Readings (click here for full text of the readings):
   Ezekiel 34:1-10; Psalm 23; 1 John 3:1-8; John 10:11-16

A few years ago I was in a small country church, and the priest, who was in his late twenties, was preaching on one of the letters of John. After the congregation had been seated for the sermon, he said, “John was a wise old man when he wrote this letter, and he knew what he was talking about … But I’m not and I don’t, so why don’t we just get on with it.” And he stepped down from pulpit and proceeded with the rest of the service.

 I was reminded of that rather brief sermon yesterday as Pam, Catie, Jake, and I were taking a stroll down to the Main Scoop, enjoying the beautiful sunny day, daring to believe that spring is really here.   As we walked we admired the blooming flowers, chatted with folks along the way, and didn't feel too much like wrestling with thorny issues or thinking too hard about anything at all. It was enough to be out of doors on a lovely warm day – the kind that we've all been anticipating for a long time.

 So since this morning doesn't seem to lend itself to deep theological investigations, I thought I’d tell you a story instead, a story about John the Apostle, as he recorded today’s gospel reading at the end of the first century. For if Frederick Buechner is right in believing that “the story of any one of us is in some measure the story of us all,” [1] then this mix of John and me might have something to say to you —

 I’ll never forget that night, even though it was nearly 60 years ago. I was so young then, and so full of hope, yet naïve.  The twelve of us had been with the Teacher for nearly three years by then, but we still didn’t understand.  We all had our own ideas on where the movement should go and who Jesus really was. I don’t think any of us had any inkling of the pain, anguish, and turmoil that the next few weeks held for us, and for Him. 

 I was tired that night, for it had been a very long day.  Perhaps that was why I was really able to hear what He was saying, maybe for the first time.

 We were in Jerusalem for the celebration of Hanukkah, and those December nights can get pretty chilly. So we were sitting together, having eaten a hot meal, recalling the events of the day, marveling how Jesus had healed that blind man and then confronted the Pharisees with their sin. Man, that took some chutzpah.

 If I hadn’t been so tired that night, I think I would have been more frightened.  We were taking a lot of heat from the Scribes and Pharisees, and the mood in Jerusalem was volatile.  Looking back on it now, I can see how vulnerable Jesus was.  There was danger lurking everywhere.  That might have been why He seemed so thoughtful.  All I know is that in a season when we were supposed to rejoice and give thanks, I was weary and scared.

 There was a lull in the conversation, and I heard Jesus talking to one of the other disciples.  He was saying something about shepherds, which was appropriate since the Hanukkah readings focused on shepherds.  Each year at that time we read about how there were many false shepherds who didn’t care for the sheep, and about how God was the only true shepherd, for He was always watchful in protecting the sheep.

 Personally, I’d always had mixed feelings about this shepherd and sheep business. On the one hand I liked it, for it reminded me of the good old days of yesteryear when the country was less agricultural and more pastoral.  To the people of Israel, God would always be the shepherd of the flock, rather than the tender of the vine or the planter of the seed. 

 On the other hand, you’ve got to admit that being compared to sheep isn’t exactly a compliment.  They can barely see, they have to be led to water even if they’ve been to that same trough dozens of times before, and they’re so dumb that if the leader of the pack thinks he sees something and jumps over it, all the rest of the sheep will jump at the same place, even if nothing’s there.  Suffice it to say that I didn’t always appreciate being likened to a sheep.

 But then Jesus said something that caught my ear. He said that He was the good shepherd, a title usually reserved for God and the kings of old. And the word He used for “good” was unusual. Rather than using the standard word that meant righteous or noble, He chose a word that meant beautiful as well as good. He was really saying something like, “I am the shepherd, the Shepherd Beautiful.”

 I think the reason that idea struck me as curious was because, up until then, I’d never thought of the relationship of the shepherd and the flock as mutual, and reciprocal. Always before I’d thought of the shepherd doing the righteous and noble and honorable thing (in accordance with the Law), and the sheep being humbly grateful for the shepherd’s protection. The shepherd gave the sheep something necessary for life, and the sheep were thankful for it.

 But beauty is another matter. You can only be beautiful in the eyes of another.  You can be righteous if you abide by the law, but you’re only beautiful if someone else thinks you are. It was as if Jesus was saying that He wanted us to follow Him not just because we needed His protection, but also because we longed for Him, because we loved Him, because He was beautiful to us.  For the first time I envisioned a shepherd without any sheep, and I felt the loneliness of that shepherd, who couldn’t be beautiful to anyone.

