not be dead anymore, and almost casually says, “Why are you frightened?”

As though he does not know. As though these past 72 excruciating hours have only been a small inconvenience. In their hiding place – likely that same upper room where they shared their last meal with him – they’ve been inundated by a flood of sorrow and fear as they’ve remembered – and maybe even tried to forget – all that has happened. 

Here he stands. And what does he say to them? “Look at me. Look at my hands and my feet. See my scars.” They are not to look away from what troubles them, or avoid what brings them pain. He invites them to come closer to him. Touch him, see for themselves. They’re still not convinced, so he asks: do you have anything to eat? So casual, like an old friend showing up for dinner. It’s not entirely unlike the Eucharist, the sharing of bread and wine in a holy meal. It’s an initiation ceremony, as they are invited into the same life as the resurrected Jesus. 

And here we see the hallmarks of that resurrected life, namely the appearance of the scars. The Rev. Nadia Bolz-Webber, the renowned Lutheran pastor and founder of the House for All Sinners and Saints, once wrote that we preachers are called to speak from the experiences of our scars, not our open wounds. What’s the difference, you might ask? The difference is that preaching from our wounds can be raw, to the point of moving us into a place of anger – righteous anger, we might say – creating a disconnect between us and the people with whom we minister, because we risk getting stuck there in our pain. But our scars represent healing. They represent hurt, yes, but also lessons learned. When we preach from our scars, rather than our wounds, we can be vulnerable without remaining stuck in our pain.

That advice may have been offered for us preachers, but sisters and brothers in the Lord Jesus, they are for all believers in resurrection. Because it is vital for us, as we share the Good News of the resurrection of Jesus, that we remember that he carries his scars with him, even when he his raised. Easter offers us all hope that things will be different, that anything is possible now that Jesus has gone to hell and come out clean on the other side. We have this hope, this Easter hope, and yet like the resurrected Jesus we still bear whatever scars we have born through whatever fiery hells we have been through. For Jesus to be raised with his scars still showing, means that even our pain can be redeemed and can teach us something about who we have been and who we will be. We can wear them proudly now, no longer afraid of them, but grateful even for where they brought us. Every broken road humanity had ever been down led to the empty tomb, and God bless the broken roads of our own lives that have led us to where we are, to these moments of celebration, where even our scars, our fears, our confusion, can be redeemed by our loving, liberating, and life-giving God.

Jesus shows up and meets the disciples in the midst of their fear; meets them right where they are. He doesn’t rebuke them. He doesn’t scold them. He offers them peace, the same peace we will pass with each other shortly, and he eats with them – maybe not the same meal we’ll share in a little while, after all fish would make for a very messy and smelly cleanup for altar guild. And he lets them see his scars, so that they know it’s really him. He shows his full self to them. 

And to us. So that we who are ourselves prone to retreating to our hiding places built by our fears can look at our own scars, our own pain, and know that even they are redeemed and given new meaning. It was asked once by my favorite songwriter, “Can there be any sense in pain?” If the answer were no, then Jesus doesn’t keep his scars, doesn’t bear the marks of his own pain, his own broken road, as if none of it happened. Too often when folks experience pain, rejection, and abuse, they are told to wipe the slate clean, start over like none of it happened. "We don't talk about Bruno!"But we human beings can’t do that, not even Jesus. Even he doesn’t shy away the pain wrought by the cross, but through the resurrection, even that senseless pain is redeemed. And if we believe that the resurrection is real, not just for Jesus but for us all, then our own scars have been redeemed, too, and we can show our full selves, as well. That that is some good news, right there, for all of us.

Because we know it’s real, and because we know we can bear our scars proudly, we can also go and meet others in their fear. We can model for others that they need not be ashamed of their stories, no matter how painful, and that wearing their scars proudly, showing their full selves, brings meaning and hope And we can share what we have – bread, wine, maybe fish, maybe something more. This is what resurrected life – life in the ever-present reality of Easter – looks like.