 And then He went on to say, “I know my own and my own know me.” Again the intimate language.  No talk of obeying or following or bowing to. The Hebrew Scriptures talk of a working relationship between shepherd and flock according to certain rules and expectations, but Jesus was talking about something much more personal.  To know another person implies a sense of intimacy, often sexual, always vulnerable.  The sheep and the shepherd know each other, and the relationship isn’t one of mutual convenience or practical necessity; they’ve chosen each other, to be with each other, to know each other rather than anyone else.

 There’s that old philosophical question: If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make any noise?  You might just as well ask whether a person can exist, or whether that person’s life really matters, if no one knows him.  What would a shepherd be without sheep? And how could God be love if there was no one for God to love and be loved by? As the holy book of Islam says, “The words of God are these: I was a hidden treasure. And I wanted to be known.  Thus, I made the world.”

 And then Jesus said something about dying for us sheep. At first I thought I’d misunderstood Him. Didn’t He know that Jewish law required shepherds to defend their sheep against one wolf, but any more than that and all bets were off — the shepherd was authorized to save his own skin.  After all, that did make sense — a dead shepherd wouldn’t be much help to the rest of the flock.  Better to let one sheep die than lose all of them.

 But that’s not what Jesus said, I’m sure of it. A few months earlier he’d told a parable about a shepherd who would risk all 99 sheep in order to find the missing 1. And now he’s talking about dying for the sheep. He’s gone from law-abiding to beyond the call of duty to just plain irrational.  And I suppose that fits with the life of the shepherd.  You see, shepherds were usually outside society, and many of them had been banished by society and so could only make their living as a shepherd. It was a thankless, 24 hour-a-day, 7 day-a-week, 365 day-a-year job; lonely, with only the sheep to keep you company.

 But that’s how Jesus described Himself. As the Shepherd Beautiful who knew His sheep and longed for them to know Him, who was willing to live alone outside of society in order to bring His sheep to Himself and care for them, who would do anything, and I mean anything, for the sheep. Even if it came down to dying for them.  He loved them so much that nothing was too much to ask, nothing too much to give.

 That was the last speech He gave before the final week of His life. And looking back on it now I can see why He said what He did. He knew what the coming days held in store, even though we didn’t.  And He didn’t want us to be disillusioned when the dark times came. He wanted us to have words of assurance to return to, so that we could remember the times when He was in our midst, drawing us to Himself, the Shepherd Beautiful who loved us so.  That’s why I’m writing these words down now, so that others can find solace in them, even in the dark times when hope is beyond our reach.

 I’ll always remember the last words He said that night: “There will be one flock, one shepherd.” Those words in Greek sound almost identical — one sheep, one shepherd. On that cold December night, we were filled with the warmth of good food, good friends, and hope for the future. We were caught up in His dream of a people protected by, nurtured by, and in love with God.  We saw a world reborn, a world where the people recognized the beauty of God, where the people knew God, and where God was even willing to die for His beloved children.

 I never thought it would come to that.  I thought that Jesus would eventually back down, or that the authorities wouldn’t carry out their threats, or that the world we dreamed of would appear effortlessly, painlessly. But that’s not the way it happened.  For only a few weeks later, the Teacher was dead.  He had been telling the truth — He was willing to die for us.  Yet, we were left without our leader, our shepherd.  We scattered; frightened, unprotected, and confused. 

 Out of that hopelessness and fear came rejoicing, though, with the rising sun on Easter Day.  Promises that had seemed too good to be true, which had raised hopes that were dashed on the Cross — those promises were true. For in the end we saw Jesus, more beautiful than ever; and we knew Him even as the Father knows Him — intimately, lovingly, longingly. 
 

 It’s many years later now, another holiday season, a time for rejoicing. And Jesus’s words are as true today as they were when He said them, and they’ll be there tomorrow, too.  Waiting to be heard.  Just as Jesus, the ever-present shepherd, is waiting for each of us.  And He’s not waiting impatiently for us, becoming frustrated that we haven’t seen the truth, seen how much we need Him, seen how dangerous it is to be without Him.

 NO. He’s waiting for us because He delights in us, because He is the beautiful shepherd who longs to be seen and to be known, and would do anything to show us how much He loves us and wants us to be with Him, drinking from the eternal trough of still waters.

[1] Frederick Buechner, The Sacred Journey (New York: HarperSanFrancisco, 1982): 6.

[Home] [Worship] [Sermons] [Youth] [Mulch] [Projects] [Info]